“Can You Repeat That? Actually, Can You Just Take Off That Mask?”

No, sir. 

While working in a neuroscience laboratory is a more forgiving environment regarding COVID-19 precautions, my resolute respirator use remains a source of alienation. There is no shortage of strange looks as I walk down the hall or attend a presentation—people too polite to comment, but not too polite to burn a hole in my head. 

My initial strategy was to remain vocal about my disabling Long COVID, briefly including this major life transition in an introductory PowerPoint presented to my laboratory when I first joined the NIH’s two-year fellowship. I highlighted how an onslaught of chronic illnesses (five to be exact) stemming from my third COVID-19 infection disabled me to the point where applying to graduate school is now a very distant hope, not an achievable reality. Perhaps my colleagues’ understanding of Long COVID’s devastating effects could elicit support for my current respirator use. 

I believed there was strength in my vulnerability. Surely scientists with Nature publications could divert thoughts away from ableism and towards compassion. This hope was cut short when I sat down after this near-tear-inducing presentation to be met with, “Melissa! It was so nice to finally see your face!” and a sea of concurrence (in reference to unmasked pictures included in the PowerPoint). There was only one laboratory member, also with a past history of health issues, who reached out to commend me on my resilience and fortitude. 

This hope was also cut short when, for my birthday, my boss purchased cookies. I, the birthday girl, sat alone while everyone else munched on these tasty treats. Did they not understand why my fragile immune system couldn’t risk exposure to even the common cold? Did they just not care? When I vented about my body no longer tolerating sugar or caffeine, were they even listening? 

I’m doing everything I can to help the able-bodied understand, so why am I left feeling like the party-pooper? 

My current strategy is more reclusive. I keep my thoughts and health struggles to myself. On days I flare, I politely excuse myself, finding solace in the silent stalls of the building’s basement bathrooms. I let the tears escape my eyes. I let the pain scream through my bones. I let my world fall apart for ten minutes. Afterwards, I let my swollen eyes depuff and return to work with an impeccable professional demeanor.

I no longer offer to send scientific literature detailing COVID-19’s impact on immune dysregulation when colleagues complain about month-long bugs. The world we live in has been fractured, and any attempt to bridge the gap only does me a disservice. I am so much more than my COVID-19 precautions, but most of society—and consequently my own colleagues—choose to never look past my respirator and find the bubbly, caring woman underneath.  

I now acknowledge that scientists are just as biased as the average Joe. I have come to terms with the reality of constantly needing to reassure myself in front of cynical chuckles and disapproving gazes. The pandemic has left its ugly mark, and even the world’s brightest are too busy normalizing a wound to address its inability to heal.