“Watch out for Mommy’s bad arm!”
This phrase is often uttered in our home, sometimes gently, sometimes as a sharp reminder, and it stings every time.
For over a decade, RSD/CRPS has shadowed my life. It began before the birth of my youngest two children, even before my teenager can recall. My eldest daughter has faint memories of me when I was healthy, and though I wish she could remember the active mom who played in the snow and kicked a soccer ball, I realize those memories are painful. Instead, I tiptoe around our past, avoiding conversations that could retrigger heartache, aware that what was once is no longer possible.
Mockery of my disability isn’t new. I’ve overheard people at the grocery store grumbling about how long it takes for me to unload my cart. Others sigh impatiently as I struggle to manage my wallet with one hand.
What started as a simple workplace accident—an injury to my dominant arm—spiraled into RSD (Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy), a condition that causes constant, excruciating pain. My nerves misinterpret normal sensations as agony, and pain becomes a constant companion. Each day presents a new challenge: will I be able to cope, or will I retreat to bed, overwhelmed? Weather changes, stress (both good and bad), and even the most innocuous moments can send my pain levels soaring.
But I persist. I’m a mother, a wife, a woman with aspirations of becoming a published author, even if it means writing one-handed. I refuse to let RSD take more from me than it already has.
I’m not an epitome of grace while navigating my disability. I am raw and real, confronting each day with grit. Often, I mask my suffering, especially from my husband and kids. I want them to see me as their mom—not defined by my condition.
At a recent gathering, I found myself struggling with the physical demands of clean-up. When I apologized to another mom, her condescending tone cut deep. “Oh, I know,” she said, dragging out the word “arm,” laden with scorn. I felt a rush of shame and humiliation, as if she had slapped me in front of my child.
People can be quick to judge. In the store, whispers follow me like shadows, and sighs accompany my fumbles. Yet I will not allow RSD to dictate my family’s happiness. I push through, counting down the minutes until I can collapse in private.
My youngest child reaches for my hand, searching for my wedding rings to determine if it’s safe to hold me. He knows those rings signal it’s my good hand. Tightening his grip, he declares, “I love you, Mommy.” In that moment, I feel invincible.
RSD can’t take that away from me.
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In summary, my journey with RSD has been fraught with challenges and mockery. Despite the pain and judgment, I strive to be the best mother and wife I can be, fighting against the odds to maintain my identity and my family’s joy.