The dark grey wall paint of the doctor’s office was almost as depressing as the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth were.
It would have sounded laughable, if he hadn’t been so serious: 16 years old and diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome.
At first, I didn’t want to believe it. But the stinging sensation in my wrist and the numbness and tingling in my fingers persisted.
My hand pain wasn’t new. Brief entries in my childhood journals con firm that it goes back to at least age 12.
What was new, however, were the comments. Three years and three doctors, several additional diagnoses and more physical therapy sessions than I can easily count meant a lot of listening to other peoples’ surprise.
I learned to avoid letting my hand condition come up in conversation.
But I couldn’t worm my way out of the conversations with doctors and nurses which seemed to confirm the cause of my condition: me. I had used my hands too much and now I was paying the price.
Surgery was ruled out as the potential risks were too great, outweighing the hoped for benefits.
So, I adapted my life to fit my new hand needs. I quit goalkeeping and piano, although that left me centerless. I followed every instruction my therapists gave me, even the uncomfortable ones. I set up voice dictation software on my laptop for when typing hurt too much.
I buried the secret shame of causing my own medical condition in the back corners of my mind.
Some nights, when I missed the calm of my evening piano rituals, the guilt would bubble to the surface.
If only I had been smarter, more careful, used my hands less, rested more - then I wouldn’t have this problem.
And then I walked into doctor number four’s office for the first time.
“There’s nothing you could have done that could have caused this.”
His words didn’t sink in easily. I’d listened to the voices telling me that it was my fault for so long that any contradictory idea was almost incomprehensible. It wasn’t until the drive home that I cried, relief pouring down my face.
But the guilt remains, breaking to the surface every time the numbness flares up, every time someone tells me I’m too young for carpal tunnel.
While I’m now beginning to believe that I did not cause my condition, we still don’t know what did cause it. It might be something I was simply born with. I don’t think I’ll ever find out, just like I’ll likely never be free from dealing with the pain that spreads up my arms from my wrists. Not having something else to blame makes letting go of blaming myself that much harder.
Self-forgiveness is a process that’s not over for me. Yet it started that day in doctor four’s office, with someone who spoke the truth to me about my situation. Someone who had all the evidence in front of him and said, “It’s not possible for that to be your fault.”
Hearing those words changed me in ways I’m sure he couldn’t have imagined. Perhaps one day my words can do the same.