"Touch"

Sheila Kenyon


"I wanna hold your hand." With these words the Beatles burst upon the American music scene.
It was January of 1964 and the Liverpool moppets, with their long hair and British flair drove
the young girls wild. I remember watching them on the Ed Sullivan Show that February. Every
one of my friends had seen them and it was all we could talk about at school. News clips of
their arrival in the States show mobs of young girls, crying, screaming, stretching, and reaching
out their hands; for attention, a glimpse, a connection, a brief touch.

*

My "holding of hands" happened in the seventh grade. Even in my small parochial school the first
hints of sexual awakening were emanating through the halls, and boys and girls were beginning to
pair off, starting the long, intricate dance which would carry us into adulthood. My mother had
died suddenly the year before and I felt particularly lost in this new dance. Confused as to who
I was, particularly in relation to the opposite sex. I might not have felt ready, but today would be
my day. His name was Gregory and he made his interest in me known through mutual friends and
indirect tentative ways. I was having none of it. What would it be like to be his girl? What would
he want from me? I was too vulnerable to take a chance, to take a step in the dance. During our
field trip to the Museum of Science, I remained with my girlfriends, touring the facility and
marveling at displays I had never seen before. The hit of the museum was the Invisible Woman, an
anatomically correct statue of a naked woman. I should say it was the hit with the boys, for
although we girls were very curious to see her, we were mostly embarrassed when we did. After
wandering around for a while we all filed into the planetarium for the astronomy show. Right before
the lights went out Gregory switched seats with the girl beside me. In the darkness the hall became
silent. His nearness was all I could think of. The narrator's voice, at first loud and penetrating,
drifted away as Gregory shifted in the seat next to me. He reached over and held my hand. The
darkness seemed so close, so intimate. My hands started to sweat, my heart beating rapidly. A
holding of hands that said so much more. Take my hand, be my girl. I pulled my hand away. A simple
touch, a step in the dance I was unprepared for. More than forty years later I still remember the
feel of his hand in mine.

*

Touch, the wellspring from which sex, love, and procreation receive their initial impetus.

*

My husband is not much of a hand holder. He is a rough, tough, macho man of the sixties. Picture
blue jeans and white T-shirt with a pack of Marlboros in the sleeve and you've envisioned my husband.
His hands are rough and calloused. No strolling hand in hand for him. But often I will reach across
the restaurant table and squeeze his hands, or reach across the stick shift in the car and offer
my hand to him. Sometimes I get his hand, sometimes I get his elbow, and sometimes we dance to
the music on the radio.

*

When my son was a toddler, he would reach up and put his hand in mine. At first for safety and
security as he took his first steps. Later on he would hold my hand when we crossed the street.
When we were off on some new adventure, or he was meeting new friends, his hand would reach
for mine. To keep him safe. To show him the way. He would look up at me with love and complete
faith. He is sixteen now and occasionally offers his hand to me when icy surfaces threaten my balance.

*

Massage therapy, polarity, facials, salons, and spas all thrive due to our compelling need for touch.
Holistic medicine offers a whole assortment of therapies related to the healing power of touch. Touch
is as important to infants and children as eating and sleeping, and withdrawal of touch actually halts
growth and development. Swaddling, cuddling, stroking our babies ensures their well being and eases
the transition to their new environment. Preemies present a particular challenge, as their medical
needs must be balanced against their critical need for touch.

*

Our first grandchild was born last May. After in vitro fertilization, a miscarriage, and, lastly, a
"vanishing" twin, we anxiously awaited his birth. He arrived two months early. Rushed into Boston,
injected with steroids in vitro to help strengthen his lungs, his arrival was enveloped in excitement,
fear, and anxiety. Surrounded by nurses, imprisoned behind locked doors with buzzers, the neonatal
intensive care unit kept our new baby safe but unreachable. "Push Buzzer for Admittance." "Visitors
Must be Escorted by a Parent." "Only Two Visitors at a Time." I wait my turn impatiently. We don blue
robes and face masks and proceed quietly down the hall. Little Rakey lies on his belly, knees curled up
beneath him, wires leading from his tiny body to the monitors, tubes protruding from his tiny nostrils.
Throughout his life, this is the way I will remember him. This tiny cherub curled up in a ball. I whisper,
"Can I touch him?" and reach through the incubator porthole. I caress his tiny leg with my fingertips
and feel his warm, downy-soft skin. I hear for the first time the strong, steady beep of his heart monitor.

*

I am the firstborn in my family, and I too was a preemie. Of the few memories my father allows himself,
his favorite is of the day I was born. Back in the days before Dads took an active role in the whole
birthing process, my father waited and paced, watching the blinking lights on the tree, Christmas decorations
adorning the doorways and halls. ÒI knew the nurse; we had been in school together, and she brought you
out to me.Ó His nose crinkles up. "You had just been born and were covered in blood. She asked me if I
wanted to hold you and I laughed and said, 'No thanks; that's okay. I'll wait until you clean her up.' She
brought you back all cleaned and wrapped in a blanket and handed you to me." He reaches out, his hand
opened wide, his face aglow. "You were so small, you fit in the palm of my hand."

*

Touch, our first sensual experience, vital to our existence. The pleasure of touch rewarding both mother
and child, ensuring its continuation, assuring strong development. Touch, its memory etched in our
subconscious, a memory which stays with us throughout our lives.

*

My mother died when I was ten. I do not remember her or my childhood before her death. Remembering
is too painful. But I "sense" her presence in my memories. A sense of love fulfilled, of her warm gentle
tender touch.

*

My mother-in-law Mary has been in a nursing home for over three years now. Diagnosed with vascular
dementia, she requires care 24/7, a tall order for any family in this modern age of hustle and bustle.
One which her family was eventually unable to fill. "Feel how cold my hands are," she urges me as she
extends her hands to me. I clasp her hands in mine and find my hands are just as cool as hers and yet
I don't let go. I hold on.


Back to Fall 2006