The Beauty of …
My hand was not able to cope with the fast pace of my brain; it had stopped cooperating. My train of thought was derailed into a cloud of disarray.
In one final attempt to finish the last problem, I tried to pick up the pencil. It fell, along with the jumbled up concepts that desiccated one by one. With just a minute and thirty seconds left, I drew strokes using my left hand, depicting the numbers, in an attempt to wrap up my test. Was this one I had a chance to pass or one that I would fail regardless, just to learn the beauty of …?
The bell rang, and the papers were tossed on the front desk in a chaotic mess as the students celebrated the end of the first semester of Honors Algebra 2 class.
The 80th day of my Freshman year marked the beginning of a whole new lifestyle: I had no idea what I was in for.
I rushed home to my parents:
“Her thumb is blue and fingers swollen!” my mom panicked.
“The Palo Alto Medical site shows three hours’ wait, but we have no choice,” replied my dad.
Frozen ice cold, changing colors periodically like an evening sky, and cramping with muscle spasms of shooting pain – my right wrist lay cradled in my left arm until we reached Urgent Care.
As I checked-in at the front desk, voices began to muffle and the sound of syncopated rhythm formed by each thump of my heartbeat and the ticking of the second hand grew louder and louder. I can do this. It’s just my hand. How can it possibly keep me from school and doing the things I love? I believe in myself. This traumatic progression continued for two hours till the nurse walked out and called my name.
A half hour later, the doctor entered. He proceeded with some tests, and after ten minutes, he sat on his chair, ready to hit me with the few words that would affect the rest of my life: “You have carpal tunnel syndrome.”
Years of dancing and performing. Countless drawings and sketching. Books worth of writing. Never again, I thought. I felt like I was hit with a thousand bricks, with sharp, thick needles piercing my heart.
How will I write with my right hand anymore? I am falling behind in school already! My grades! I still wanted to make new friends. The challenges had started to pour down on me with so much weight that I started to feel physically heavy with emotion.
He handed me a brace and ordered medication on the spot.
My new wrist brace added to my daily wardrobe, arousing some emotions at my school – Mission San Jose High School:
Third period In Honors Biology in Room P10: “You’re so lucky you have a lame excuse to not do all these assignments. I wish I could come up with something absurd like that!”
Fourth period P.E. class at the gym: “My dad wears one too, and it’s because he types too much. Isn’t that stupid?”
The key to dealing with these passive remarks was to simply ignore and keep walking. What good would it be to build upon the comments and possibly make them worse? If you want to listen to what people say, listen to the right people.
Some friends were too “generous” and offered test materials, but regardless of how tempting it was realizing how behind I was in all my classes, I used that same injured hand to push away those offers. I would rather earn a ‘B’ or a ‘C’ than pity my way to an ‘A’. I was very fortunate to have these individuals, my very first high school friends, be a huge support in this hapless period of time.
These incidents served as motivation to find an alternative to find the bright side in this unfortunate period of time. I practiced for weeks on end, and to my “expertise”, mastered using my left hand‚ especially in writing. To my surprise, in doing this, I had become more concise and productive, in my approach to assignments and writing emails.
One night, I lay in bed, my injured hand beginning to swell, to the size of a small melon, stuck in an L position. My parents rushed to my room and immediately put a medicated patch on my hand. The patch was very soothing; I could feel the cool rushing down my wrist through each finger, but there was also an unendurable side effect: nausea. Tumbling in bed all night, tears trickling down my cheeks, I restlessly waited for the sun to rise. That morning, at 7:30 am we rushed to the clinic once again, where they diagnosed my right hand: IT WAS NOT CARPAL TUNNEL.
My heart started to race; what else could it be? An appointment for EMG was immediately scheduled.
In the Electromyography test, a 1.5 inch concentric needle electrode was jabbed right below my right thumb. Ouch! My nerve was damaged. Not functioning. Cause unknown. the only way to fix this situation was weekly physical therapy. Six months led to gradual recovery. I learned to control the buildup of tension in my hand.
Captain of a Bollywood dance team. Art won at the city level. Writing Journals. I have learned to deal with the situation. I have overcome the negatives of the situation. In fact, it isn’t even a situation anymore… it’s me.
A mystery. The beauty of … unforeseen challenges.