My method can be traced back to a childhood that was unremittingly bleak and painful. Today, when I think about those early years, the memory still brings tears to my eyes. My heart contracts. And my stomach hurts.
I was the tenth child in the family. My mother died in childbirth. My father was an upright individual, a disciplinarian perhaps, but not overly strict or pious. He was warm-hearted to a fault, but he was depressed by the injustice of my mother’s death and he survived her by only a few years. Together with my brothers, I was placed in a succession of orphanages. We then survived the attentions of self-styled ‘caring’ families, who seemed to regard the children placed in their charge as little more than additional pairs of hands to help out on the farm.
Looking back, the principal sensation that comes to mind is not one of fear or lack of affection; it is one of hunger. My brothers and I were, to put it bluntly, half-starved. So much so that we used to catch chickens and, fearful of being caught in the act by the gendarmes, pluck them on the spot and eat them raw. Given the opportunity, we were capable of eating our way through an entire crop of strawberries or devouring every single fruit on an apple or pear tree. We also drank litres of milk, which we stole from doorsteps.
As you might expect, this anarchic diet provoked intense stomach cramps on an almost-permanent basis. That is perhaps the abiding childhood memory that still remains vivid to this day. I described this traumatic period in my life at some length in Le cri du cœur (‘Cry from the Heart’), written in 1996. ‘My stomach hurts’ was the constant refrain. I was cold. I was sad. I was lonely. But, above all, my stomach hurt.
Looking back today in the light of recent medical research, I am not surprised this was the case. Persistent and at times unbearable stomach pains were clearly attributable to the circumstances to which my brothers and I had fallen victim. Abdominal disorders reflected the anxiety that plagued my second brain. At times, I would literally cry out in pain, and I would resort to the only available ‘cure’ – lying on my back, knees bent, massaging my stomach. At the time, I had the impression that the warmth from my hands was penetrating the flesh and relieving the immediate anguish. A heated brick or a hot water bottle would doubtless have had the same effect. As a rule, the pain would gradually subside after several minutes and, if I continued rubbing, would eventually ease off entirely. But not for long. At the first sign of anxiety, typically after a slap administered when a mouthful of food was bolted down, the searing pain would start again, spreading inexorably to my back and legs.
At school at Lorgues in the Midi, where I stayed prior to university, I took a succession of part-time jobs to help pay my way, working as a delivery boy, dishwasher, waiter, beach boy, photographer or whatever. I continued to suffer from severe abdominal pain. The agonies persisted into adulthood and were complemented by a series of nervous complaints – lingering depression, rebelliousness and, above all, a persistent feeling of fatigue. I could sense the tension build, and I was afraid it would be with me for the rest of my life.
For a time, I sought solace in sport. Swimming. Running. Cycling. And it seemed to work. I felt better, more balanced. But then the stomach pains reappeared. Today, I understand why: I was pushing myself too hard, punishing my abdomen instead of taking care of it. In effect, the result was the exact opposite of what I had intended. My problems were compounded by and manifested in recurrent bouts of exhaustion, nervous tension, irritability, sleeplessness and stomach cramps. I had disrupted my natural balance. The stomach pains were still there and, inevitably perhaps, they intensified during my period of military service as a lieutenant in the airborne corps in Algeria. By this time, I had consulted a whole phalanx of gastro-enterologists, ingested a ton of pills and potions, and started to pay attention to my diet. But the problem simply wouldn’t go away. I met my future wife on the beach at Cavalaire in the Var region: we married and lived happily ever after – except for one thing: my stomach still played up on a regular basis.
Strangely enough, it was only when I worked with patients that the real dimensions of my own problem gradually became apparent – as did the solution. As luck would have it, I appeared to have inherited something precious from my father – ‘good hands’, a healing touch, call it what you will. Proof of this emerged while I was working as a beach attendant in Saint-Aygulf. My boss at the time was crippled with lumbago and, one day, I offered to give him a massage. He agreed and I set to work. It wasn’t the first time by any means: I’d often practised massage on friends on the farm or at college. Several days later, a gentleman who came to the beach regularly, together with his wife Françoise, also complained of a sore back. My boss suggested I might be able to help. ‘Try Pierre,’ he said. ‘He has a gift for that sort of thing. He certainly worked wonders with my lumbago.’
That patient’s name was Pablo Picasso.
Picasso settled on a stool with his heavily muscled back towards me. I positioned myself on a chair behind him and told him to place his hands palms-down on the table in front of him and to rest his head against them. He obeyed, grumbling at the inconvenience of it all. I planted my feet firmly in the sand and started to work on him. Picasso let out the occasional dull groan as I kneaded his spine, but finally started to relax as I put some effort into it. Once I had finished, I did what my father had always done: placed my hands flat against his shoulders and back to disperse the energy field. To my astonishment, I discovered Picasso was sound asleep. Some time later, he invited me to his home in Vallauris, when his back started acting up again. That time – without giving too much thought to it – I also worked on his abdomen.
I planted my feet firmly in the sand and started to work on him. Picasso let out the occasional dull groan as I kneaded his spine, but finally started to relax as I put some effort into it.
I gradually became aware that I did indeed have what people call ‘healing hands’, and I was determined to use them well. What I noticed time and again was that the typical patient’s abdomen was rigid and distended. Even if the patient described his problem as back pain, an aching shoulder, a persistent headache or some other such discomfort, I always made straight for the abdomen, testing it, palpating it, massaging it, first lightly then more intensely, instinctively tracing the contours of the plexus and the meridians. Almost without exception, I could identify some malfunction or other – a temporary malformation, perhaps, or signs of muscle spasm or constipation. And, without further ado, my hands would start working on the abdomen. The results were gratifying and they confirmed that, by focusing on the abdomen, I was also addressing problem areas elsewhere.
