by Melissa Bean Sterzick
It wasn’t a sports mishap that first made me aware of overuse injuries. It was a fender bender. I was driving home, sweaty and tingling, from a morning of tennis when a 20something man in a burgundy 1966 Ford Mustang rear-ended me at a stop sign. His exact words were: “Sometimes my brakes don’t work.”
When the adrenaline wore off, I knew I had whiplash. My doctor set me up with a brace and muscle relaxants, and he advised rest and ice. After a couple of weeks of taking it easy, my neck started feeling much better. Even more interesting, the constant pain I was used to feeling in my right shoulder was also gone, and my elbow didn’t ache anymore. I could sleep on my right side. I was less grouchy with my family.
Up until that accident at age 46, I had never admitted to myself that playing so much tennis might be damaging the only arm I have. But a subsequent series of muscle pulls and joint sprains forced me to recognize how devastating repetitive-stress injuries can be for a person with limb difference. During my lifetime as a congenital amputee, I had unknowingly weakened my body through a lifestyle focused on physical overachievement. The accident marked the beginning of a major shift in how I manage my activity—and in how I identify with my disability.
Talking openly about my limb difference is new for me. I have a congenital amputation of my left arm three inches below the elbow. I don’t talk about it because, physically, my limb difference has always been a non-issue. I played soccer when I was a kid my and ran track and cross country in high school. As a college student, I took every PE class I could get into—ballet, racquetball, diving, more soccer, and tennis (that’s where I fell in love with the game). When I wasn’t begging someone, anyone, to play tennis with me, I was doing step aerobics, clacking away on my rollerblades, and competing in intramural ultimate Frisbee and inner-tube water polo.
After college, I stayed on the path of happy exertion. In addition to parenting and working, I regularly went the gym for weights, stairs, and yoga, and I kept up a busy tennis schedule. I never thought about the long-range implications of this lifestyle, but everything I did—from exercise, to caring for my children, to my work as writer—gradually added to the wear and tear on my regular arm.
About six weeks after the man in the Mustang used my car as an emergency brake, I went back to the tennis court. I relished the bright sunshine beating on the asphalt and the popping sound of serves and strokes. Feeling the excitement I had missed so much, I tossed the ball with my nub, reached high with my racket, and angled the ball into the opposite service box. I registered my opponent’s short return, pushed off hard toward the net, and sensed another sort of popping—my left calf muscle.
I limped away and spent a month resting my body. I was hesitant to return to tennis too soon, so when I felt my calf had improved enough to resume activity, I went to a yoga class instead. That seemed pretty safe. But, once again overestimating my recovery, I pulled a hamstring during a challenging pose.
We can call this story the “Tale of a Woman Who Doesn’t Know When to Quit” or “What the 40s Look Like for a Lot of Us.” I also relate to “When Athletes Find Out They’re Human” and “No Amount of Ibuprofen is Going to Help if You Keep Acting Like You’re Still 25.” But the one that really sticks is: “Aging and Injuries are Different for Limb Different People.”
They’re different because our bodies are different, and our adaptations involve different forms of physical stress. For example, I have slight scoliosis and overdeveloped muscles on the left side of my spine from tilting to the left and leveraging my left ribs for heavy lifting and balance, all to compensate for my missing limb. The chronic back pain I’d kept in check with yoga began to be debilitating as I inched toward 50—another overuse injury I could no longer manage. Toss in some standard middle-age complaints in my unaffected arm (carpal tunnel syndrome, arthritis in my index finger), and I found that everyday work like doing dishes and laundry were painful. I started rationing my movements, asking myself if I wanted to vacuum or fold clothes, run errands or cook dinner, because I couldn’t do both in one day. I felt trapped in my body and grieved the loss of activities I had always taken for granted.
In 2020, I had surgery to fix a torn meniscus in my right knee. Then, last year, just before my 50th birthday, I strained my right rotator cuff doing a plank. It was an easy plank, knees and elbows, but my shoulder took offense. The orthopedic surgeon sent me home in a sling to support my shoulder and prevent me from using my arm. An MRI revealed “fraying,” but no tear, and I was thankful to take surgery off the list of possible outcomes.
I got a glimpse of how life might look if I didn’t take better care of my arm. I could not cook, do any housekeeping, or drive. I needed help dressing, putting on my seatbelt, and doing my hair. I managed the bathroom on my own—with quite a bit of pain and a degree of panic thinking of what it would mean for me if I couldn’t carry out this task by myself (my GP suggested a wide, flowing dress, no underwear, and a bidet). I also lost five pounds relying on my husband’s catering (he makes great toast).
The shoulder specialist told me, in no uncertain terms, that I could not continue to push my shoulder the way I always have. “This joint is the key to your arm’s mobility,” he said. He was kind but firm in recommending that I not do physical therapy, saying it would only aggravate my rotator cuff and intensify overuse symptoms. He was unapologetic about what I call my unaffected limb’s “expiration date.” He said my entire right arm, including fingers, hand, wrist, elbow, and shoulder, is close to 70 years old in functional terms, because of all the extra duty it has pulled. Its capacity will continue to diminish at a high rate without major changes. He told me not to use my shoulder for two weeks and then slowly go back to most of my regular activities. No planks.
During this period, I spent my time watching all 20 seasons of Downton Abbey and pondering the seriousness of my situation. I felt intense insecurity over being dependent, and was devastated to be giving up things I enjoyed doing. There were moments when the fear caused me to shake, but I was beyond tears. I was terrified; however, I knew that giving in to self-pity was not an option.
Instead, I followed my doctor’s advice to reexamine what “regular activity” means for me. I made a list of daily tasks that are hard for me and/or cause me pain, and I found tools and solutions to make those tasks easier. If no solution exists, someone else needs to do those things. He urged me to prioritize the things I enjoy doing that I can still do without hurting myself. Tennis is a bad idea, but ping-pong might be OK. Scrubbing the shower walls is asking for trouble; light gardening is probably fine. The angle of the weight load, the duration of activity, and the pressure on the joint are all factors I need to consider when I work or play.
I had no idea how to adjust, so I connected with an online community of limb-different adults—the first time I’ve ever sought support for my disability. Besides a sense of emotional solidarity, the group shares a spreadsheet of practical tools and devices that can make life with limb differences easier. I bought a set of cleaning brushes that attach to a drill, and I’m looking for the right steering wheel knob. I use a raised cutting board for chopping vegetables.
It feels like overkill, but I’m planning to change all the doorknobs in the house to European-style handles. We have an electronic lock on the front door so I don’t need to fumble with keys. My next car will definitely have a power hatch. I’m familiarizing myself with all of the accessibility tools on my iPhone and getting to know the power of Siri.
It’s early days, but I’ve even begun the process of getting a prosthetic limb—something I haven’t used since grade school—to take some pressure off my right arm. And I’m patiently working to lower my family’s expectations of me. They are as unused to me having limitations as I am.
A lifetime of accepting my limb difference prepared me to see this situation for what it is—something completely out of my control. Fighting it does not help. Knowing I can’t change the early aging of my right arm has helped me pass through the denial stage of grief. I’m still finding my way back to regular activity—adjusting my yoga poses, looking for kitchen tools that make life easier, and changing the way I use my body for work and play.
I don’t expect myself to be a super hero anymore, and that feels good. It has not been an easy transition, but adapting is always the best way forward.
Melissa Bean Sterzick is a freelance writer and writing tutor. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two daughters.