Camp Nurse (12 page)

She had grown up in a small Ontario farming town and was used to the beauty of nature, so it didn’t dazzle her as it did me. She was impatient when I’d stop to ooh and aah over various sights. One morning, a deer stepped out of the forest on the side of the road and paused in front of us. I paused, too, but Caitlin bypassed it without a break in her stride. “Keep up the pace,” she called back over her shoulder.

Feeling so alive and healthy on those walks, I experienced walking for the sake of being outdoors, breathing the fresh morning air, and moving vigorously. In the woods, I allowed myself to take in the sights around me, especially the exotic (to
me) patches of brilliant yellow, purple, and white flowers. (Caitlin pointed out that they were weeds – buttercup, loosestrife, and Queen Anne’s Lace – but I still thought they were pretty.)

Caitlin was interested in hearing about my work in the
ICU
but was taken aback when I told her how long I’d been at the same job.

“Twenty years?” She looked at me with pity. “Isn’t it time to move on? Haven’t you had enough of the bedside?”

No, I explained, I loved taking care of patients, found my work challenging and fascinating, and felt that I still had a lot more to learn. She said she might be interested in critical care one day, once she got more experience under her belt, but it sounded stressful and depressing. “And what’s with the twelve-hour night shifts and working weekends?” she asked, shaking her head. “I don’t think so, I want to have a life.”

But she must have been intrigued by my stories of the
ICU
because she kept asking me for more. For the first time, I found it strange to talk about that work I loved so much with all of the pain, suffering, and sadness it entailed, out there in that beautiful, natural setting and with the new lightheartedness I was feeling. Should I tell her about the patient I’d cared for on my last shift, a young man who had cystic fibrosis and was awaiting a lung transplant? He struggled with every breath and his family stayed at his side all day and night, waiting for news that would save his life. I had to leave at the end of my shift without ever finding out whether he’d received a new pair of lungs or not. Caitlin shuddered and seemed upset when I told her about such sad things and so I veered onto lighter topics. My two nursing worlds never felt so far apart.

That first week went smoothly. As far as I could tell – from a distance – my kids were content. I was enjoying myself too, finding lots of time to get out and participate in activities around camp. I’d spoken on the phone with Ivan a few times and
although he didn’t say it, I had the distinct feeling he was missing me, which wasn’t such a bad thing.

Toward the end of the first week, after lunch, Coach Carson announced it was letter-writing day. “Tell your parents about the fun you’re having, your new friends, and how delicious the grilled cheese sandwiches are,” he prompted them.

At first they balked, then he told them that a letter home was their meal ticket for dinner. They found letter writing and the idea of snail mail amusing.

“Wow! Stamps!” many exclaimed. “Cool.”

“Letters take, like, forever,” one kid grumbled, “three or four days or something. My news will be old by the time they get it.”

“It’s weird not to be able to text my parents,” one kid told me, “but I don’t miss messaging my friends ’cause I’m here with them 24/7.”

Understandably, they were used to instant contact whenever the whim hit. Did they even know how to write by hand? Would they pepper their letters with electronic language like
LOL
for “laugh out loud,” or “Camp is kewl! Camp is
GR
8!”
^*

Coach Carson told me that the lack of Internet access was problematic for parents who wanted contact with their kids. He was looking into setting it up at camp for the following summer, but in the meantime, all they had was old-fashioned pen and paper. I was curious to see how the kids would manage.

That night, at dinnertime, Coach Carson looked worried.

“Whaddup?” I asked, trying out the new lingo I was learning.

“The kids’ letters have gone home.”

“And your point is?”

“Brace yourself.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see,” he said grimly.

A few days later, I understood the reason for Coach Carson’s ominous tone. The campers’ letters had finally made their way home. Overnight the camp telephone answering machine and e-mail box filled up with calls and urgent messages from parents.

A boy ran up to me. “Hey, Nurse! Did ya hear? All the toilets have been stolen!”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, the police are investigating but they have nothing to
go on
. Get it?”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, Nurse,” he said, now looking serious. “Did you know your wenis is showing?”

“My what?”

“Your
wenis
!”

How hilarious
. This joke – which I didn’t get – was on me.

“You got punk’d, girlfriend!” squealed Caitlin when I told her. Kitch had heard that one before. “Wenis is the medical term for the flabby skin on the elbow,” he said. In the mc waiting room I stood in front of the mirror, fingering my wenis. Flabby, was it? I felt young at heart but they didn’t see my heart, only my age. Mature, maternal Nurse Mom next to young, youthful Nurse Caitlin was not a pretty picture. What I needed was not street, but camp, cred. So, I told Caitlin it was time to kick up our morning hike a few notches. I was ready to shift into high gear! I joined an afternoon hip hop class and in no time, was poppin’, lockin’, and slidin’ along with the rest of them. “Work it, girl!”
The dance instructor offered encouragement as I did my best to ignore the few “what’s she doing here?” looks.
I’ll show them who’s cool!

By the end of the first week of camp I knew most of the campers by name and the meds they were on. A few kids stumped me, such as the identical twin brothers, Michael and Martin, each on different meds. They got annoyed when I kept asking who was who until one day I noticed that one of them, Michael, had a mole. Some kids stood grinning at me, making me guess their names. Others gave me fake names or only their first names. I guess I could have always just shouted out Michael ChristopherMatthewJoshuaNicholasAndrewDanielBradley or AshleyJessicaSarahBrittanyEmilySamanthaAmandaStephanie Nicole and
someone
would have come forward for something! The other problem was they often dragged their heels, coming late for their meds, or not showing up at all. Then I had to go after them.

