(the great unmasking)
On the 16th May this year, the mandatory wearing of face masks was finally relaxed in the hospital setting as Scotland was deemed to have entered a calmer phase of the covid 19 pandemic. The staff were mainly thrilled at this decision, having had to endure wearing them for months on end in a hot airless environment whilst working 12 hour shifts.
Finally the faceless caregivers are revealed! And what a difference it makes. Connection feels more real.
Another improvement in hospital care is that medical and other staff now introduce themselves to patients by their first names. It gives a friendly personal flavour to care.
On the other hand, as a patient, there is also a deep sense of involuntary unmasking which can feel quite depersonalising. As well as the vulnerability experienced in being unwell enough to require hospitalisation, clothes are removed, hospital gowns donned, identity bracelets stuck on and numbers recited each time contact is made with medics and other staff- just to ensure you are who you say you are! On discussion amongst staff, one is often referred to by room number, or disease label rather than by name.
All this got me pondering identity. A hot topic nowadays. I will only attempt to speak to my own experience.
Over recent years and more especially in these past months, I have watched my sense of identity eroding. It has caused me to question who I really am and what is left of me. I am no longer known by my job title, nor my extracurricular activities nor achievements (no big deal in itself). I’m still a mother and grandmother by name but my fulfilment of and in these roles feels vastly lacking. My appearance has changed, though thankfully my smile remains. My self confidence has melted away, largely due to the confidence in my physical body being so dented by multiple unpredictable cardiac events and daily body pain. My sense of personal agency is diminished. I am no longer able to do what I want when I want to- even the simplest of things. I am dependent on others. This is huge – independence is something I think many people take for granted. Illness also means I am not able to commit to things- something I had always lived by- being reliable. So I guess my identity has been wrapped up in my strengths and the things I can offer to this world, more than in my vulnerability and my essence as a person. Perhaps we’re all like that, but we don’t realise it fully until we are forced to. It can be an uncomfortable process.
This is not meant to be a sob story. I am also fully aware that I AM still so many things- particularly in the grander scheme of life! I too am grateful to have survived all that I have, and to be surrounded by love and care. But much of the time it feels just that. Survival. I see no signs (yet) of improvement in health despite my own and medics best efforts.
All this to say, as I see the unveiled faces of caregivers amidst my vulnerability in hospital, there is a sense of intimacy shared. I have always appreciated the breakdown of this word intimacy as ‘into me see’. I see into them as I hear their varied stories of life, how they came to work in their caring roles, many from different cultures and countries of origin. I listen to what makes them tick and what they value in life. It’s amazing how open people are when given the opportunity. And I love that.
And simultaneously they see into me. Not as the person I once was, suited up, confident in my well-being, feeling invincible and able to give so much energy into all that I did.
What do they see?
They see an older woman, fearful at times as symptoms overtake me. Stripped of bravado and human strength. Yet still engaging and encouraging and filled with gratitude for the support I’m given. A person able to receive, and open to connect in my unchosen but evident rawness.
Often we unconsciously armour ourselves up with outer coatings of independence and self sufficiency, which make us more distant from each other. We label, classify, categorise, separate and even judge. We see the coverings but miss the gold within. But in truth, we are all the same when we are cracked open. Meant to connect and to be connected. To give and receive as freely and naturally as breathing. Sometimes our armour has to be stripped off in order for this to happen. But there is a painful beauty in that.
Oh and Cecilia, one of the many kind Angels on the cardiology ward, you didn’t break my heart. You helped to heal it by your open, gentle, kind connection and care.
Everythingistickityboo 
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