I was led to a treatment room, where I got my first look at the blind healer (or “Ibu,” as I was to call her: a Balinese term of respect). She was tiny (maybe 5’2”) and ageless. She had a round, smiling face; one eye was closed, the other slitted open. With her was a no-nonsense assistant and, from what I could tell, trainee — an Indonesian woman who guided Ibu by the arm and spoke just about as much English, with one key difference: We could communicate with our hands. She indicated I should change into a robe in the private bathroom. “Everything off?” I asked, and she nodded.

I came out in a robe, and the helper indicated I should lie on the massage table, face up; I started to climb between the sheets when she pointed at my robe. I removed it and climbed back up, awkwardly (during a massage, the therapist doesn’t normally come in until you’re snuggled beneath a sheet). The assistant led Ibu to my side, where she grabbed my hands, one by one, then my feet. I cracked open my eyes and watched her hover her palm over my right outer ankle — right where doctors say the old mass of scar tissue lives — and fan her fingers open and closed a few times. (I hadn’t mentioned any of my injuries to anyone, so this got my antennae up.) She walked her hands up my calves, then my arms, pausing here and there, and when she got to my shoulders, she exclaimed to the assistant. The helper asked me to sit up, and I foisted myself into a fairly uncomfortable position: Legs straight out in front of me, arms at my side.

She said something in Balinese to the assistant, and then I was stuck in this uncomfortable position for a while; the helper pinched at the tight muscles all along my spine (sort of like a massage, but with quick, small movements) while Ibu went to town on my feet. The sheet had fallen to my lap and I wasn’t sure whether my eyes should be open or closed. Mostly I squinted and cringed, because holy shit — the foot reflexology hurt. Toe by toe, square inch by square inch, she’d dig a finger in, pressing until it felt like she’d reached the bones.

My ab muscles were cramping from holding me up, and Ibu let me lie down again. She turned her attention to my neck and the skin right between my breasts — not poking or massaging, just placing a hand there for a minute or two and appearing to concentrate hard. The whole thing had gotten so strange that it was losing its weirdness; I wasn’t intimidated anymore, or self-conscious about this woman’s palm pressed to my ribs, just curious what would happen next. I didn’t feel anything, no influx or energy or tingling sensation or change in temperature, but I liked her temperament and the fact that, for the three of us in the room, there was nothing odd about this at all.

After a while, she spoke to the helper again, who lifted the sheet off me and spread it on the floor. I climbed down, completely nude, and sat cross-legged. (There’s massage-naked, and then there’s sitting-cross-legged-on-the-floor-while-an-unsmiling-assistant-looks-on naked.) Ibu sat across from me and spent more time pressing her palms onto my feet, my knees, my elbows, and finally, my hands. We sat that way for a long time, me still undecided if my eyes should be closed or open.

“Very good energy,” she announced, her brow furrowed, “but big toxins.” Then, abruptly, she stood and the assistant helped shuffle her to the treatment room’s little patio. The treatment was over.

I frowned as I changed back into my clothes. Toxins? The made-up concept of icky debris clogging up your system? Why was that even one of the English words she knew? And, c’mon, I eat loads of organic fruits and vegetables, exercise regularly, drink golden milk and green tea like it’s my job — I’m loaded up with “big toxins?” I was borderline indignant as I slipped on the flimsy spa slippers and reentered the treatment room.