What happens when you discover that self-reliance is an illusory state and that you are, in fact, nothing but a burden?

Self-reliance was one of the qualities most actively extolled when I was growing up. Much effort was devoted by my parents, school, even Girl Guides (especially Girl Guides), to nurture my capacity to depend on myself. Considered the very pinnacle of human achievement, self-reliance was the driver in advancing my career and setting up a home. If I was short of money, I’d do without. If I needed something, I would save for it from my meagre resources. Without a ready net to fall back on, I depended on myself to solve problems. Where I lacked skills to address an issue, I would doggedly acquire them. (Self-reliance expands with many contingent qualities: discipline, confidence, determination).

When someone described me as ‘fiercely independent’ I glowed with pride. And it’s my pride that has taken the most enormous blow with the recent realisation that my self-reliance is an illusory state. Whether I recognised it or not, even as a capable and healthy young woman, I have always been held by a largely invisible (to me, at least) but essential net of support that allows me to survive, even thrive.

When recently, as a much older woman, I was left bedridden by an undiagnosed illness, I gradually became aware of the threads that comprise that network of support. I hated the reality of interdependence and resented the most sensitive and loving care I received.

I realise now that my resentment covered the shame I felt at my unavoidable helplessness. In fact, I think defence against shame represents another – and somewhat darker – function of self-reliance. Self-reliance must surely be the favoured strategy of those who have learned that there is no safety net, no safe and loving attachment.

Nurturing self-compassion for my physical weakness has, in truth, been the only bulwark against a deep-seated societal abhorrence at an illness or disability that renders someone economically inactive, or worse, dependent. I became, according to a callous old expression of my youth, ‘a drag on the rations.’ It is no coincidence that older people so frequently express one of their greatest fears of ageing as ‘becoming a burden’. That very phrase figured large in the recent assisted dying debate with ‘being a burden’ cited as the reason unscrupulous family members might pressure someone to end their lives.

Gratitude 

I am currently toying with the paradox that in my physical weakness there is the possibility of experiencing strength of another kind. I know that when I express gratitude for the phlebotomist’s gentle touch when taking bloods, or the oncology nurse’s compassionate listening to my experience of pain, I am active in a dynamic that deepens human interconnectedness. I know by the way they receive my appreciation that this relationship is despite appearances, reciprocal. It is in these small interactions that care finds its true meaning and value – as foundational to being human.

Here’s a very personal roll call of the people (outside family and friends) who have greatly enhanced my life during treatment and recovery:

Caroline the gardener – as chemo treatment shrank my world (and my capacity to love it) Caroline took great care of the little Eden that is our back garden, giving me the easiest access to the healing power of nature

Faye the cleaner – knowing that chemo would make me more vulnerable to infection, Faye deep-cleaned my home, providing the germ-free haven I needed. She made the environment that held me feel safe and fresh

Amy the oncology nurse – who holds my hand and never dismisses my tears as I struggle with my diagnosis

Geraldine (not her real name) counsellor – who has been unflinchingly alongside me as I adjust to the reality of living with cancer.