Last night across the UK the country opened its
doors and windows. Millions of our
citizens, many of whom have been self-isolating, laid off from work, looking
after loved ones or about to tuck children in to bed, tuned in to this mass
event more eager than the opening ceremony of London 2012 (a celebrity
suggested this week that the BBC should replay this to boost the mental health
of the nation). People stepped away from
the dinner table, paused Netflix and put aside their Facetimes for those
precious few moments which brought the nation together. The Queen didn’t parachute
from a helicopter, The Spice Girls didn’t rock up in London Taxis and it wasn’t
directed by Danny Boyle. It was the
brainchild of a lady called Annemarie Plas, a 36 year old living in London, who
saw a similar initiative taking place in The Netherlands, where she is
from. She had named the event, ‘Clap for
our Carers’ to show appreciation for those doing remarkable things in truly unprecedented
times. It reminded me of a hymn we used to sing in junior school called, Stand
Up Clap Hands (shout thank you Lord, thank you for the world I’m in).
Members of my own family dotted across the country
sent messages in our What’s App group of how wonderful they felt and how proud
they were of those working to protect us on the front line. Twitter exploded with warming scenes from
windows and balconies across our great capital city, where the streets may be
barren, although the hearts of the millions living there are full of love and
thanks. Clapping for our carers spread like a giant Mexican wave across our
great nation.
This morning, as I dropped my son to his
construction site for the final time before it closes, I listened to the health
experts on Five Live, offering the best advice they could to anxious callers, these
bitesize snippets, a window into the world of others. Other humans worried about loved ones. We are
all in this together.
 |
| The new reality for millions |
I chatted with my son on the drive through empty
streets, past solitary joggers and the conservative queues outside food stores, as
people observed the two-metre apart rule.
We spoke about the reality of what is to come. The money we make between us to keep the
house going will come to an abrupt halt very soon and we will have little means
until the government brings in its promised pledge for the employed and now
self-employed. The lady on the radio
advising people, for the sake of their own mental health to just live one day
at a time. This has been my mantra for the past few weeks.
It seems unthinkable now that our lives used to
continue day in and day out; that we used to take it for granted that we could
queue up for a coffee to take on the train for our daily commute, that children
would go to and return from school having been taught in the classroom all day,
that regulars would prop up the local bar and chew the fat over Brexit - was
Brexit even a thing?
There are of course, constants in this. Our
constants who are always there for us. Those who stand by us through
thick and thin. Those who love and care for us. And I don't just
mean family and friends. Our healthcare staff and carers are always there
for us, they stand by us and love and care for us, as though they were family.
They are family.
It has taken this horror story for the general
public to truly begin to understand the decisions our medical professionals
have to make on a daily basis. I've been lucky in my life so far that I
have rarely had to use the NHS facilities other than to have my children.
Although last Summer my son was involved in an unprovoked incident where he
sustained a serious eye injury, that he was lucky didn't blind him. We
spent a number of months in and out of hospital in Eastbourne, Hastings and
London; appointments still scheduled for future of course now postponed but we
are lucky to be over the worst.
 |
| My son's orbital floor fracture |
I will never forget arriving at the hospital in a
state of panic, totally stressed at my son's injury, not knowing which way to
turn, what to do, who to see, the next steps, the new diagnosis jargon and
feeling totally alone and overwhelmed as my son stood patiently by my side
holding an ice pack to his face, in pain and only able to see out of one eye.
I broke down. The steps which happened next will stay with me
forever. The compassionate actions of one woman, a nurse on shift who had
been tapped on the shoulder to deal with us, in the chaos of us arriving from
another hospital to be seen by one of their specialists. She saw my
distress and ushered me and Ben into a side room, telling us to sit down. We did
as we were told and before anything else she told me in a soft voice, "I'm
going to make you some tea" after which I let out an audible sob, at the
relief that someone was looking after us, someone was going to take over this
pain and make things better. Someone was going to take care of the situation
and I could trust that to happen. More
than ever I did.
My eyes fill with tears even as I write this
now. These people who work on the front line to help us through really
upsetting times, day after day after day. Who do everything in their
power to take away our distress and put us at ease, even sometimes when the
odds are against us. The difficult conversations they need to have, the
highs and lows of their profession; bringing a new life into this world and
seeing the final moments as others slip away. This is their daily reality.
Our reality is changing/has changed beyond all
recognition. Yes, we all face financial
uncertainty and have no idea how this will play out and yes, we are being
asked, in all likelihood to stay behind closed doors for a considerable period
of time but we will get through this – together. Just as last night, the country applauded
those workers on the front line, together, in unison. Those same people are coming together as a
nation to fight against what is still very much unknown to us all. And although the battle may just be
beginning, together, we can and will defeat it.
No comments:
Post a Comment