When Our Bodies are our Trade: What happens when we’re injured?

One year ago I fell in a bike accident and broke my right (dominant) wrist. I was in a cast for four weeks, a period of time which brought about tremendous discovery, and lots of high and low experiences. One year later, I’m taking stock of everything I learned.

First of all, I broke my dominant wrist the weekend before I was acting and singing in a play. I was supposed to be in charge of loading in the set, of driving (stick-shift, nonetheless) around the city to gather props and costumes, and - get this - playing keys in the show. While I ended up relinquishing a lot of control over the load-in, I still (don’t know how) managed to play the keys one-handed. Wasn’t ideal, but the show always goes on somehow.

The accident came at a time when I was extremely immersed in a hand-oriented lifestyle. I was in a routine: doing yoga four times a week, biking (even in winter - no longer am I so foolish), skiing almost every day on the mountain, cooking at least one meal from scratch a day. I was learning guitar, playing the keys a lot, doing lots of stream-of-consciousness writing in my journal, and was employed solely as a freelance writer.

The day I was put in a cast I threw the requisite tantrums: “I’m such a hand-person!” I bemoaned to roommates and family alike. It seemed unacceptable and drastically unfair that I should have my wholesome and creative lifestyle so violently derailed. That I couldn’t write in my journal. That my guitar technique should go to waste just when I was starting to make a bit of progress. That I should be slowed down so significantly in my money-making just because I had to type with one hand. That I couldn’t peel a fresh wedge of ginger.

Anyone who’s ever been in a cast knows how disorienting it can be to have a part of your body immobilized. Those first couple of days were very disconcerting - I felt my entire balance thrown off kilter, my centre of gravity out of whack, my coordination all befuddled. I was bumping into things, feeling very weird. Simple muscle-memory habits - brushing my teeth, opening the fridge, putting in contacts - had to be relearned. It’s amazing how much of our kinesthetic activity begins with our dominant hand. As my Alexander Technique teacher says, all organisms react first with their outer appendages; they are our source of all movement - it’s a self-defense thing, to react first with your extremities.

A few days after my injury though, I began to see the light. Suddenly everything felt new. I was traveling through the world relearning how to do things, and I was loving it. My strict routine of yoga and skiing had to be put aside; but I started taking long meditative walks on the mountain, and discovered that brought me mental and physical satisfaction in a whole different way. I couldn’t journal the way I wanted to, but found a certain sense of calm I never would have expected from NOT recording ideas….from just taking quiet time in the morning to sit with my thoughts without expressing them. It was indeed frustrating that I couldn’t express myself with the things I was used to - writing, playing music, even just making a really great soup - but the clarity of mind that came with the physical lifestyle shift brought its own brand of creativity. I felt more alert, more alive, more creative, by simple virtue of having my physical routine so thrown off kilter.

My creativity has always been related to my hands. I’ve always been a writer, and I live for playing the keys. I would be devastated if I lost the use of my hands permanently - but this sort of thing happens to artists all the time, and they find ways to cope. Removing my cast was a bittersweet event; I was so grateful to be free again to use my right hand, but I knew it marked the end of a very special and creative time. It was back to old habits, old routines - also back to my piano and back to my computer and back to all sorts of wonderful things I’d missed so much.

It was scary to realize one year ago how hand-dependent I was, and how much my interests - nay, my trade - depends on the use of both my hands. Interestingly enough, I fell ill with the flu on the one-year anniversary of my accident. This flu struck me almost two weeks ago, and completely wiped out my voice. While my cough and throat are a lot better, I still can’t really sing. I am cracking on notes higher than a G. I am hoarse after a ten minute conversation with my roommate. This damn voice is taking its sweet time to heal. And this year, where I’m involved in more music engagements than ever before, it’s alarming, off-putting, and also kind of fascinating to be unable to sing. Take away the thing you define yourself by, and suddenly your concept of “You” gets to rethink itself.

Are we defined by what we do? Or by who we are in those periods of rest? I’ve welcomed these twelve days of voicelessness, as a chance to refresh and reconnect with my essence, the “me” in stasis. But I’m getting nervous…I do hope it comes back soon, cuz I’ve got shows to sing and a life to live, and oh my, how I miss making art with the vessel that is my body and breath….

Anyone out there have any illuminating stories about illuminating time spent forced away from your self-defining trade?