I’m the oldest of 11 children. After child number nine was born, my father was struck by severe rheumatoid arthritis. It wasn’t long before many of his joints were frozen and his fingers were twisted and immobile. He lived in excruciating pain, from his jaw down to his toes. His inability to work for over a year cost him the home in the country he’d spent four years building on weekends and evenings, all by hand with no power tools. My family struggled financially from that point on, but what we gained was priceless. When doctors told my father he would be bedridden, he proved them wrong. He limped along and put his gnarled hands to work—mostly in painting and construction. He bought and sold cars and did stints as a salesman. My mother mended our clothes, stretched food in some pretty creative ways, and made endless runs to the …