“Here comes da nurse, here comes da nurse!” a
CIT
called out when he saw me approach with my pill basket. “Run, kids! Hide from the nurse!”

I managed to nab one camper, then I trapped another fugitive at the tennis court.

“They’re just vitamins,” she told me scornfully. “I don’t really need them.”

“Yes, but your parents want you to have them.”

I hunted down one boy in his cabin who had a pretty good comeback. “Sorry!” He slapped his forehead. “I was stuck in traffic all morning.”

“Here comes my connection,” I heard one kid tell his friend. “She’s my drug dealer. The pill pusher.”

“You’re not making it easy for me,” I scolded another kid.

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” he quipped. “Ka-ching! Ka-ching!”

Because of these delays, the after-breakfast clinic got pushed back later and later. Kitch was understanding because he knew how many meds we had to give out. He’d calculated that roughly a third of the entire camp was on meds of one kind or another. “That’s fairly typical, these days,” he told me on an especially busy morning.

“It’s always such a mad rush,” I complained. “Are all these pills necessary?”

“Many of the kids with add wouldn’t be able to come to camp at all without them.” He disagreed with parents who put their kids on a “drug holiday” because in his experience, kids were happier staying on their meds. “Camp is a busy, structured place and they cope better if they can follow directions, wait their turn, and organize their belongings, things they can’t do if they’re not on their meds. Their behaviour is better and they get along with their cabin mates and therefore enjoy themselves more.”

It was time to get to work. While Kitch sat in his office perusing medical journals, Caitlin and I went out to the crowded waiting room to assess the kids’ problems and decide in what order they would be seen. At camp, triage wasn’t strictly a matter of the severity of their medical problems. There were other factors to consider. The loudness of the whining, persuasiveness of pleading, and forcefulness of pestering didn’t get anywhere with
me
– nor their “pedigree” of influential or wealthy parents – but it did influence Kitch and Caitlin, who tended to treat the high-maintenance or high-profile ones first. In my own triage system, when all medical issues were equal, campers came before counsellors and politeness was the only effective grease. I complimented one boy on his exceptionally good manners.

“Don’t think I behave this well at home,” he cautioned me.

For some children, it was a badge of honour how many times they frequented the mc, and for others it was more of an achievement to avoid coming altogether. I often wondered what
prompted one child to rush for attention and treatment for a single mosquito bite and another to tough it out, even when covered in bug bites. Usually, I had little time to ponder such questions. Sometimes, when the waiting room was full, I asked them to write down the reason they came. It kept them momentarily occupied, but their notes weren’t usually all that helpful:

Kitch saw each child who visited the Medical Centre, even the ones with splinters and mosquito bites that I could treat myself. At first, I assumed it was his thoroughness, or to catch something I may have missed, but Wendy explained the real reason.

“Our parents feel better knowing that a doctor has seen their child. It’s what they expect. Besides, the doctor can bill for his services. He doesn’t get paid if the nurse treats the child.” Wendy went on to explain another situation where health care and commerce converged. “As for the American campers, it’s problematic since he can’t bill for his services but is still exposed legally. He takes care of them out of the goodness of his heart.”

It was a pleasure working with Kitch and I had a lot to learn from him. Also, it was a relief to have him be the “enforcer.” When a twelve-year-old boy needed stitches for a cut on his head, Kitch forbade him to swim until they were removed. The boy sulked, argued, and went swimming anyway. When the cut got mildly infected, Kitch stepped up to be the bad guy who scolded him. But Kitch also had the advantage of knowing the kids better than I did from having been at the camp for so many years. He could see through fabricated excuses to get out of going on a tough canoe trip. He uncovered a case of self-sabotage, when a child damaged his own braces to nab a few days home to visit the orthodontist! He was exceptionally good at identifying faked (whether consciously or not) ailments. One morning, a group of girls, all from the same cabin, showed up together with identical headaches and stomach aches. He checked their schedule and discovered they were supposed to be doing the climbing wall. He knew they didn’t like that activity so he prescribed pottery class for them instead. When the dance or drama instructors came in with various injuries or muscle strains – or simply a case of rattled nerves – they often requested painkillers or something to help them relax. Kitch managed to calm them down just by sitting with them and giving them attention. He spent a lot of time talking and, perhaps more importantly, listening, to them. One day he went out to the crowded waiting room and brought in one little girl right away. “This is an mid,” he told me. “A muffin in distress. All she needs is a hug.”

I envied his mastery of the art and the craft – not just the science – of healing children. “So much of what I do is explaining, reassuring, and consoling,” he said with a shrug, as if it were nothing.

These skills were a big part of my nursing practice, too. In the hospital I always made note of when I offered my patient “comfort measures.” At camp, I recorded my intervention as
“tlc.” How well I’ve learned that Tender Loving Care can be just as effective as a medication.

I learned a lot about sore throats from Kitch after we started to see a run on them for a few days. “More than ninety percent of sore throats are viral and therefore do not require an antibiotic. It’s unlikely to be strep throat if the patient has a runny nose, stuffy ears, cough, but you can’t rule it out altogether. Strep throat is worrisome because of dire complications that can develop if left untreated, such as throat abscesses, kidney inflammation, or the main one, rheumatic fever. Prudent medicine would dictate that a swab be sent for each and every sore throat, but it’s not always feasible to do so.” He then told me about one summer when a mysterious sore throat went around camp. The mystery was that out of one hundred and seventy-five swabs that were sent to the lab, only one came back positive and that child wasn’t even symptomatic. He then had to start an antibiotic on a child who felt perfectly well.