Personal reflections on no longer being an acupuncturist

The bit that always sends shudders through me in Call the Midwife is when the umbilical cord is cut, suddenly, without preparation, without allowing time for the placenta to complete its job. And that’s what it felt like, losing my life as an acupuncturist, suddenly, bewilderingly, falling into a strange new world with little in the way of a nurturing blanket to receive me.

I hope, I pray, that most of us in the profession are resilient, will recover and will continue to offer treatment to our patients. Oh, how I have missed my patients!

Let me explain why my own professional life came to such a juddering halt. In previous careers, I always worked mostly from home, and so it always felt natural to me to continue doing so in my acupuncture practice of nearly 40 years. But now my wife and I are both over 70, classified as ‘clinically vulnerable’, and to continue to work as I have done in the past could have put both our lives at risk.

To adapt the house as a less Covid-friendly environment would have cost more arms and legs than I can spare, and the alternative of moving my practice to another clinic felt like more of an upheaval than I could manage. I had anyway intended to retire in two years’ time, to take my time, to wind down, to prepare a comfortable nest. But coronavirus put paid to that, and as the government kept telling us back in July, the advice for those aged 70 and over continued to be that ‘they should take particular care to minimise contact with others outside their household’. A decision had to be taken.

It was not easy, not clear at first. I still hoped against hope that life could resume again. The first time a patient called for an appointment, after nearly three months of a silent phone, I cried when I’d put the phone down. And I have wept many buckets since… which has helped.

And yet, I am lucky. We have a home, we have food, some savings. I may have been an acupuncturist, but – as is true for us all – an acupuncturist is never just what I was. Acupuncture was my livelihood, but not my everything. Family (grandchildren, especially), research, taiji, performance art, walking, writing and devouring books, teaching – all have contributed to my identity and sense of purpose… But the cord was cut, and the sense of loss is still immense.

Crisis, loss and, of course, opportunity (that great cliché). The sudden death of my practice has left me time to walk more and think more, to think about death, all this death that surrounds us now, my death, my wife’s death. I have been shaken out of my complacent lifestyle, my comfort zone. But, as compensation, I now have the feeling, even if I can’t put into words exactly how, that I understand my life a little better than before. And I do have more time for research, despite the hassles of lockdown. That has been a real bonus.

My wife (severest critic, greatest support) helped draft a letter to my patients to let them know that I could no longer see them, but offering some alternatives – younger local acupuncturists working out of clinics. A few days later, I hand-delivered the last of these and discovered that one elderly patient had died shortly before the pandemic hit. Another wavelet of shock. I also, in this long walk around our town, discovered roads I’d never visited before, paths through woods I’d not followed for years, and the company of other old men, out walking their dogs or sitting, watching the world go by, sharing ruminations on the present and the past.

And now I can reread all those messages from patients in response to that letter I sent. Of course, we are all polite when someone retires, but I have been really moved by their words (about ‘compassion’, ‘understanding’, ‘kindness’, in particular). Their appreciation – their own compassion, understanding and kindness – softens my own pain, at least somewhat. In return, I could say to them, truthfully, ‘It’s been a privilege’ (a phrase my old doctor always used, and that I never appreciated as I do now).

And when it all hurts too much, I retreat to my numbers, to the research I find meaningful, to the electroacupuncture project started over 20 years ago – and which I still hope to complete before I die, my mind crumbles beyond redemption or some other chaotic crisis supervenes – searching for underlying patterns in the EEG and heart rate variability in response to different frequencies of stimulation.

To end, I would like to say: • Do carry on – you can give so much, even if the challenges sometimes feel enormous. Being able to offer your patients acupuncture is, indeed, a wonderful privilege. • Support the BAcC, so that they can continue to support you. • Thank you, BAcC. You have always been there for me.

David Mayor

(until very recently a member of the BAcC)

davidmayor@welwynacupuncture.co.uk

Oh, David...

Although there's nothing we can do to take away the pain of having to let go of your practice and patients, we hope an honorary Moxi t-shirt might bring a smile to your lips. It's on its way...