I was born in 1989 in the Year of the Snake, an animal that doesn't even have shoulders. And that's good for snakes, because body parts that aren’t there can't be injured. I do have every body part and that's what happened: right on time at the beginning of the year, I woke up on New Year's morning with pain in my right shoulder. Within a few days, it developed into the one thing that can cause the most excruciating pain in a shoulder: bursitis. Horrible nights followed, in which I had to “sleep” in a seated position(!) and could hardly get a wink of sleep. During the day, I was dependent on my husband for most of my activities. I felt like a helpless newborn: I couldn't write and with my left hand, I spread butter on my bread in an extremely inelegant way.
How could this have happened? The culprit was indeed a book, or rather a whole roomful of books. That is the ultimate form of an artist's suffering, when one injures oneself with an object of art. After my father's death, between Christmas and New Year's Eve, we sorted through and cleared out his gigantic library, which included several thousand books. For hours, I pulled heavy books from lower rows of shelves until the bursa had had enough.
After a few months, the inflammation had been reduced to nothing, but I was warned that I would always be prone to bursitis from now on. As soon as the hex had been lifted, a few happy, pain-free weeks followed until.... until … my shoulder started hurting again, but this time, BOTH shoulders were afflicted. I had the honor of making the acquaintance of biceps tendonitis. It decided to settle in for a nice long cozy chat by the fire, causing acute pain, which was greatly aggravated by my working on the computer or cell phone. So all I had left was the offline world. I went for walks, listened to audio books since I couldn't hold a book, and thought about my shoulders, which had taken me in yet again. At about the same time, I needed vitamin B12 shots and a vaccination, which I definitely did not want in my pain-induced deteriorating shoulders. My muscles were approaching zero, while my husband, of course, was becoming much more muscular due to his extensive mothering of me. I could no longer carry anything: no shopping bags, not even a backpack, as it would put pressure on the wrong places.
Nevertheless, I have managed to write this year. I wasn’t able to lift anything or put weight on my arms; but for an hour or two a day, I could work with my laptop on my knees. That's why I'm closing out the year with an almost finished manuscript and a slight but persistent ache in my shoulders that has seemingly become part of my existence.
