“Watch out for Mommy’s injured arm!” It’s a phrase I often hear, whether it’s a gentle reminder or an exasperated shout. Regardless of the tone, it’s something I dread.
For over a decade, RSD/CRPS has been my constant companion. It began before my youngest two children were born and even predates the memories of my teenager. My eldest daughter has faint recollections of me as a healthy mom—memories that are better left hazy, I think. After all, dim memories of the past carry less pain than vivid ones.
I sometimes wish she could remember me as the active mom who went sledding, engaged in snowball fights, and played soccer with her. I want her to recall the woman who ran freely, without hesitation. But I understand that this longing is more about my pride than her well-being. Thus, I cautiously navigate conversations about our life before RSD, like carefully walking through a field of glass.
That time is gone, and there’s no way to turn back.
Unfortunately, mocking has become a familiar experience in my life. People behind me in grocery lines often grumble about how slowly I place items on the conveyor belt. Others sigh impatiently as I struggle to retrieve cash from my wallet using just one hand.
My journey into chronic pain began with a “workplace incident,” resulting in a strain of my dominant arm. This minor injury spiraled into RSD, a condition where my nerves misinterpret all stimuli as pain. My days are filled with an unending cycle of discomfort, where the only question is how intense the pain will be. I live in a constant state of readiness, bracing for the moments when pain escalates, rendering me unable to function.
But despite the challenges, I persevere. I am a wife, a mother, and I harbor dreams of publishing my novels, even if it means typing with one hand. My stubbornness fuels my determination to reclaim my life from the grasp of RSD.
I grapple with my disability daily, often hiding my pain from my loved ones. I want to maintain my identity in their eyes, hoping they see me as “me” and not as “me-with-RSD.”
At a recent gathering, another mother rolled her eyes at my struggle. “Oh, I know,” she drawled, “your arrrrrrm.” Her tone dripped with disdain, and in that moment, I felt the sting of shame wash over me. The humiliation cut deeper than any physical pain.
This isn’t the first time I’ve faced ridicule about my condition. Impatient shoppers and dismissive strangers have often added to my burden. Yet, I refuse to let RSD deprive my family of joy or my children of their mother. I grit my teeth, pushing through even when it feels nearly impossible.
My youngest child reaches out for my hand, looking for reassurance and comfort. He knows that my wedding rings signify my “good hand,” and he clings to it, declaring, “I love you, Mommy.” In those moments, I push back against the pain. RSD cannot take away the love and connection I share with my family.
For more insights into navigating motherhood and chronic pain, check out this blog post on Home Insemination Kit. You can also find valuable information on pregnancy and home insemination at Cleveland Clinic and learn from Cryobaby’s expert resources.
In summary, living with a disability while nurturing a family is an uphill battle filled with moments of embarrassment and resilience. Each day, I strive to be present for my family despite the pain, determined not to let it overshadow our lives.