Chapter Nine
The receptionist smiled warmly at David. “Dr. Benevenolli will see you now.”
David nodded as he rose to his feet. He walked briskly into the doctor’s office. Dr. Benevenolli, seated on a comfortable-looking lounge chair, looked up from the pad balanced on his lap and smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Currant. I hope you're doing well," said the doctor, gesturing David into the chair beside him.
"Afternoon, Dr. Benevenolli,” David said. “I'm fine, thank you."
"And what can I do to help you today?"
"I'm sure you hear this from at least half of your patients, doctor, but it wasn't really my idea to come here today."
Dr. Benevenolli smiled. "And whose idea was it that you should come and see me?"
"Actually," David said, “it was my friend's idea, Elizabeth McDermitt."
"Elizabeth? Why of course. My daughter knows her well. They play tennis now and then."
"Really? I didn't know she played tennis."
"I see. Well, she's a lovely young lady, isn't she?"
"Yes, lovely...yes...now, about why I've come in today."
"Because Elizabeth suggested it?"
“Well, yes. But also because I've been having some trouble with my hands. I'm a pianist, you see. And I'm told that you've worked with musicians before."
Dr. Benevenolli nodded gently. "Yes, I've worked with a number of musicians over the years. Singers, instrumentalists. Quite a few pianists."
"Yes, that's why Elizabeth thought you might be able to help me."
"Of course. I'm sure we can make some progress together. Now, could you give me a little background concerning your injury and the medical assistance you’ve already sought for it."
David nodded. "It's been a little over two years now that my hands have been bothering me. It started right after I was chosen as the American alternate for the Radovsky competition in Vienna. I was only the alternate—Elizabeth was chosen as the winner of the American competition so she was the one scheduled to compete. But even if I had a chance to perform, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. My hands—both of them, but the right hand was worse—would cramp up and experience these sharp pains after about twenty minutes of practicing or playing."
"I see,” Dr. Benevenolli said. “And this just came out of nowhere? There was no duress, no injury to the hands?"
"Well, nothing external if that's what you mean. I didn't get them caught in some machine. It was just about a week before leaving for Vienna that I realized something was wrong."
"Your hands felt tight? Could it simply have been over-practicing?"
"Over-practicing? I'm not quite sure what you mean. A concert pianist—to be competitive with his peers—has to practice several hours a day. I've practiced between two and four hours a day since I was about sixteen years old."
"I realize that professional musicians must practice extensively, Mr. Currant. But I also realize that there's a point at which the body rebels."
David sighed. "I understand what you're trying to say, Dr. Benevenolli, and I did slow down a little. I even took a couple of days off from practicing and that's something I rarely do."
"Did it help?"
"No. It didn't. When I did get back to practicing, I ran into the same problems with my hands right away, especially my right hand."
"And I take it you’ve seen a number of specialists about this?"
"Of course. Half a dozen neurologists and neurosurgeons."
Dr. Benevenolli paused briefly to write a few words on the tablet in front of him. “And what did they have to say? What was their prognosis?”
David sighed. “It varied. Most of them said that they could see no overt signs of nerve damage. They couldn’t explain my problem so they couldn’t help my problem.”
“I see,” the doctor said. “You said ‘most of them.’ Was there anyone who reached a different conclusion?”
“Yes, there was one. Dr. Schneider…Lawrence Schneider…he was convinced that I had a real problem and that it was neurologically based.”
Doctor Benevenolli raised his highbrows slightly. “The others perhaps suggested that it was not a ‘real’ problem?”
“Frankly, the others didn’t say much of anything. Nobody actually made the point that somehow all of this is just in my head, but they didn’t suggest anything else it could be.”
“That must have been very discouraging.”
“Of course it was discouraging.”
“But Dr. Schneider, did he offer hope of any possible treatment?”
“Not exactly. He basically suggested that we wait and see if it got worse. And if it did, he would consider running more tests.”
“No surgery?”
“Well, this isn’t like carpal tunnel, Dr. Benevenolli. It’s much more complicated than that.”
“I understand, Mr. Currant. Why do you think that all of those doctors have had such difficulty in diagnosing and treating your problem?”
“I really don’t know. But I know I‘m not the first pianist to ever suffer from a condition like this. Have you ever heard of Raymond Fischer?”
“The great American pianist? Of course I have.”
“He suffered through similar problems for years. He could only perform pieces written for the left hand for much of his career.”
