My posts have been pretty scarce lately, as well as somewhat disorganized. There are a lot of things that I’d really like to blog about, but I haven’t had time to really consider them lately. Part of that is recovering from surgery–not much longer for that–but there’s something else as well.
I have tendonitis in both wrists. I’m experiencing tingling (parasthesia) in the fingers of my left hand, and discomfort in both wrists. There isn’t much pain. That’s good, because pain is bad. On the other hand, pins and needles are not much of a disincentive, which means that it’s difficult for me to stop doing the activities that aggravate the condition.
I’m taking anti-inflammatories. I have a splint that I’m supposed to wear to bed, and a very light brace I wear during the day. I am supposed to ice my wrists whenever possible, use contrast baths each evening and over lunch, and stretch very frequently during the day. I’ve also gotten some advice on ergonomic arrangements. I’m learning to say, “I can’t carry that,” and, “Can you carry that for me?” I have a difficult combination of problems to treat: inflammation is helped by ice and rest; stiffness by warmth and stretching; poor circulation by exercise. I’ve also been aggravating each wrist by using them to cover for the other. I exhausted my left wrist when my right wrist started to ache a little bit and exhausted my right wrist when my left wrist started to tingle. The surgery and recovery have been problematic, too–if I had been able to wear a backpack these past several weeks, my wrists would not be so tired. If I had been able to visit the gym, my circulation would be better.
Until recently, it was aggravated by typing and carrying heavy objects. This weekend, however, my right wrist started to ache while I was painting.
That terrifies me. The cure for a repetitive stress injury is either to radically rearrange the position in which you do whatever activity (typing), or to do it less frequently (carrying grocery bags), or to stop doing it for a long time (pushups). I really don’t want to stop painting, or paint less frequently–it’s very difficult to become proficient at something that you don’t do very often. And, of course, I love painting and want to do it all the time.
But that’s not really the issue. People with severe motor impairments manage to paint, as well as to make art with all kinds of other media. Frida Kahlo learned to paint after a severe injury. She continued to paint through decades of chronic pain and exhaustion. Chuck Close continued to produce photorealist artwork after suffering a collapsed spinal artery that left him paralyzed from the neck down. Wrist tendonitis that I’m not even allowed to call carpal tunnel syndrome yet is minor. It is extremely unlikely that I will have to give up even the media I prefer, let alone all the ones I haven’t tried yet. It is most likely that I will have to approach painting and other kinds of making art the way that I’m supposed to approach every other dangerous activity: carefully.
That’s the problem. A repetitive stress injury is hard work; it requires management and care. In order to keep painting, I’m going to have to do a lot of research into safe and unsafe positions, materials, and techniques. I’m going to have to arrange all of those solutions, and then I’ll have to faithfully perform them for the indefinite future. I’ll have to develop a more conscious, more mature relationship with my body than I have ever been forced to construct before.
I’m also going to have to develop a more mature relationship with my injury. Part of the public perception of disability–the clear bright line between disabled and able–is the idea that there are perfect bodies and broken ones. Non-disabled people aren’t supposed to break. We don’t have to think about things like accomodation. We don’t have idiosyncratic needs. We aren’t invalid. We aren’t incapacitated. The desire to see non-disabled bodies as infallible results in the need to project fallibility onto disabled bodies. Our abilities are infinite. Their abilities are minimal. Our needs are negligible. Their needs are exceptional. Our accomodations are justified. Their accomodations are extreme. And my hands are just fine, thank you.
And to tell the truth, it’s the need to cling to that belief about my own perfect health that’s doing me the most damage. I have a lot of trouble thinking of myself as someone whose health can no longer be assumed. I have a lot of trouble thinking of my ability to use my hands as endangered in any way, which means that I have a lot of trouble seeing my continued ability to use my hands as dependent on all the little things I’m doing to protect them.