A Tale of Two Karen's

Die-hard hospital Covidians in New Zealand get their comeuppance...

Recently, I needed to make a short notice trip to New Zealand. The circumstances weren’t exactly holiday vibes, but rather, to look after my elderly mother who had been taken ill after a fall in her home. She’d been found by the police after a welfare call was placed and they had to break in through the back door to get her.

Not how I imagined my next trip to New Zealand would be, but a call I couldn’t ignore. My ticket was booked within hours of the news.

The flight out was long but fairly uneventful. I’d forgotten the strange world of the long-haul flight. The cramped seats, the crappy meals, and the smelly passengers… I, of course, was one of them, having by the time I arrived, not showered for basically two full days. Despite the gripes though, I am a fan of flying. I love being above it all in a state of strange statelessness. What country are you even in when you aren’t in an actual country? I enjoy the meals, meted out in predictable schedules, with each element having its own special place and purpose. Its the rolls and butter mostly that get me going. I’m not much for drinking loads on flights. I find one or two strong drinks will knock me out but leave me feeling worse after waking up, especially when sitting in economy seats.

By the time I disembarked, I was very ready to be off the plane. Mostly to wash off the film of gunk that you end up covered in no matter how much you try to keep yourself clean in the tiny bathrooms.

I’d forgotten what entering New Zealand can be like. I was sniffed by customs dogs several times at the baggage carousel, as was my luggage, after sailing through the immigration desk, to see the signs notifying passengers of the contraband that would not be tolerated in the country. Mostly relating to fresh fruits, vegetables and meats, New Zealand has a hardcore policy on the importation of foreign vegetation of all kinds and has done for many years. Largely this is to prevent unwanted insects from entering the eco system but does feel quite ludicrous when you are used to unfettered travel in Europe. Another official stopped me to ask if I had anything to declare. It took some effort not to make a joke about the kind of declarations one might make. Instead a simple “no” would be enough. Once through this hurdle, yet another customs official x-ray’d my bags once more and I figured that was it and I was ushered towards the liberating sight of the green ‘NOTHING TO DECLARE’ lane. I had gotten my hopes up in vain and another sniffer dog and its human wanted to have a go round my legs before I was finally released back into the wild.

I was met at the airport by one of my sisters (of which there are three) and we headed straight to the hospital where my mother had been admitted. As it happens the same hospital in which I took my first breaths into this life, Waikato Hospital, Hamilton (about 1.5hrs south of Auckland as the crow flys).

My mother was being cared for in the elderly wing (OPR3) with other similarly infirm patients.

Having been warned that there was a mask policy in place I hesitated slightly at the front door, anticipating the familiar, though now dampened by time, call to wear one or the fake logic of doing the ‘right’ thing for the ‘vulnerable’. As I passed the front desk, maskless, thinking of how I would handle a confrontation, the desk staff asked who we were visiting and didn’t blink an eye from beyond their blue surgical masks as I made my way to my mothers room, delightfully overlooking the Hamilton Lake, the scene of many an adolescent snog. The sight had me imagining my mother spotting me in her car and giving me a bollocking once home as though I’d been using it for elicit purposes.

I spent the next 3 days oblivious to any of the alleged rules, forming friendships with many of the staff, masked or otherwise and never once having the words mask or covid mentioned to me. I thanked those who didn’t wear one (much to their seeming delight) and brought in some treats for the hard working folks there. I was so impressed by the humanity and stamina they showed, seeming to work non stop all day without so much as a sigh. It wasn’t until day 3 that I saw the change. I’d left the hospital to run some errands and to make arrangements for my mothers eventual release, sadly into care as she would not be able to look after herself living alone anymore.

On my return, after 6pm when the night shift began, I was met with an ominous looking black-masked, black-gloved receptionist who, without even speaking, I could see was giving me the ‘stink eye’. She demanded immediately that I put on a mask, to which I replied “oh, dont worry, I dont wear them” and swiftly walked on towards my mums room. No further issues that evening, though I felt this wouldn’t be the last I would see of, lets call her, Karen 1.