“Yes, I know all about his situation. He was diagnosed with focal dystonia.”
“Yes, that’s it! Focal dystonia. My understanding is that such a condition is extremely difficult to diagnose correctly.”
“It can be, Mr. Currant. It is not diagnosed often and seldom immediately. Are you suggesting that you suffer from that particular condition?”
“I’m suggesting that it’s more than possible. Nobody seems to have come up with any other explanation.”
“As I understand it, the various treatments that Mr. Fischer submitted to were not particularly successful.”
“That’s my understanding, too.”
“And yet, Mr. Fischer eventually started playing again—successfully—with both hands. How do you think he was able to overcome his difficulties?”
“I don’t really know, Dr. Benevenolli. My understanding is that no one knows for sure why his condition improved. And I’m not sure what your point is in asking the question.”
“There is no particular point, Mr. Currant,” the doctor replied, “but I think we’ll move on to other concerns now.”
“Yes, well you must understand doctor, this is my primary concern.”
“Yes, of course it is. But let’s move on to some other subjects for the moment. You mentioned that Elizabeth was the winner of the American competition for the Radovsky prize?”
“Yes, she’s been very successful at piano competitions of that sort.”
“Did Elizabeth's success please you?”
“Of course it pleased me. She’s a very good friend.”
Dr. Benevenolli paused and put down his pencil. “Could you explain the relationship you have with her a little more clearly?”
David paused. “It’s complicated.”
The doctor smiled. “It always is.”
“I met Elizabeth a few years ago. We were both up and coming young pianists and we used to run into each other at auditions and competitions. We hit if off very well. Or at least I thought we did.”
“And what do you suppose she thought?”
“I suppose she thought the same thing. We spent a lot of time together whenever we could. But our schedules weren’t always compatible. Sometimes I was off to one part of the globe when she was off to another. It would sometimes be months before we saw each other again. Then, after the Radovsky competition in Vienna, we spent a lot of time together again. Frankly, I was very hopeful it would become a serious relationship.”
“By serious, do you mean permanent?”
“What is permanent? I would have been happy with serious. But of course it wasn’t serious and so it wasn’t permanent either. It’s
been almost two years since the Radovsky festival and we’ve drifted apart again. But we have stayed in touch on and off and have seen each other for a day or two every couple of months.”
“Are you satisfied with that?”
“I’m not in a position to see it in those terms.”
“I see. You say she’s been very successful. Do you feel in competition with her as a pianist?”
“No. But if I did, she’d be tough competition.” David paused. “Dr. Benevenolli, I see myself as a very good pianist. A pianist with a bright future, if I can only get over these problems with my hands. But Elizabeth is a great pianist. She’s living the bright future I wish I could have.”
“But you see,” the doctor interjected quickly, “that’s exactly my point.”
“I’m not following you, I’m afraid,” David said.
“Have you entered any competitions lately? Auditioned for any playing opportunities?”
“I’ve been teaching at the Leonard Conservatory, of course, for over a year in the Outreach program. It’s a job I’m very grateful to have. But it hasn’t given me enough time to compete for anything.”
“The conservatory wouldn’t give you a little time off to enter a competition? You’d think your successes would reflect well on them.”
“Yes, I guess they would…give me a couple of days off now and then. But my hands…”
“So it’s really the problem with your hands, not with your teaching obligations.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I think it’s just possible that you shy away from pursuing performance opportunities because you don’t really want to compete with other pianists.”
“And by other pianists, I assume you mean Elizabeth.”
“Not just Elizabeth. Your other peers as well.”
“No offense, Dr. Benevenolli, but I think your hypothesis is a load of crap.”
“Look, David,” said the doctor, leaning forward in his seat. “I’m not suggesting for a minute that you haven’t been having some real problems with your hands. It’s probably true that there are actual, physical reasons that your hands are not functioning in the way you want them to. But my point is this: rather than waiting to get over the problems, I think you’ve got to get through them. I think you should start practicing again…seriously. And then I think you should start competing again. Going out there and competing. Will your hands be bothering you all the while? They probably will, at least for a while. But remember, Norman Fischer came back to performing and he did so successfully. I think you can do it too.”
“Are you finished?” David said.
“Yes, I am,” said Dr. Benevenolli, putting his pad on a nearby table.
“I appreciate your comments,” said David, as he stood and reached for the doctor’s hand. “But it’s just not that simple.”