After three consecutive days of IV stem cells and being mostly indoors for days, I was more than eager to venture out of my little room at Nu Tech and out into the wonderful (and sometimes not) world of Delhi.

My muscles were tight from the aches I had after the last day of IV while my baby stem cells were working their way to repair the not-so-perfect-yet parts of my body. I knew a massage would help, no matter how crazy it seemed after already experiencing it before (see, Natural Healing Not For Wussies).

Ayurvedic massage is a beast all its own. The first time I ever got this type of massage, I was traumatized…for about 5 minutes afterwards. But then, I knew I’d be back. The incident reminds me of my two year-old nephew’s first visit to Disneyland. During the entire Roger Rabbit ride, as strobe lights blinded us and loud banging noises came from everywhere, he hated it. He cried and held onto his parents as if to say, “I will never get over this.” But as the ride came to its final stop and as he was whisked out of the uncomfortable little Roger Rabbit buggy, he firmly declared, “Do it again.”

Welcome to the mixed emotions of Ayurvedic massage -- where you are practically beaten and bruised and slapped into a healthier, braver you.

The torture began far before my adventure buddy (also the wife of a patient) and I reached the “spa.” Now, I use the term “spa” loosely as I recall the lack of air conditioning, and the chunk of roof that is no longer attached to the building (or anywhere in sight). The air conditioned-less taxi (it’s like no one but me is hot in this suffocating city) picks us up, confirms with the infamous Indian head wobble (that looks like a no, but generally signifies a yes) that he knew where our destination was, and then proceeds to fight traffic ever so s-l-o-w-l-y for forty-five miserable stifling hot and humid minutes. The open windows which we thought would help cool us, allow the thick heat to sit in the taxi with us, and gave an invitation to beggars to force their hands inside while they asked for money. The traffic in this city is so dense, that is it unimaginable to those who can’t witness it. The mix of cars, tuk-tuks, trucks, people, stray dogs and an occasional cow pack the streets with nowhere to go. My mind wanders to situations that could send me into a panic if I entertain them too long. What if there was an emergency? Often, the car next to you is so close that you cannot open your door to get out. Horns are honking anxiously even though no one is moving an inch. I can see a person directing traffic ahead, but it seems to me he is making things worse. India has no order, and trying to insist upon it causes further chaos.

We get lost and are forced to stop several times for directions (no outing in India is complete without a driver who insists he knows the destination and then halfway into the drive reveals he has no clue). After I steer him in the right direction from my memory of the last visit, we finally arrive to the massage place (I’m dropping the term “spa” now). Several women escort us into separate rooms. An Indian woman signals me to undress and put my clothes in a cabinet lined with newspaper from ions ago. I know from last time that she is not going to leave while this happens. In fact, she is going to help me -- no matter how kindly I refuse -- to dress in a tiny tarzan type bikini bottom for the event.

She leads me into a room with a fan (hallelujah) and a large wooden table, sans any cushioning. After working thick traditional Ayurvedic oil into my hair until it is dripping heavily from the ends, she tells me to get onto the table. Another woman comes in and my massage quickly begins with a traditional two-person rhythmic slapping, rubbing and beating session that somehow leaves my body feeling relaxed. I tried to use this time for meditation, letting my body flow with the movements, but my mind feels crowded lately and I can’t get it to stop thinking. Note to self: Ask Dr. Shroff if there are stem cells for this. The massage concludes with Sirodhara -- a ritual where luke-warm herb-infused oil is poured over the forehead in a continuous stream using a special swaying movement. Heaven. I take a steam bath in a contraption that looks like a time machine (with the woman watching me), a shower with powdered soap smelling like dirt (she is waiting outside the door), and we are back in a taxi to the hospital.

Visions of the possible traffic horrors back scare me into almost wanting to stay. But, all of the patients from the hospital have been invited to dinner at another patient’s fancy hotel. And I would walk home before I missed a meal at a hotel. Plus, I am afraid if I don’t wash this orange massage oil out of my hair one more time at least, it may soak into my brain and melt it.

A couple of hours to rest at the hospital and we are heading to the Imperial Palace hotel for dinner. No shorts allowed. Embroidered napkins. Enough flowers that the unpleasant smells of Delhi become distant memories. Four taxis take us all; one wheelchair per taxi, wheels in the trunk with the rest of us piling in.

Dinner was a blast and being in a place like that makes you feel some of the comforts of home (not that we have embroidered napkins or enormous vases full of white smelly flowers at home). It was a nice change to get to see everyone in a different scene, unlike our usual crowding in one of the floor’s hallways (we usually visit “dorm” style).

As Sunday here is almost over, I’m starting to feel stronger again (although much too slowly) after that three day IV schedule that left me kind of drained. The body aches from my stimulated immune and nervous systems are dissipating, and I’m feeling more like myself. I kind of missed me, actually. I slept an obscene amount of hours last night, which reminds me that as my baby stem cells work, I am going to be more tired than usual. Through suffering with a chronic illness for so many years, it’s still apparent that my mental programming has a few quirks. Tired isn’t always a cause for alarm, I have to remind myself. And, not every day is perfect. Healing takes energy and so I have to relinquish it to my baby stem cells when they need it as they continue to do the amazing work of repairing all that was so destroyed for years.

This week I will undergo a lumbar procedure where Dr. Ashish will inject a syringe full of embryonic stem cells directly into my spinal chord. They call it the 24 hour procedure because of the down time it entails. This method of introducing stem cells will allow the spinal fluid to carry them to my brain and help further clear the lesions. I’ll be over at Nu Tech’s other hospital overnight where they have the O.T. (operating theater). I’ve never had this particular procedure before and I’ve been coached by other patients to lie perfectly still on my back for as many hours as possible (I think I can roll on my side after 5 but I still can't sit up), which lessens the chances of any side effects (a nasty headache and nausea). I am determined to survive it drama free -- but what will be, will be.

I’m ready to take it as it comes, listen to my ipod (my little technological savior), and attempt to hold my pee for as long as humanly possible. I have been defeated in searching for the Guinness Book of World Record’s entry concerning the length of time someone can go without using the restroom. If anyone finds it and it is more than 24 hours, please do tell. Some things I can pass off as adventurous. Experiencing an Indian bedpan is not one of them.