The Surgeon's Typewriter
In a moment of clarity, I decided that I would buy a typewriter. It is almost 45 years old, orange, and in some places, a small film of stubborn rust grows like reeds in concrete. On using this typewriter, I understood the appeal. It is purely mechanical, and in its mechanics it allows me a degree of direct creation on paper, without the interference of the digital world. There is much to be said about the over-arching oppressive intrusion of the digital world in our daily lives, but those have already been discussed ad-nauseam.
When I type on my typewriter, I feel the clanging of the metal keys moving in a swift motion towards the paper. The letters strike the paper leaving an imprint cast in ink. Letter by letter, the writing feels visceral, almost as personal as the sutures I place. This typewriter, an aging piece of machinery condemned to be sold as junk, becomes an avenue for my solitary truth.
In the late evenings, after the day's work is done, I sit at my desk with my typewriter, and I allow myself to write. Written with physical labour, the body of work that forms on the paper ensures that I never mistake my words for being cheap. Forged with conscious effort, they become reminders of how important our words are. I have always believed that words are sacred icons of our innermost thoughts. The act of writing is much like sculpting. When we write, we give form to the thought and emotion that we feel. Indeed, sometimes I suggest to my patients that they should write about how they perceive their diagnosis will change their lives. Invariably, it has helped my more anxious patients. For those of us who have seen lives altered by diagnosis, writing down their thoughts is often an essential part of coming to terms with what their condition means to them.
For me, the act of writing obstinately on a typewriter is a form of rebellion in an oppressive, all-consuming world. In buying this typewriter, I found that I had dedicated myself to the physical labor of my writing. After all, with a typewriter, I own the words I write and I store them in filing cabinets. If nothing else, I can burn the files and papers, condemning these works into ash and smoke, returning them to the wider universe from where they came.
