Behind the Mask

When the cornoavirus first took hold this spring, my mom purchased masks for us.  I was skeptical of their use, and someplace inside I felt resistant.   I couldn't put my finger on why, but seeing masks on the children felt so odd.   When we learned the rationale for why we should have masks and the need to wear them, we did, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it felt uncomfortable. 
I'm not sure why, but one morning, while eating breakfast at the counter with the family, it hit me in the gut why I hated the look of the masks on the children.
When I was in grade school, I was a very sick little girl.  I was on tons of medication and spent much time, including birthdays and holidays, in the hospital.  Not a great time, and now that I am grown I have only admiration for how my parents navigated that time and cared for my brother and me.  This went on for many years.
As a child,  I often found myself in operating rooms.  My parents were not able to be in those rooms, and everyone wore masks.  It felt panicky, since it was so hard to identify the people in the room, many of whom were just there for surgical support.   I would search the room, looking at the eyes of the people, trying to find my beloved doctor.  He was always there, kind eyes above the mask, and would always find his way to me, hold my hand and say "I'm right here, Lauren".  He always was, and once I found him in the room, my clenched muscles could relax more and I could breathe normally.  He was the one that I trusted.
I got smart over the years, and I'd ask the doctors and nurses that cared for me if they would be in the room for an upcoming procedure.  When I'd get to the operating room, there were more eyes I recognized of those who had been recruited.  I had several wonderful nurses and surgeons who became more kind eyes.  
As a teenager, my body began to heal, and I was able to live a more normal life. And today, if people meet me, they rarely know that my childhood looked a bit different than most. I don't think about those days much, except to correspond still with that beloved doctor who is now a trusted friend. Through this time, he's kept in touch, keeping me abreast of studies and results for people like me and what this virus is doing and how I should remain healthy.
So, that day at the breakfast counter, I realized why I hate the mask. It takes me back to being scared, to feeling alone, and to looking for kind eyes.  I told the kids this story, and later shared more with Bob.  It had been years since I had even gone back there,
But I wear the mask.
Because everywhere I go, I see kind eyes.  With your mask, I see that you are being kind.  You are wearing that to protect people like me, and I'm wearing it to protect you and your family.  I see your eyes curl just a bit, so I know you are smiling at me.  I see you wave.  And I can't wait to see your smile again, when we get past this.
I may hate the mask, but I love people more and this is not about me.  
I love having my house full, and holidays with people pouring out the door.  So I wear that mask, and instead of burying how it makes me feel, I talk to Bob about it.  Yes, wearing it has brought stuff back I really worked to forget. 
But this is not about me. This is so much bigger than me.  It's about you.  And my dislike for something is not what is important now.  I can work through that.
This about making our world safe again.  For everyone.  So we can smile again.
Xo

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