“Watch out for Mommy’s arm!” It’s a phrase that echoes through my family, sometimes spoken in jest, other times a gentle reminder, but it’s a constant in our lives. And honestly, I despise it.
For over ten years, I’ve lived with RSD/CRPS, a debilitating condition that began before my youngest two children were born and even predates my teenager’s earliest memories. My oldest daughter has vague recollections of me as a healthy, active mom—the one who sledded down hills, built snowmen, and played soccer without a second thought. I often wish she could remember me like that, but I know it’s a selfish wish. I try to avoid reminiscing about our pre-RSD life because it’s like navigating a minefield while carrying delicate glassware.
This is the reality now, and there’s no going back.
Mockery of my condition isn’t new. I’ve encountered it many times, from people in grocery store lines who roll their eyes at how long it takes me to check out to those who sigh when I struggle to manage my wallet with one hand. It all started with a “workplace incident” that led to the strain of my dominant arm and escalated into the chronic pain disorder known as RSD or CRPS. Essentially, my brain receives constant signals that my arm is injured, amplifying every sensation into pain. It’s a daily battle where I never ask, “Will I hurt?” but rather, “How bad will it be today?”
Weather changes, stress—whether good or bad—can send my pain soaring, leaving me unable to think straight or function. I often find myself retreating to bed, overwhelmed and longing for relief.
Yet, I continue to fight. I am a mother, a wife, and I have dreams—dreams of writing and seeing my stories in print, even if it means typing one-handed. My stubbornness fuels me; I refuse to let RSD take any more from my life.
I’m not graceful in my struggle. I don’t exude serenity or inspiration; I just get through each day. I often find myself lying to my family to shield them from the full extent of my pain—especially my husband and children. I want them to see me as I am, not as someone defined by RSD.
Recently, at a gathering in a church basement, my youngest daughter was thrilled to join a group of moms. But the dampness of the environment triggered my pain, and when I struggled to help clean up, I apologized to another mom.
“Oh, I know,” she sneered, elongating the word “arm” with a condescending tone. Her dismissal stung, and I fought back tears. It felt like a slap in the face, a public humiliation that left me ashamed.
Despite these moments, I persist. I won’t allow RSD to rob my family any more than it already has. I fight to maintain a semblance of normalcy, counting down the minutes until I can collapse into bed, reminding myself, “Just five more minutes.” My children deserve the best I can offer, and so does my husband.
As my youngest reaches out for my hand, hesitating to find my wedding rings, a symbol of my “good” hand, he wraps his fingers around mine and says, “I love you, Mommy.” RSD may be a part of my life, but it will not define my love for them.
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In summary, while the journey of living with a disability like RSD is fraught with challenges and moments of pain, it is also filled with love, determination, and the unyielding spirit of a mother who refuses to be defined by her condition.
Keyphrase: Mocked by another mom for my disability
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