Tendonitis

‘My case is so heavy’ I think to myself. ‘Really honestly I should clean out all these sheets of music, but I just know that one day I’ll need them’

The plastic thunks onto the table and relief runs up my arm as I let go of the handle. The clack of the latch is familiar and comforting. For a moment I feel guilty taking the large practice room but I just can’t stand being confined in those little stalls of rooms down the hall.

‘Back to the task at hand’ I scold myself.

I look at the instrument nested in velvet. Looking my betrayer in its eyes. I stretch my wrists and set my stand. Quietly, I apologize to my hands. I unlatch my bow from its holster and turn it over a few times in my fingers. It’s brand new and just stunning. The grain of the wood and the abalone shell on the screw are just mesmerizing to look at.

Rosin clouds around my face as I scrape it against my bow. It smells thick and makes my nose hairs stick together. It always leaves my hands so dry and tacky but I suppose that’s for the best considering how much they sweat when I play.

Clicking my shoulder rest into place, settling the instrument on my shoulder and giving it a quick tuning. There’s no more stalling. No more fidgeting. Fear wells in my throat and a steel my gaze against the notes on the page.

It starts so simply. I play a scale or two just to test my limits. So far nothing. These wretched fingers are holding their own. My body is tense but a smile escapes me. I pull out Kreutzer and play a melodic passage. Something not too challenging. Still my hands hold it together.
I decide maybe today is the day.

I pull out something that strikes fear in my body. I pull out the hoffmeister. I put it up on my stand and stop for just a moment to look at it.

‘I have to play this. If I cannot play this I am not worthy of playing anything at all’

My hands tremble as I bring my viola back onto my shoulder. I take a deep breath but it only seems to make it worse. I raise my hands to the starting position, a simple D major chord. My bow shakes and cannot make notes ring, but I’m not worried about that. It’s only my nerves getting the better of me.

I play the melody and start to relax. It’s familiar by now and I have conquered the opening after all these years. That’s when I feel it. A fine hair of shooting pain running up the side of my arm. My face falls. All I can taste is the thickness of the rosin coming off my bow and iron from me biting my lip.

There it goes again. White-hot, flying from the tip of my pinkie to my elbow. I can’t stop now, I have to make it to the end. I pull apart passages and practice them, but with every note my hands fight me.

Through the development I work, double stops worsening my hands exponentially. My fourth finger becomes completely worthless, my third soon to follow. I use my shoulders to try to hold up my instrument and give my arms support but that, as always, is a poor decision. The strain on my shoulders sends the pain upward towards my face and back down my spine.

My whole upper body hurts but still I practice. I tune, beat out sections to a metronome, all the while sweating as my upper body is on fire. My vibrato is wild and unruly, my posture slumping, my bow tilting away from my body causing scratching sounds.

After over an hour, I can’t do it anymore. I collapse on the floor and drop my instrument at my side. I flinch as the wood thuds against the carpet but I don’t have the strength to catch it.
Sweat is replaced by tears.

“Why can’t I just play?” I actually sob aloud. “I just want to play” I cry into my lap. Even through tears I can see my hands trembling. Feelings of worthlessness spread over my body and I look up to my music. ‘I will be expected to practice 5 hours a day and I cannot even do 2. What grad school will take me? What orchestra will want damaged goods?’

When I have cried myself dry I pack my things. I wipe down my instrument, loosen my bow, stow my music. The latch clacks shut again but it offers little comfort now. Across the hall I stow my ungodly heavy case in its locker, in the musty locker room. Before I shut the door I look bitter-sweetly at my instrument.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”