The following day, again more of the same good vibes between my family and the staff. By now we knew many of them by name as they did us and addressed us as friends. The night shift, however, an altogether different scenario. The darkness descending swiftly any changeover like the black bleakness of Karen 1’s mask and gloves. I wondered if she’d coordinated them specifically or if it was just a happy accident. This time when I arrived Karen 1 had a sidekick. An angry eyed nurse, who had clearly had the heads-up from Karen 1 as to my outrageous flouting of the ‘rules’ and refusal to comply. Karen 2 (the nurse) was first off the starting block this time, virtually jumping out of her chair, quickly fixing her mask (which had been sitting just under her nostrils until I arrived) and making sure I heard her with shouts of “Sir….sir! I need you to put a mask on for me. They must be worn at all times in the hospital.” Karen 2 seeming to revel in delight at the power she thought she would wield to intimidate me into compliance. I simply and calmly informed her that I do not wear them and walked on. Another of my sisters and my niece was with our mother and we sat at her bedside recounting stories of when we were kids and laughed at our family politics. The kind of chats that seem simple but are rarely had outside such extreme circumstances. It was about 15 minutes before Karen 2 came into the room, demanding this time that we all wear masks in the room. She was not prepared for the reception she got, calm but immovable, our stance clear, there would be no muzzling in here. She left as quickly as she had appeared, with her final word being on the need to “raise this up to her duty manager”. I told her I would be more than happy to have a conversation with any of her superiors and just to come get me if anyone is around. Another few minutes passed before she was back in the room again, disrupting crucial family time, to bleat on again about their policy and the life saving masks. Again, the response the same, though by now the blood was up and I’d frankly had enough of being chased down and harassed. I took the liberty of filling in a feedback form, or compliment slip as they called it. This time, unlike the previous couple I had submitted for the day staff, the feedback was much less than complimentary. I folded it neatly into my back pocket and prepared to make my way through the gauntlet once more to the exit. As I walked by the reception desks adjacent to the double door entrance to the ward, I was called over to the desk for a lesson in the rules and protocols I ‘must’ abide by. I made the short detour to the compliment slip box opposite the front desk fixed to the wall and politely asked Karen 2 to give me a moment to post it inside. I think she knew what that meant… I approached the counter with a smile and asked what kind of information she wanted to give me. I was told by Karen 2 that there is a strict mask policy in place especially as they have vulnerable patients in there. The attempt at a guilt-trip was utterly wasted of course and I replied by asking if the day staff were aware of this policy as many didn’t wear them or wore them around their chins to which I was told that they ARE aware and that for patients they will on occasion remove them if they need to. I simply asked if covid stops because they need to take them down or if its a calculated risk to both the staff and all the other patients and presumably the visitors too. Not a line of questioning that sat well with either of the Karens, my retort enlivening Karen 1 to stand from her seat, black-gloved hands clasped tight as if she was wringing out the covid from a sodden tea towel. The term ‘must’ and ‘comply’ was uttered more than once in their barely audible ramblings. I stood, eyes glazed at their idiocy, clearly fearful of a granny killer like me flouting their rules and their sCIeNcE.

A pamphlet detailing the rules and protocols was pushed at me. I declined the offer to take it and said politely I won’t need it, so you can use that one for someone else. This was obviously a trigger point and the hard word needed to be given. “…if you do not comply, I will have to call the hospital manager and have you forcibly removed”. The willing escalation by medical staff to the point of outsourced assault was rattling, I won’t lie. Largely because I had imagined a couple of burley Samoan bouncer type hospital security guards putting me in a fireman’s carry in front of my Mum. I walked out and left them with the knowledge that I would be speaking to the boss the following morning, parting with “what’s your name nurse? I will need it when I speak to your boss tomorrow” she gave me her name and asked for mine in return which I chose not to give simply stating she didn’t need it. The last quip mostly for effect and because I wanted her to have a shit evening. I left the hospital thinking of the conversations and gossip which would later ensue between the staff about what had transpired.

I returned in the morning and was greeted as ever by the smiling joyful faces of the beautiful day shift angels. I made a point to speak with Black-mask Karen 1’s daytime counterpart about what had happened. She seemed shocked and was very apologetic. She asked if I would speak to her boss as she’d been asked to get her if “anything like that happens again”. Again…?

It wasn’t long before the duty manager was called and appeared in the hospital room. A tall lady, warm in the kind of way those with true compassion seem to have of looking you directly in the eye and speaking to you with reason and humanity. She said that they take this kind of thing very seriously. I initially thought she meant my refusal to wear the mask but it became clear she meant the die-hard enthusiasm for muzzling of the night-shift. Turns out Karen 1 had an HR case pending and I got the impression they were just looking for another black mark on her rap-sheet before the pendulum could be set free in her direction. Karen 2 (nurse Karen) had inadvertently become complicit in Karen 1’s cultish fervour for all things PPE and her name was put in the hospital branded notepad of the Duty Manager. Like the etching of ones sins into stone, when the elastic clasp was shut, I knew there would be consequence of some kind.

I returned after more errands and care home visits that evening. Lo and behold Karen 1 was not on shift and Karen 2 (amusingly) hid, not thinking I’d noticed her behind the front desk. I looked right in her direction, attempting to burn off her mask with my eyes. Sadly my Christopher Reeve laser vision wasn’t operational but I did manage to lock on later when I left, giving her a big smile and a “have a lovely evening” on the way out.

I never saw Karen 1 or Karen 2 again during my trip but felt a vindication in the events of the week. Speaking common sense to self-styled power and was left with a sense that somehow my countrymen had been looking out for me. Maybe it was simply that I got lucky and there were more good ones than bad in that place, but it seemed to me that there was divinity in the conversations I was able to have and the ‘rules’, despite being legitimate, were ignored by the good people of my homeland. A strange thing to be talking about masks now, given all thats happened these past years. Its easy to forget the confronting nature of it all; easy to let those memories slip away, becoming less traumatic with the passing of time. We must never forget them. We must tell them to our children when they are old enough. We should recount them to our friends and our families. Thousands, nay, millions of stories just like this happened and are happening every day. Each one a battle fought alone, the battlefield being our everyday lives. We have to fight it at every turn. Fortunately now, we can laugh, we can ridicule, we can humiliate. This kind of inhumanity, this kind of coldness and thoughtlessness needs to be revealed for what it is and shamed from existence. I want to my kids to grow up in a world where my youngest never has to see rooms full of masked, anonymous, expressionless faces.

As my eldest says often at the age of only 7 “masks only hide the real you”. True dat kid, true dat.

K.

PS - A selection of photos below of the hazardous waste protocols in place at the hospital to get rid of these all important masks…