After my massage, Christina led me quietly to the hydrotherapy room. I sat my skinny naked body down in a plastic chair facing an 8 x 8 empty space – with a white tiled wall and grey floor older than me – while the plate-sized shower head above me began pounding out a cool and uncomfortable spray. Behind the plastic curtain at my back, my masajista adjusted levers and dials, controlling temperature and pressure, on her console like the little man in The Wizard of Oz. I squirmed around in the chair to surrender each muscle of my back to the force, while imagining myself as fragile as a prisoner at Auschwitz alone in a water chamber that was cleansing me of my sins. These and other images tortured me as I neared a sort of death of the past 50 years on this pivotal golden birthday. And then, I focused ahead of me on the blank white wall of possibility.