• •
I was growing tired of the long commute back and forth to Miami, so after one year there I left the Ocean Club and rented a new condominium on Brickell Key called Two Tequesta, an apartment where I enjoyed a splendid view of the harbour from the twentieth floor. Finally I was closer to all the cultural happenings.
It was only after my first evening there that I discovered my building was under the direct flight path into Miami’s very busy international airport, and with a sinking feeling I realized that the planes roaring past my condo throughout the night and rattling the walls and windows were probably going to disturb my sleep for the coming year. Also, in spite of my protestations, an irritable Argentinian who lived directly above me continued her habit of clattering around in high heels on her marble floor at three or four in the morning. I resorted to earplugs and a wave machine, but being a light sleeper, I was frequently awakened. I concluded that once my year’s contract expired I would be better off buying my own place — preferably one where there was no risk of noisy overhead neighbours.
Hurricanes Katrina, Rita, and Wilma all hit Miami during that second year. Each time, I fled north to Toronto or New Jersey, only to find upon my return that the city was a disaster, with power outages, smashed office windows, and in the case of Wilma, just about every beautiful palm tree in the downtown torn to pieces by the winds. Their brown tattered branches hung forlornly like shredded flags. Miami was in disaster mode and the neighbours recounted horror stories of power outages and elevator entrapment. Thank goodness I had had the good sense and foresight to take off at the mention of the word hurricane! After receiving my colourful epistles describing the destructive “Acts of God,” Prince Philip wrote to me that it was “almost as though nature wanted to punish humanity … as if she wanted to warn us to be a bit more considerate toward the natural world.”
The city eventually recovered, and in between working on my music I continued to enjoy Miami’s social scene — a private concert by Plácido Domingo at the elegant old Biltmore Hotel; Art Basel, Miami’s annual international exhibition; a Steinway concert series; the French, Latin, and Jewish film festivals; an arts salon opening by my new friend the Russian–Italian artist known as “Anastasia the Great”; the Heart Ball and fundraiser at the Surf Club; a concert by the New World Symphony; the Dragon Boat Festival; and the Miami City Ballet.
I often attended the tango milongas, bathing in the sensuous music I had become so familiar with. During that time Willy Chirino, one of the most loved Cuban singers in Miami, invited me to play a couple of numbers at the James L. Knight Center at a concert celebrating Cuba’s independence from Spain.
How could I possibly miss this opportunity? I composed a short Cuban-style intro to my piece “Asturiana,” and in spite of fighting my right-hand fingers, I somehow pulled it off in front of the appreciative audience of over two thousand. I was the only non-Latin to play, and it was fun to be in the midst of all the backstage chaos with guitars being unpacked in every corner and sexy backup singers squeezing curvaceous figures into satiny costumes.
An elderly Cuban guitarist, somewhat star-struck, approached me in the green room. “You are that amazing Canadian guitarist who came to Cuba twenty years ago … I saw you on TV, right?”
“Uh uh,” I replied, “I’ve never been to Cuba; you must be mistaken”
I fibbed on strict orders from the concert manager and Willy Chirino’s wife, Lissette, who had threatened to remove me from the program should I let it slip that I had ever set foot in their troubled homeland. I had obliged and even removed any reference to Cuba or Fidel Castro from my website. The subject of Cuba was a tremendously contentious issue in this city.
The guitarist kept giving me furtive glances — “Estoy seguro que fuiste tu! ” (I’m sure it was you!)
Finally, as I was packing up my guitar case about to leave, I went over and whispered into his ear. “Si, era yo, pero te pido, no diga nada a nadie aqui! ” (Yes it was me, but don’t you dare tell anyone here!)
He gave me a big hug, beaming from ear to ear, and told me how much he had enjoyed seeing my TV special that had been broadcast frequently on Cuban television.
• • •
Such encounters reminded me of how much I missed playing regularly and made the difficulties that I was experiencing even more heartbreaking. Every day I sat in front of mirrors trying to analyze why my right-hand fingers could not execute arpeggios as smoothly as before. Sure, I had just performed my piece “Asturiana” before thousands, but I knew that my fingers were fudging the hard parts and barely making it at times. I consulted a variety of therapists from Reiki healers to New Age energy specialists, and even a woman witch doctor who burned sage and spat on my legs, supposedly a ritual for cleansing bad energies! Nothing seemed to improve my right fingers, and in spite of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” I was constantly battling the utter despair I felt about losing of my ability to play the guitar. It was as though I had lost the most significant part of my life, and that in some cruel karmic joke my talented hands and my best friend, the guitar, had somehow betrayed me.
Researching for hours on the internet, a tool I was still unaccustomed to at the time, I finally decided to check what, if anything, had been written about musician’s focal dystonia. To my surprise, I found extensive information and numerous posts from fellow musicians, many of whom had seen their careers and happiness destroyed by this condition. Why had I not wanted to believe the Scripps Institute diagnosis and its dismal conclusion? I kept hoping they were wrong and that by persevering I would eventually be able to find a solution that would enable me to keep playing.
Although I discovered much that discouraged me during my internet searches, I also came across some reasons for continued hope. After reading that the doctors at National Institute of Health (NIH) in Washington, D.C., had achieved a modicum of success with certain musicians, and that after thirty years away from the stage pianist Leon Fleisher was back performing, I flew to Washington for a consultation and a treatment with the protocol they were using on musicians … Botox! A series of painful nerve tests ensued as a needle probed my forearm searching for the exact muscle they planned to temporarily paralyze so that I could gradually retrain when it started coming back to life — a tedious three or four month process.
When it came time for the treatment, a hulking Transylvanian entered the room, a fat needle in his hand, and with perfect, Dracula-like intonation said, “Are vee now ready vor me to inject zee toxin?”
I shuddered.
A fellow guitarist who was also coming for his FD Botox treatment had accompanied me into the room and had been holding my hand during the torturous muscle probes. I squeezed it extra hard! The dosage of this nerve paralyzer was much larger than the tiny amounts used by cosmetologists to relax wrinkles, and I worried about whether, years from now, this botulism strain might possibly impact my health.
After my injections were done, my friend took his turn, and I reciprocated clasping his fingers tightly. Somehow having a hand to squeeze helped the pain, and on two of my subsequent visits I stayed at the home of this guitarist friend and his wife. My heart went out to him; the poor man’s life had been rendered miserable since he could no longer play his electric guitar. We commiserated and shared our sorrow yet remained hopeful that the Botox and subsequent retraining could work miracles.
I flew up to Washington four times to be treated at the NIH, but Botox never worked for me. The reality was starting to sink in. My brilliant career was about to end, not with a bang but with a whimper. So there I was: The guitarist who had dazzled world leaders, been praised by the New York Times for her “flair for brilliance,” sold out the Cairo Opera House and been hailed there as “The New Segovia.” The woman who had been voted five times by Guitar Player magazine as “Best Classical Guitarist” in their international poll, and who was now a member of their “Gallery of Greats,” could no longer play many of the pieces that had made her famous. The complex arpeggios, trills, and tremolos that had wowed the critics and fellow guitar players were now all discombobulated. For a perfectionist with a formerly virtuosic technique, losing the ability to play my beloved guitar the way I used to was beyond devastating.
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