Identity

My first hospital job was in an OR recovery room. I was more of a switchboard operator than anything else...communicating with the OR and hospital floors- finding beds for patients, coordinating with ambulatory care for discharges, and keeping staff abreast of OR scheduling status. The calls would come in from the OR in the morning: "there's a hip coming in at 800am, after that we've got a lap chole". I envisioned a disembodied knee crawling down the hallway, followed by a hopping gallbladder. How would patients feel, knowing their hospital existence was reduced to their conditions? Or...maybe it's self-inflicted....

There have been plenty of JAMA and NEJM articles regarding the depersonalization of patients, the reduction of humans into disease conditions, but I have yet to read an article detailing how self-labeling impacts health. It always amuses me when a man introduces himself to me, and right away discloses that he has "ADHD". I usually retort, "Does that mean you can't take me to dinner?"

I hold the firm belief that everyone has or will have some medical issue, be it mental, physical, social, or otherwise. Does a disease define the person? Does the person define the course of disease? Does identifying oneself as a sufferer of a disease hinder the recovery, because that becomes their sole identity? Would a cure or remission deprive one of their identity? Would you be the same person if you were in complete health and free of disease?

I am not the panic disorder. I do not hug the brain injured in the morning, go to school with the depressed,  meet for lunch with the diabetic, and work out with the bowel disease. I do not call the stenotic valve and the prostate cancer on holidays, and send a gift to the preemie. The disease shouldn't define us...it should simply be an aspect, a facet to the many sides of a complex personality and a lifetime of memories. It should add richness to life, a chance to learn, teach, and be a catalyst for others' learning. I was told that Navajo weavers are sure to include a tiny defect in their rugs, acknowledging the imperfections and mistakes in life, and recognizing the beauty despite it, and within it. The mistake is not the totality of the rug, nor is it diminished into obscurity. It is celebrated for what it is.