Calluses (Published in the Intima)

I’m 16, and my hands are covered in thick, hardened layers of skin across my upper palms—my body’s attempt at protecting me from the repetitive friction of the uneven bars. When my hands are particularly dry, I soak them in warm water, cover them with a copious amount of emollient, and sleep in plastic gloves. 

At practice, I press white chalk into my hands before fastening the leather grips around my wrists and over my middle and ring fingers. Then I spray the fabric with water, use a wire brush to gently roughen the surface, and apply another generous layer of chalk. Despite all these protective measures, a sharp, stinging pain soars through my left hand as I circle the high bar. It’s a dreaded rip—the round callus has torn open, and the blood trickles over my palm and onto my plum leotard. 

After washing and bandaging the wounded skin, I transition to the balance beam, trying my best to keep going. The sore takes weeks to heal. 

Nowadays my hands are mostly callus-free, but my career comes with a different sort of repetitive strain. As a medical oncologist caring for patients with advanced gastrointestinal cancers, nearly 80% of my patients die from their illnesses, and the work is emotionally taxing. No, that’s not even a close approximation. The work is often gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking.

Read more at The Intima Journal of Narrative Medicine.