I don’t really know where to start the story of how the
damage to my hand got as bad as it did.
The worst case of tendinitis my hand doctor and occupational therapist
had ever seen, a torn tendon in my small finger, nerve irritation in my
shoulder and neck that left my fingers tingling if I held my hand palm-up for
more than a few seconds, and irritation throughout my thoracic spine, the list
just got longer and longer each time I saw a doctor.
I’ve played cello since I was nine; every teacher that I’ve had has assured me that although some reaches were uncomfortable, even painful, my small hand would stretch and get used to them. Maybe it was true at the beginning, but there’s only so much stretch available, and once I’d maxed that out, I was just doing damage.
There wasn’t a single specific moment when playing cello went from being comfortable to painful, no accidents or injuries to tear the tendon in my finger. It was a slow, subtle process—lessons started to include more and more conversations about pain and how to deal with it. I consulted with my doctor, who told me to take ibuprofen before I played.
As the pain got worse, I changed my major, from a music performance degree, to a less intensive liberal arts music degree. I planned and scheduled my senior recital, then, as I got a referral to a hand specialist and got a diagnosis (complete with pessimistic probable outcome), I canceled it. I figured out exactly what playing I needed to do to graduate, and bowed out of everything else. I wrote a paper instead of performing for my end-of-the-semester final jury.
I agreed to set the cello aside for as long as necessary, when nobody could assure me I would be able to pick it back up again.
At the time, as I was beginning to process the sudden changes, I was incredibly angry, overwhelmingly depressed, and I didn’t know how to vent. In the past, when things weren’t going well, when I was sad or angry, I had always locked myself in a room and played cello until things felt better, or at least until I was thinking more clearly. Suddenly, as everything was going wrong, I lost that coping mechanism.
It was very easy at the time to blame everyone else—the teachers that had made me push my hands further and further past their limits, who had assigned etudes that I had practiced dutifully, exercises that in retrospect were almost certainly making the problem worse. I blamed my doctor for blowing off my concerns. I’m sure for a few irrational minutes I blamed my parents for making me with small hands instead of big ones.
I realized, though, with a little time and distance, that there was one person I should’ve blamed, someone that could have, if not prevented the injuries altogether, then at least caught them earlier, when they were less severe:
Me.
I could’ve told my teachers more emphatically what hurt, how certain exercises felt. I could’ve told my doctor that pain meds weren’t the solution I needed. Most importantly, I could’ve listened when my body told me it was struggling with what I was doing, when my hand complained that I was pushing it beyond its limits.
Ultimately the care of my hands was my own responsibility, and I was the one that failed them and let them get as bad as they did. The lesson was a hard one to learn, but going forward I hope that, as I relearn how to play, I’ll know how to make my health and wellness a higher priority.
I’ve played cello since I was nine; every teacher that I’ve had has assured me that although some reaches were uncomfortable, even painful, my small hand would stretch and get used to them. Maybe it was true at the beginning, but there’s only so much stretch available, and once I’d maxed that out, I was just doing damage.
There wasn’t a single specific moment when playing cello went from being comfortable to painful, no accidents or injuries to tear the tendon in my finger. It was a slow, subtle process—lessons started to include more and more conversations about pain and how to deal with it. I consulted with my doctor, who told me to take ibuprofen before I played.
As the pain got worse, I changed my major, from a music performance degree, to a less intensive liberal arts music degree. I planned and scheduled my senior recital, then, as I got a referral to a hand specialist and got a diagnosis (complete with pessimistic probable outcome), I canceled it. I figured out exactly what playing I needed to do to graduate, and bowed out of everything else. I wrote a paper instead of performing for my end-of-the-semester final jury.
I agreed to set the cello aside for as long as necessary, when nobody could assure me I would be able to pick it back up again.
At the time, as I was beginning to process the sudden changes, I was incredibly angry, overwhelmingly depressed, and I didn’t know how to vent. In the past, when things weren’t going well, when I was sad or angry, I had always locked myself in a room and played cello until things felt better, or at least until I was thinking more clearly. Suddenly, as everything was going wrong, I lost that coping mechanism.
It was very easy at the time to blame everyone else—the teachers that had made me push my hands further and further past their limits, who had assigned etudes that I had practiced dutifully, exercises that in retrospect were almost certainly making the problem worse. I blamed my doctor for blowing off my concerns. I’m sure for a few irrational minutes I blamed my parents for making me with small hands instead of big ones.
I realized, though, with a little time and distance, that there was one person I should’ve blamed, someone that could have, if not prevented the injuries altogether, then at least caught them earlier, when they were less severe:
Me.
I could’ve told my teachers more emphatically what hurt, how certain exercises felt. I could’ve told my doctor that pain meds weren’t the solution I needed. Most importantly, I could’ve listened when my body told me it was struggling with what I was doing, when my hand complained that I was pushing it beyond its limits.
Ultimately the care of my hands was my own responsibility, and I was the one that failed them and let them get as bad as they did. The lesson was a hard one to learn, but going forward I hope that, as I relearn how to play, I’ll know how to make my health and wellness a higher priority.
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