In my family, as in most of America, the women do the carrying. All the things that weigh heavy in a life are bound up in our arms. My Grandma Norma was a librarian in Cincinnati who carried my mom through her tender years in a one-bedroom apartment following a marriage annulment in the 1950s. A single working mother in an age where opportunities were legally limited, she also carried books—wobble-wheeled carts piled high and endless heavy stacks in her arms, back when words needed paper to survive. I picture her in neat blouses and long swaying skirts, her dark hair echoing the waves, as she walked the aisles of wooden-shelved rooms that housed "Invisible Man," "The Feminine Mystique," and the Pentagon Papers from the New York Times. At some point, probably in her middle years, her body declared war on itself: rheumatoid arthritis. The joints of her limbs grew warm, swollen, and reluctant. Angry synovial membranes in her fingers and elbows bound tendons to scar tis...