My journey in designing the Lightning Process and writing this book, as with so many extraordinary adventures, started with a crisis.
I was 21, in my first year of osteopathic college and a professional guitarist, when I came across something devastating, which was to change my life forever…
SHARKS!
They’re really dangerous with their rows of razor-sharp teeth! But it wasn’t a shark that caused me such devastating problems. Strangely enough, it was something much more sinister. Yes, that killer machine…
THE FAMILY CARAVAN!
Or more precisely the glass within its back window.
We were all pushing the caravan as it had become stuck in a dip, so we began rocking it backwards and forwards to free it. I was leaning heavily with my outstretched palms flat against the rear window, as I done many times before, when my left hand cracked the window and plunged through the glass, lacerating my wrist. This was bad enough, but because the others continued to rock the caravan, unaware of the developing situation, the broken glass also rocked backwards and forwards on my outstretched arm and wrist.
From my detailed knowledge of the anatomy of the forearm, which I’d just covered in the previous academic year at college, I knew this was not a good thing.
Narrowly missing slicing the main arteries, which would have caused my very rapid death, instead I had severed a number of muscles and one of the major nerves of my hand. This nerve, the ulnar nerve, is also called the musician’s nerve as it supplies the signals to the muscles needed to perform the delicate movements required by a musician in order to play an instrument.
When I discovered the extent of my injuries at the hospital, I knew it was very bad news. Once a nerve is severed it can no longer transmit signals from the brain to the muscles and, just like pulling the power cable out of computer, the muscles just don’t work any more. Furthermore, to get things back to normal, the nerve has to regrow from where it was cut and find its way to the particular set of muscle fibres it is supposed to be controlling.
The surgeon told me that a complete recovery was extremely unlikely. He told me that ‘neurologically speaking’ I was ‘old’ and, even if my nervous system did, by some remote chance, get a burst of youthfulness and regrow, the chances of it growing in the right direction and reconnecting with all the muscles were minimal to impossible.
His prognosis: ‘You’ll never be able to move your fingers again.’
This was the worst possible news. After all, there aren’t that many one-handed osteopaths or guitarists! My dreams and career were over, my future destroyed. But this new future was not the one I wanted, so I immediately sought a second opinion.
The second surgeon said, ‘You will never be able to move your fingers again; you will be left with a claw hand.’
Not the answer I wanted either. I wanted to recover my hand function and my future depended on it. Sure, I could get by in life with just one functioning hand, but not in the careers I’d set my sights on. I kept thinking: Surely there must be a way.
To be honest, much to my parents’ and teachers’ annoyance, I’ve always been a bit like this. If someone says you can’t do something, a part of me always wonders and questions whether that’s actually true. So, I followed the doctor’s rehab advice while seeking additional medical and alternative therapy opinions. But I just kept being given the same message: ‘You’re out of luck, your hand will never recover.’
In spite of this, I kept asking different people and eventually found Romy Paine, an inspiring physiotherapist, who agreed with me that there was no reason why I couldn’t make a full recovery.
I also came across another important figure, and one who was to play a large role in the creation of the Lightning Process and this book, albeit years after his death. His name was Django Reinhardt and he was a Gypsy Jazz guitarist. He played the guitar brilliantly until he was caught in a fire that raged, by bizarre coincidence, through his caravan. His left hand was burned so badly that he could barely use two of his fingers, and had to completely relearn to play the guitar. Yet, despite his injuries, Django went on to create a whole new musical style and is considered to be one of the most significant guitarists of the 1930s.
In case you’re wondering, I did recover. After just three months, I began to see signs of improvement and was playing the guitar within six months. But what’s more, I did work as an osteopath and I did become a professional guitarist, record albums and play to huge crowds. But I wondered why I got better, in spite of the hugely negative, but well-informed, medical opinions. What enabled me to be able to use my hand again, when I saw so many other people with the same injury, both when I was in rehab and later as a clinician, who just didn’t? When I looked back at this time, I was struck by a number of things. First, I’m certain that the medical care helped, but I think of even more significance were:
I’m also indebted to that younger me who led me doggedly from disaster, through hopelessness to success. That journey definitely changed my life path and confirmed my view that we really need to understand and harness the power of the mind to influence our body, our life and our future.
It also made me realize that, even when the world really seems to be against us, and everything looks like it’s going wrong, it’s just a phase, just part of the journey, and we will look back at some point and see it for what it really is – some kind of opportunity. The Dalai Lama best summed up this perspective when he said, ‘Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.’
