by Melissa Bean Sterzick
It was one of those days when, instead of rushing over to Trader Joe’s in my sweats, I had time to shower and brush my hair. After record-breaking rain, the sun was shining high above huge, fluffy clouds. I love grocery shopping and chatting with the cashiers at the store, if the lines aren’t long.
My bags were full of all the veggies, meats, bread, and chocolate-covered caramels we like, and I was headed out to my car when a woman approached me breathlessly. “I know this is kind of weird,” she said, “but my husband and I are part of a charity that gives away prosthetic arms. I’d like to give you one.”
This wasn’t the first time someone’s offered me a free arm after noticing my limb difference: I am a congenital below-elbow amputee on the left side. The Shriners offered me an arm when I was not quite two years old, and they generously paid for a series of prosthetic devices until I was about eight. I was more comfortable doing most things without a prosthesis, though. When I was halfway through third grade, when my parents asked if I wanted to get my arm’s broken cable fixed, I said no.
A few years later, my grandparents’ Moose Lodge offered to fund a prosthesis. It didn’t happen, and I was OK with that. My 12-year-old brain was pleased with the attention, but I didn’t really want another prosthesis.
When I was about 19, a man at the mall offered me an arm. He was watching me, and I tried to ignore him. Maybe he thought I was pretty; maybe he was staring at my arm; I didn’t know. When he finally spoke, it was in an apologetic tone: “I work for a company that makes prosthetics. We are doing some really amazing things. I could set you up with a testing program if you need an arm.”
I was having a good time shopping with my friends, and his intrusiveness—and the judgment I inferred—made me angry. I’m sure he meant well, but I didn’t want a prosthesis, and I was not interested in some creeper who stared at me and decided I was deficient and he could correct my shortcomings. He hit the wall of my personal boundaries really hard.
“Do I look like I need a prosthetic?” I hissed. “Does it look like I’m having a hard time?”
He looked pained. I think he might have tried to backtrack.
“I’m doing just fine,” I said. And I walked away in a red rage of humiliation, confusion, a touch of guilt over my rudeness, and unshed tears. There’s nothing like having someone point a bulldozer at your carefully built sense of self.
* * * *
It has been a few decades since that day at the mall, and my sense of self is stronger. Part of my emotional growth over the past 10 years or so has been learning and implementing what psychologist and podcaster Victoria Priya calls “listening boundaries”: People can say what they want, but I don’t have to listen or internalize their words. Even when people ask “How do you dress yourself?” or “How do you drive a car?”, or when they express amazement that I can do my own hair and care for my own children, their words are not my thoughts or my reality. Good manners are my guide in these moments; it’s the only way I’ve learned to release myself from that burden. I will answer politely, and that’s all.
So when the woman in the Trader Joe’s parking lot offered me an arm, I didn’t get angry. I mainly felt awkward. The staffer who was helping me load my groceries into my car froze, and then pretended to ignore the whole situation as the woman who’d approached me went on to explain herself.
“We work with an engineer who manufactures these prosthetic arms,” she said. “We bought 1,500 and took them to Rwanda to give to people who have lost arms in the war there. We have a few extra, and I’d like to give you one. I could even bring it to your house. Or we could meet somewhere.”
I thanked her for the offer and said I might be interested. She gave me her number.
I thought about the exchange and discussed it with my husband. I have recently decided that a prosthesis might offer some benefits to me as I age. So I sent the woman a text to make sure that, if I accepted an arm, no one who needed it more than I did would be missing out. With that established, we set a time for her to come to my house.
Her name is Jenny Winters. She and her husband, Scott, and their daughter Faith are the founders of a nonprofit called Merciful, which focuses on supporting vulnerable communities. They purchased prosthetic arms from the LN4 Hand Project, created by industrial designer Ernie Meadows in 2005 as a memorial to his daughter, who died at 18 in an auto accident. Meadows partnered with Michael Mendonca and mechanical engineer Maurice LeBlanc to create a low-cost, lightweight prosthetic hand. They have been distributed worldwide ever since, for free. In fact, the Smithsonian added the LN4 Hand to its collection of technical innovations in 2009 “to document the history of prosthetics in America and international entrepreneurial activism to assist people with disabilities.”
When Jenny delivered my LN4 arm, we sat on my couch and talked about our lives, our families, our difficulties, our goals. We’re about the same age and each have grown children. I explained why, after 43 years, I wanted a prosthesis again: Overuse injuries are making everyday tasks difficult. She showed me how the arm worked, talked me through the fitting process, and directed me to videos online that demonstrate how to use it.
What I have now is an ingenious device that’s adjustable and waterproof. The “socket” is made of a flexible framework held in place by straps and a belt. It has a movable wrist joint and an adaptive grasp that turns, opens, and closes at intervals, and it releases with a simple tap. I’m in test mode with the LN4, trying it out while washing dishes, driving, riding my bike, and other everyday activities. So far, the only difficulty I’ve had is getting used to the extra appendage.
Every day is filled with unknowns. For an amputee, the unknowns are multiplied by 100. They come flying at you hard and fast. It’s a huge job to learn to stay calm amid the onslaught of ableism, inconvenience, unsolicited advice, unwanted stares, unconscious bias, projections, and obliviousness. All of it collides with your identity, your abilities, and sometimes, your humanity.
Being approached in public by strangers who notice my giant birthmark has never been, and never will be, comfortable for me. Even after half a century of limb difference, I’m still working on it. But I’m happy that I’ve aged into a place where these interactions are more manageable. Not only that, I’m prepared to perceive the intended generosity in what feels like an intrusion. It’s a balance I will be sorting out for the rest of my life.
Melissa Bean Sterzick is a freelance writer and writing tutor. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two daughters.