uncomfortably numb

My hands hurt again today. It’s strange to think that your hands can be in so much pain while being completely numb at the same time. Typing is even stranger. I kind of have to guess where my fingers are falling. Hopefully they end up on the right keys at least seventy or eighty percent of the time. Trust me, there’s a lot of re-typing going on here. I have a passionate love affair with the DELETE key! (Just don’t tell my wife.)

It feels like I am wearing a pair of prickly wool gloves. There is a coating over my skin that keeps me from really feeling most things I touch. But at the same time there are sharp needles poking every spot on my hands. The nearest thing I can compare it to is the feeling you might get when waking up after falling asleep on top of your hand. It feels bloated and throbbing, with a sort of negative sensation all over. Then the nerves begin to twitch and sting as the blood flows back throughout your fingers and palm. It’s close to that.

It’s kind of a cruel joke. When I hug my kids I can feel them, but not really. When I hold my wife’s hand I know her fingers have intertwined with mine from a sense of pressure. There is no tingle of electricity being exchanged by touching the skin of the woman that I love.

For the first time in a year I picked up my drumsticks yesterday. I could feel the weight of the wood, but the familiar sense of balance was invisible to me. The impact of hitting the ride cymbal came through like it was buried beneath the three feet of snow falling outside my studio window. My foot pushed down on the kick pedal and I heard the bass drum boom. I know that it did because it sent Sadie running across the house in a panic to hide under the kitchen table. I didn’t feel it though. I was drumming under water.

Paradiddle on the snare drum into a double stroke roll and finally a run around the toms. My left hand reached up high and came down in a crash cymbal tension release. Then I started on the floor tom and moved back upward to the rack toms. I could hear the familiar rumble of the wood growling and it sent a lovely vibration through my stomach. I was really playing drums again! I started to smile. My right hand came down to hit the crash cymbal on my right side, but there was no sound. Only the crack of wood against metal as the falling stick left my fingers, tumbled against the cymbal stand and bounced on the floor.

I leaned over and reached for the fallen timber. My fingers pinched for it and it rolled away next to the wall. Standing up I swayed around for a moment trying to catch my balance as the room spun. I rested my hand on the head of floor tom holding myself up. The stand didn’t seem to be up to the challenge of supporting the weight of two large drums, a crash cymbal, splash cymbal and my three hundred pound frame. As the metal tripod began to lean, I lifted my hand off of the drum and sat back down on the drum throne.

Not feeling so much like a king, I sat there for a few minutes and tried to calm the world down. When the drum kit finally resolved to hold itself in one spot, I decided to leave the stick where it was and take another one out of my stick bag. Taking in a deep breath, I held it for a moment and let it out slowly. One of my favorite grooves to play has always been the drum part on Paul Simon’s “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” by the masterful Steve Gadd. I played the quick double stroke roll on the snare drum and alternated hits on my hi-hat with my left foot and right hand. Another soft roll on the snare leading into that resolving and powerful thud on the floor tom. Then the click of metal again and the stick falling to the floor.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not pick it up. My hands just stopped responding to my commands. My fingers were reaching into a bag full of squirming wet eels. I reached down with both hands clamping the edges of both palms together around the stick. It lifted off the ground about half an inch or so before slipping away and following gravity back to the floor.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to curse and cry. Instead I sat back on my drum throne and closed my eyes. When I opened them my beautiful drums were still in front of me. They weren’t spinning or vibrating. They weren’t blurry and out of focus. Like they had been for the better part of my life, they were there waiting for me.

As I sit here my son Gabriel is on the kit right behind me playing. Whether he chooses to continue playing as I did or not, I hope that they will be there for him when he needs them. I take comfort in the fact that they will be there as I drop my sticks over the course of how ever long this takes. They will be there until my feet can feel the pedals again. They will be there even if my feet don’t ever feel the pedals again. Whenever I needed comfort or love in my life, they have been there for me. They will always be here for me.

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