One of my favorites is the subject of therapeutic touch. I've been working on it now for several years. I got interested in it because the president of Sloan-Kettering said to the AMA one day: "my father was a country doctor. He carried a little black valise. We know today there was not one thing in there that would heal anybody, but people got well, because my daddy put his hand on them and said, 'you're gonna get well." And so there's a whole nursing association in New York City today practicing the area of therapeutic touch.
I did an interview for the University of Nebraska by telephone. It's an interesting new technique, Some of these classes will call a writer or a speaker and put him on conference call for an hour to answer questions from the class. In preparation they sent me the school magazine. There was a poem by Donna Swanson. It has to do with touch and I want to include it, at least part of it. When my mother was 80 years old (she lived to be 93) she was beginning to get very wrinkled and she was getting very stooped. It's said that the old people miss the tactile relationships with others because nobody wants to touch them. I realized that I had quit touching my mother. Recognizing this, I started hugging her again and and it made a big difference. Let me share this poem with you. It has special meaning for me, because I could be very happy that I had relearned to touch my mother.
Picture Minnie sitting in a big chair and pondering.
Minnie remembers
By Donna Swanson
God, my hands are old,
I've never said that out loud before
But they are.
When did these slender, graceful
Hands become gnarled, shrunken
Claws?
When, god?
How long has it been since
Someone
Touched me?
Twenty years?
Twenty years I've been a widow.
Respected.
Smiled at.
But never touched.
Never held so close that loneliness
Was blotted out.
I remember how my mother used to hold me, god.
Oh god. I'm so lonely!
I remember the first boy who ever
Kissed me.
I remember hank and the babies. . .
Out of the fumbling, awkward
Attempts of new lovers came the
Babies.
And, god, hank didn't seem to
Mind if my body thickened and
Faded a little.
He still loved it
And touched it.
And the children hugged me a lot. Oh god, I'm lonely!
God , why didn't we raise the kids
To be silly and affectionate
As well as dignified and proper.
They do their duty.
They come to my room
To pay their respects.
But they don't touch me.
They call me mom, or mother
Or grandma.
I was in Barkley, Kentucky, at a laymen's meeting and a frumpy little woman, almost square, stood at the back and waited for me to get through talking to other people. In speaking you always watch that. . .if somebody stands around they've got something special to say. And so she walked up to me— she wasn't over 5 feet tall——and looked up at me and said, "would you hug me?" I said, "you know I will." I reached out and gave her a great big hug. As she waddled off I said to myself, "How long has that hug got to last?" I knew the answer ---- a long time.
