Power of Steam
I lay on the marble bench in the Shangri-La Hotel’s Miraj Hammam Spa on October 6, the day after Jack’s birthday. This steam room with its high ceiling, marble benches, and tile walls was Jack’s pride and joy.* Some widows have a gravesite to visit to mark a spouse’s birthday; I can think of no place that more embodies Jack than this steam room.
Fixing up the basement shower stall with a steam boiler, nozzle, temperature gauge, and a cedar bench was Jack’s urgent priority when we moved into our first shared house. It pissed me off. I saw a dozen more pressing things to do to make our new house feel like home while Jack was busy converting the basement into his man-cave.
The first time I used our steam-sauna-for-one was the first time I’d used any steam sauna. Jack hadn’t yet installed the bench so I perched on an old lawn chair in the tiny tiled stall. I made him sit on the toilet, so close he could touch the shower door, to pick me up if I succumbed to the heat. His presence was comforting although he mostly regaled me with tales of death by steam. I was too anxious to enjoy its soothing qualities. It was important to him that I try so I did. I lasted 7 minutes.
In time though, I made it a comfortable experience with an array of aromatic and therapeutic oils, a bench, footstool, and thick spa towels and robes for afterwards. I came to enjoy it. One of our favourite things to do was have our massage therapist come to the house for at-home spa evenings in Weston!
During the days leading up to Jack’s death, he struggled to breathe and couldn’t keep warm so we ran the steam sauna to add humidity and heat to the basement air. After he died, the sauna - hell, the whole basement - was a place I went for the memories. COVID winters, in particular, were made more comfortable with regular trips down for a pre-bedtime steam.
Sitting in that space with only my thoughts for company, though, allows for a bit of spinning out into what ifs: What if the boiler explodes? What if I pass out? What if I burn my leg on the steam? What if the steamer needs service and I don’t realize it? Pleasure, with a side of (imagined) danger.
When I planned Chandlerville, it was a given I was moving the sauna equipment with me. Jack would have wanted it so, and by then, so did I. I became a little obsessive about it, reminding the contractor again and again that we needed to locate the shower so there was space on the other side of its wall for the steam boiler. My new sauna is roomier than the one in the house and located just steps from my main-floor bed. I love the therapeutic side of it and despite the what-iffing still lurking in the depths of my brain, right now, I’m eagerly anticipating winter so I can really hunker down!
The Shangri-la experience is next level. Knowing there are staff monitoring me and assuming the boiler is getting serviced regularly by Jack’s successor removed the low-level anxiety. The heat, the moisture, and eucalyptus oil invaded each cell, replacing fatigue, negativity, and stress. And dislodging dormant memories of Jack. If they’d shot a video of me, they’d have caught me grinning through a mixture of sweat, condensation, and tears.
After 15 minutes in the ultra-hot side of the sauna, I moved to a space with slightly less intense heat and a young woman who spends her day wrapped in a sarong treated me to a rough full-body exfoliation. With years of sloughed skin rinsed off, I folded my shiny new skin back into my robe and moved to a lounge for tea and baklava. Mental note — when I do this again in a year, I’ll pre-order a shot of Polish vodka.
Jack and steam - forever linked by their common attributes of invigoration, restoration, and danger.
* The Shangri-La was the last service call he made and the place where he and I both realized he was no longer up to the task of installing and maintaining high voltage equipment. One day I’ll share the details of that horrifying story but not today.
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