“Watch out for Mommy’s hurt arm!” This phrase has become a familiar refrain in my household, often accompanied by gentle reminders or sharp gasps. It’s a routine I’ve grown to resent.
For over a decade, RSD/CRPS (Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy/Complex Regional Pain Syndrome) has been my constant companion. It’s overshadowed the memories of my healthy days, embedding itself deeply in my life long before my youngest two sons were born, and even before my eldest son can fully recall. My oldest daughter, however, holds onto faint memories of a mother who was vibrant and active. I sometimes wish she could remember that version of me, the mom who built snowmen and played soccer without a second thought. But I know it’s a selfish desire, rooted more in my pride than in her well-being, so I tread carefully around the past like I’m navigating a minefield.
Unfortunately, mocking my disability is not a new experience. At stores, I often hear whispers about how long it takes for me to unload groceries or the sighs that follow my struggle to manage my wallet one-handed. My journey into chronic pain began innocently enough—a workplace incident that led to a severe strain in my dominant arm, eventually morphing into an unending cycle of pain. My nerves send constant signals of distress to my brain, turning even the slightest touch into a source of agony. Each day, I brace myself for the question, “How bad will it be today?” Will it be manageable, or will I find myself retreating to bed, overwhelmed?
There’s no fairy-tale ending in sight. But I persist. As a woman, a wife, and a mother, I cling to dreams of writing and seeing my novels on the shelves, even if it means typing one-handed for hours. My stubbornness fuels my refusal to let RSD steal any more of my life from me.
Living with this condition, I lack grace. There’s no serenity or acceptance here, only a daily grind. I often find myself fabricating stories to protect my family from the reality of my pain. I want my children to see me as their mother, not as someone defined by RSD.
One particularly painful moment occurred when I was helping at a local group my youngest daughter was excited to join. The cold, damp basement exacerbated my pain, and as I struggled with cleanup, an unsympathetic mom sneered, “Oh, I know,” emphasizing my disability with a mocking tone. Her condescension struck me like a slap, leaving me humiliated in front of my child.
Despite the sneers and the struggles, I refuse to let RSD rob my family of more joy. I fight to appear normal, telling myself, “Just five more minutes. You can do this.” My children deserve the best version of me, as does my husband.
As my youngest reaches for my hand, hesitating to find my wedding rings, I feel a surge of love. His embrace is a reminder of what truly matters—connection and support. “I love you, Mommy,” he says, and for a moment, RSD fades into the background.
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In summary, living with a disability can bring moments of mockery and pain, but the love of family and the determination to persevere can shine through the toughest days.
Keyphrase: Mocked for My Disability
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