On Rock Climbing After Hand Reconstruction
- melissaistrong
- Feb 16
- 5 min read
Updated: Feb 21
I would not have pursued climbing as a new sport on my amputated fingers, altered thumbs, and thumbs, fingers and palms covered in skin grafts if the passion for climbing had not already been planted in my heart long ago. Searching for a spark in life, I found climbing in 1999. The stoked embers became a fire and a driving force in my life, which I fashioned around climbing from then on. I lived to climb; I trained to climb smarter and stronger; I worked for the next climbing trip; I met my future husband climbing--rest, repeat climbing became my way of life.
On April 2, 2017, I suffered a severe electric injury. I accidentally connected myself to the electric chain for 20 seconds. I stood rigid, unable to move or scream, as my thoughts swirled with hopes of escaping my impending fate. Fortunately, I survived the electric current; however, I suffered severe burns that resulted in the loss of portions of my palms, fingers, and thumbs. Before the accident, I was a sponsored rock climber preparing to open my first restaurant. As Adam rushed me to the hospital that fateful day, my wails of lamentation included my climbing fate, which I seriously doubted, staring at the melted flesh of my hands with burnt bones visible, "I will never climb again," I screeched. This doubt grew daily, especially after the first diagnosis--"You will only have four fingers, two pinkeys, and two index fingers," delivered by a doctor in the Greeley burn unit. I had to push climbing thoughts aside and focus on finding a doctor who would try, mentally coping with my uncertain fate, upcoming surgeries, and opening my restaurant. I attempted to shove climbing into a box, one that I would revisit as surgeries, healing, and time slowly revealed my fate.
Thankfully, I did find a doctor who worked diligently to salvage every piece of flesh and bone he could. Months following the accident and in between reconstructive surgeries, I pushed myself through a savagely painful (both emotionally and physically) journey to get back into climbing on shorter fingers--now referred to as nubs or clubs, and fused thumbs of different lengths. My first "climbs" / "boulder problems" were on our home wall as I slowly eased into the concept. I did my first outdoor boulder problem one week before my first-year anniversary of the accident.
Initially, I relied on muscle memory to carry me through my reentry into climbing as I worked on rewiring my brain to quiet warning signals and recreate harmony with my new hands. Muscle memory triggered movement on the rock while I tried to understand and trust the new shapes and sizes of my fingers and thumbs while overcoming mental devastation and the physical pain of raw nerves and skin grafts. Movement on a climb was once a beautiful flowing dance across a rock face and was now a choppy, hesitant battle. Every day I attempted to rock climb was demanding, facing myself as marred, different, with diminished abilities while simultaneously knowing climbing was a gift I thought I might never experience again after my hands were permanently altered. Each day out climbing, I nervously chattered away about how I could or could not hold a particular hold, whether I could trust my altered grip, whether my skin grafts would hold up. Most often, I felt silly and insecure, combating a negative mental dialogue, assuming people must think I am the most ridiculous, pathetic thing out here trying to climb on these nubs covered in layers of tape and often blood.
I had to learn not only to be comfortable on the rock but within myself. Every climbing day was full circle, filled with fear, frustration, disbelief, grief, and some days bitterness and tears. I used to be one of the strong female climbers but now reduced to battling on warm-ups on a good day. Still, before all of those emotions united to defeat me, I would remember what my hands looked like going to the hospital, the burnt, jagged bones, the four-finger diagnosis, and left the boulders so grateful I still got to try. Even if I had climbed way below my previous abilities, I knew I was the strongest person climbing at the boulders that day. I threw myself into my training, determined to regain strength and agility. I knew I needed to be ten times stronger to climb half of my best grade.
In 2018-19, I stayed true to the climber I was by planning our next climbing trip off to Rocklands in South Africa, a place we had not visited since 2005. I left my muscle memory comfort zone and packed a lot of tape for the notoriously sharp edges of the Rocklands. In South Africa, I felt like a real climber again. Sure, there were defeating days I would hike to a climb to try it, only to realize that I could not hold the grips with my new hands. But there were other days when I would roll up to a new climb and do it. I still doubted every grip, and the warning signals fired, but I could go out with the crew and climb.
After another few years on the rocks in between Bird & Jim's work, I resumed my life rhythm of working and climbing in Rocky Mountain National Park and Hueco Tanks in the winter. My body began to move more naturally on the rock. Warm-ups became warm-ups, not projects. I could approach a new problem and grab a hold without trepidation. Eventually, it became not how my new hands would hold this hold but how my grip would work here, and if not, possibly there would be a different sequence or beta that would work better for my nubs. Each year, I regained strength, still not climbing at the level pre-accident but finding new abilities and opening up problems I thought I would never be able to try. Now I just go climbing. Sure, I miss my old digits and abilities, not getting to keep up with old climbing buddies, hiking to a climb only to realize there is no way my hands could hold the holds, managing climbing on nubs and grafts often covered in tape, but I get to try!
Without my safety net (read more about this in Exit Wounds) and my community, I could never have gotten to where I am today. I am eternally grateful for old and new climbing friends who supported me on this journey. Who dedicated time and days to hike to a problem, spot me, and cheer me on and up. Adam Strong gets the biggest thanks of them all. I am so grateful. 🙏🏼
Photos are from 2018-2024
