“Research has begun to reveal similarities in the neuro-cognitive processes underlying physical pain and ‘social distress,’ the painful feelings following social rejection or exclusion” [1].
Last night, around 2 o’clock, I remember tossing in bed, trying to find a position whereby legs¸ arms, and parts in between could be arranged so as to endure the sharp pain emitting from the left buttock and shooting all the way down the leg. This has been going on for over 6 weeks. My doctor has tentatively diagnosed Sciatica and prescribed a cocktail of medications. One capsule contains opioids that make me feel disoriented and light-headed (a.k.a.stoned), but never quite pain-free. No Operating Heavy Machinery for this monkey.
Amidst all the tossing and turning, I suddenly felt a warm-moist sensation in the nape of my neck. My short-legged friend had jumped up on the bed – in breach of clear instructions to “stay in your box!” – and, as if knowing exactly what to do, was nuzzling his pointy head against the nape of my neck. Only inches apart, I could hear the workings of his lips and tongue, feel the long exhales he makes when settling down. Comfort had arrived, making sounds of “there, there.”
The healing power loving-kindness.
I briefly noticed my mind wanting to stir up ‘social distress’ by thinking about the lost lover (“O, if only …”), but I wouldn’t let it. Just as in meditation practice, I pointed my awareness, moment by moment, to the direct experience: the intimate touch, warmth of breath, proximity of bodies, . . . and gradual descent into sleep.
[1] Eisenberger, Naomi, I., et al. (2006). An experimental study of shared sensitivity to physical pain and social rejection. Pain, no. 126, pp. 132-8. Full text available here.
My father, who you met, broke his ankle in 1993. He was laid up for many months to heal. He disliked taking painkillers. He had a black, blue-tongued chow named Jayde who lay beside him as he knit 23 blankets (of which each child and grandchild and great grandchild was a recipient). She licked his ankle endlessly. Dad healed without painkillers, relying on his four-legged friend’s ability while leaving a legacy for his family.
I still have two of his blankets and I wrap his love around me to this day. Each of my boys do as well. Jayde’s care for my father’s ankle is in every stitch of these blankets. Your post made me think of this story and I wanted to share it with you. So from one Peter (my dad) to you, through me and with love and kindness for the endless circle we belong to. Heal and believe.