My first crush was a boy who lived across the street from my Nani. In our kindergarten year, he proposed marriage to me on the “good morning” circle, and kissed my hand. That was the first time I recall the sizzle. I had fun with it. My hands and feet would tingle when I touched certain people. In third grade some boys caught on, and enjoyed sitting across from me — gym shoe to gym shoe. I assumed they felt it too. (Please don’t forward this to my dad).
When I wrote of my fictitious adventures in my diaries I felt it. When I cut veggies for salad I felt it. When I roller-skated down the sidewalk on 64th street with Cyndi Lauper singing Time After Time on my tiny pink boom box — I felt it. But, nothing compared to the sizzle I felt near boys I crushed on. I soon discovered that I could get the sensation by touching an object left behind by a special someone. I wound up stealing pencils, protractors, crayons, chalk, jump-ropes, and Liquid Paper from these unsuspecting children. A teacher caught me once and I so could not explain myself.
I never talked about the sizzle. Not even once.
The need to have someone to get fries with after school forced me to socialize more and pocket the thrill of touching everything in site. No more stealing things and playing footsie with random 11-year-olds.
I never really lost it though.
Sometimes it taught me when to get out of a situation. Sometimes I confused it with love. One night, when I was 18, I used it to turn off the TV when I couldn’t find the remote and didn’t want to get out of bed.
In an instant I was 25. A mom. Exhausted by the sleepless nights and constant crying that came with my new baby. Then, as my husband and I battled over who would get up with Dougie to bounce and cuddle him while he blew out our eardrums at 3 a.m. – it hit me. I raised my hand up and pointed it toward his bedroom. And, there was silence. As long as I held my hand up –there was silence.
My husband learned to take advantage of my ability and soon slept soundly while I held my hand high each night. So did Dougie. And, I got to lay my head on my own pillow. Only problem was that when I put my hand down, the screaming continued.
By age 28, I’d used my sizzle to comfort Dougie almost every day. I even used it to stop someone from having seizures. But, I still never talked about what I was doing. Nor did I understand the true importance of it. Until I was in a Vegas hotel room, of all places.
Dougie just turned three. So, it must’ve been five years since the hubby and I went on vacation. And Vegas with a group of his friends was really the last adventure I wanted to take. I craved rest and privacy, and protested the trip a bit. AND I didn’t feel too comfortable leaving Dougie with my parents for a week, considering his eating requirements and health issues. But, to please my husband, I went along fake grinning, and wound up acquiring a 103 fever by the time we arrived.
We were there for two minutes when my mother called gushing tears through the phone. Dougie was really sick. Fever. Strange behavior. Crabby. No eye contact. My father got on the line and re-stated the fact that my baby was in dire need of me, and that he may need urgent care. Both of my parents refused to take my son to the doctor or purchase natural medicines like the ones I use at home. They also weren’t giving him Tylenol, per my request. So I got extremely frustrated with them. I asked them to take him to a naturopath appointment I’d set for Dougie, but they refused. My mother told me to get a ticket home quickly, and that she may take Dougie to the emergency room (where I feared they would inject him with drugs, he’d lose all the progress we made over the year, and then we’d get a bill for a million dollars) if things got worse. I said some words that begin with shit and fuck. Slammed my cell phone at the wall and threw an abbreviated cry fit.
There were no tickets home.
I took a deep breath and sat on the cold bathroom floor.
My hands quivered. Shook. They were electric. More than I remembered ever experiencing. The air around them became thick and heavy. Little bubbles vibrated under my skin. I wanted to find my husband and say — “hey look at this… look what’s happening to my hands,” you know — get some validation.
But, my conscience, my guides or some little voice screamed at me –THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU GINA. STEP OUT OF THE WAY. I would use my hands to heal Dougie if I were with him. And, I’d think nothing of it. I’d just do it. So, I let go. I just let go. I could still use my hands. After all, what was the difference between sending energy from another room and sending it from another state? I sure didn’t know. At this time I still really couldn’t define what I was doing anyway.
For a minute I doubted what was happening to me.
Then, I locked the bathroom door and turned on the shower to drown out the chatter of whoever hangs in Sin City hallways.
Eyes closed, I began to breathe in really deeply. With each inhale I felt an electricity surge through me. I exhaled out my anger toward my parents, and quickly realized their love and need to do the best for Dougie.
In my mind, I held Dougie in my arms. I saw inside his body. I saw a dark mass in his abdomen. And I used my hand to push it out. This was what was making him sick, I knew it. I felt pressure as I pushed it out. Then, I felt relief. He was getting well. Still my hands vibrated. Swollen with magic. Really, as if they were not my own. I was right there with Dougie giving him everything he needed. I pushed out the poison and massaged away the pain.
I asked that his pain be transformed into something valuable for him.
Then, I cuddled him (in my mind) and put my hands on his head until I felt he was still.
That took an hour. But, there was no doubt in my mind that Dougie was better afterward. When I called my mom a few minutes later, I first apologized for my foul language and frustration. She was a bit busy playing with Dougie and literally acted as if nothing had happened. “Dougie’s so much better,” she said. “He had a big poop and now we’re playing with trains.” “I know” I said. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
And that was it. She and I never spoke about the incident at all afterward.
But, I was invigorated. My fever went away too. And, I ran down to the casino to tell my husband all about it. I didn’t feel like holding it in anymore. I even told my sister-in-law over sushi at the buffet. And, for a while I grew weirder and weirder in the eyes of my people, and more and more real inside myself.
The sizzle. The energy. The wonderful vibration that ignites my soul is a gift. The more I share it – the stronger it gets.
So, this time, I’m telling everyone what happened to me in Vegas.
Be well my sunshiny friends!
Image credit: Friends Forever by, Automania
(this post was originally published in June 2009)