When I worked on myself, using a process of self-massage, I experienced the benefits at first hand and I can testify to the effects; in particular, it dissipated the bouts of fatigue that had plagued me in my younger days. Usually, I would lie on my back and, instead of subjecting myself to a gentle massage, I would literally pound my abdomen, pinching and pummelling the skin violently for five or six minutes. The procedure was radical but I still experienced a sense of well-being, as if the pain voluntarily inflicted was somehow mitigating a deeper pain experienced elsewhere.
The interminable stomach pains that once made my life such a misery are now only a vague memory. In time, I found I no longer had to lie on my back, but could massage my abdomen from a sitting position. The physical effort involved was considerable, however, and, in order to relax, I had increasing recourse to deep and regular breathing patterns. This was how I discovered the extraordinary efficacy of massage coupled with proper breathing. My tiredness diminished in spectacular fashion, I started to sleep better, my irritability decreased and my stomach pains were soon fewer and farther between.
Those early experiences proved crucial benchmarks in my development as a therapist. I must admit that as I unlocked the secret of well-being and came to terms with myself and my own body, I became angry at the thought of all that time spent in doctors’ surgeries and all the money I had paid for pills of every description. Still, the principal feeling was one of pride. I was no longer a slave to my abdomen. I had learned how to breathe deeply and correctly and I was beginning to appreciate what that implied. I was on the point of developing a method that could have far-reaching implications, namely concentrating treatment on the abdomen as a second brain – a brain with its own peculiar properties and innate characteristics that interfaced with the upper brain.
When, thanks in no small part to my wife Florence, I subsequently started to eat at regular intervals and to eat slowly and without any sense of stress, my pains disappeared for good. It was then that I realised why my patients’ abdominal pains seemed to disappear more quickly than my own: on the whole, their lives were less stressful than mine. At the time, I would often rise at four in the morning to make house calls, rush to the hospital where I spent the better part of the day working as a trainee osteopath, then dash off to kinesiology courses given by Boris Dolto before rounding out the day with a further series of evening house calls. I was in perpetual motion, snatching a bite to eat as and when I could. As yet, I remained ignorant of a crucial element in what would later emerge as my method: the need to eat on a regular basis and to eat without undue haste.
I was 28 years old and, although I didn’t know it at the time, I had already acquired the key components of what would turn out to be my ‘method’. I continued to study and work ‘proactively’ (as the buzzword goes). I was happy, fit and enthusiastic, and my own complaints were a thing of the past. To my delight, I was able to help a succession of household-name patients – the dress designer Cristóbal Balenciaga, the ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev, Audrey Hepburn, Ava Gardner, Yul Brynner and Frank Sinatra, authors such as Joseph Kessel, businessman Gianni Agnelli, Princess Grace of Monaco, and presidents and prime ministers throughout the world.
I was particularly intrigued by Les Mains du Miracle (‘Miracle Hands’), a book by Joseph Kessel about the life of Heinrich Himmler’s masseur, a man called Kersten, who had treated Himmler on an ongoing basis for chronic stomach cramps. At one point in his career, Kersten had the good fortune to meet a Chinese physician named Dr Ko, who had trained in Tibet; he taught Kersten how to locate and manipulate the plexus and the meridians. This was precisely what I had been attempting – intuitively – both on my patients and on myself, albeit with no working knowledge of Chinese medicine. I prevailed upon Hervé Mille, then CEO at Paris Match, to introduce me to his good friend Kessel in the hopes of meeting Kersten himself. It was too late: Kersten had died in the interim. When I finally met up with Joseph Kessel, however, he invited me to give him a neck massage (he was experiencing severe headaches at the time) and I duly obliged. Once I had massaged his neck, I made him lie on his back in order to work on his abdomen, which was distended and in spasm. I did my level best to emulate Kersten by vigorously palpating Kessel’s plexus and meridians. Kessel groaned as I worked him over. When I finished, he looked at me and said: ‘Pierre, you have no cause to envy Kersten. You have the same gift he had.’
That encounter proved a life-changing experience. I knew then that I had a gift, that my hands-on approach genuinely worked. Many of my patients have since expressed astonishment at how beneficial my massage method is and how quickly it achieves results. By working the abdomen, I have achieved positive, even spectacular results, such as improved joint articulation and the alleviation of back pain, fatigue, insomnia and sexual dysfunction – often much to the surprise of my patients’ own physicians. In effect, by healing myself, I gained an invaluable insight into how best to create a balance between the two brains. Ever since, I have continued to fine-tune my approach as an integral component of my overriding aim in life: to serve my patients as best as I can.
I took stock. My method had its origins in my childhood and had subsequently been honed by years of study and clinical experience. Ten years studying as an osteopath and dietician had afforded me precious insights into human anatomy, bones and joint structure, cardiac and respiratory systems, and the entire digestive process. I had learned a great deal about nutritional
By working the abdomen, I have achieved positive, even spectacular results, such as improved joint articulation and the alleviation of back pain, fatigue and sexual dysfunction...
values and the consequences of malnutrition and fasting, as well as fad diets. But, despite all this, I was still groping for solutions to abdominal health. Granted, I had practised on patients from every walk of life and had built a sound track record. But there was still something missing. That puzzled me. I cast about for a solution, for some explanation of why the abdomen was so important.
Today, I know why; back then, there was insufficient knowledge about the close interaction between the upper brain and the abdomen, our second brain.
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