Camp Nurse (6 page)

“All hail King Wheels, God of Camp Na-Gee-La, Lord of the Lagoon!” they chanted. “Bow down to Wheels, God of camp!” they chanted.
^*

They said later it was a celebration of the summer solstice, but from what I could tell it was all part of their insatiable need to lose themselves in group fun. By day they looked after their campers, but the nights belonged to them.

After hours, whenever they could, they snuck off to the lagoon in the forest. Once, on an evening stroll further afield, I stumbled upon the hidden path. I followed it, led by the sounds of laughter and singing. Soon, I came to a mucky-looking pond around which male and female counsellors were whooping it up, dancing topless beside a campfire, smoking, and swigging from bottles of “hard lemonade.” I stood back, out of view, wondering again if I should put an end to their fun and do everything possible to have this dangerous place closed down. But I didn’t want to take on the role of morality police, and besides, the campers were safe in their cabins with counsellors who were on duty. I looked up at the sky and stars for answers. A shimmering sound, clear and bright, vibrating in the night, came from the lake, then it sounded again. Was it an echo or the call and answer

of two birds singing to each other? I turned back to the infirmary.

The late-night merriment was definitely taking its toll on the counsellors. They were rundown, getting colds, sore throats, and head aches. Whoever was in charge of the morning wake-up music was getting to it later and later and choosing more mellow selections, such as “Dream Weaver.” With its ethereal synthesized plea about closing your eyes, getting through the night, and making it to the morning light, it was not a tune to rouse anyone out of their slumber. It seemed that the frenetic energy of the first two weeks was now starting to peter out, just as we were heading into the final stretch – the third (and my final – ever!) week at Camp Na-Gee-La.

Most evenings, there was a campfire. I went but made sure to stay back and sit just outside the circle, so as not to intrude on the intimate gathering around the fire. It felt like the campers’ private space and I didn’t belong. However, one evening they gave a concert at the campfire. Counsellors performed folk songs on banjos, guitars, a harmonica, and a set of drums. They played old Pete Seeger songs, Arlo and Woody Guthrie numbers, and Bob Dylan. I loved it, but I heard grumbles among the kids.

“This music is so yesterday,” someone complained.

Soon the musicians switched to more modern songs about peace, many alternating between Hebrew and Arabic. There was one in particular they all loved that kept repeating the words “Peace,” “Shalom,” and “Salaam” over and over.

They are good kids
, I thought.
Their hearts are in the right place
.

I was worried about Sarge. He didn’t look well, and late at night, in his cabin at the back of the kitchen, I heard him coughing uncontrollably. I made him come to the infirmary and the
moment I placed my stethoscope on his chest, I could hear high-pitched wheezes as he breathed in and out. “Do you have asthma, Sarge?”

In between hacking fits, he glowered at my question.

“Do you use an inhaler?” I asked.

In answer he pulled one out of his pocket and huffed into it a few times.

“Sarge, has anyone ever shown you how to use it properly?”

“I know how to use it.”

“You’re blowing out the medicine. Try it again.”

He did it again, the same old way. “The medicine is going out into the room, not your lungs,” I told him. He tried again but was getting frustrated. Then I had a hunch what might work.

“Pretend it’s a joint, Sarge. Toke on it. Just suck it in and hold it.”

He grinned. Now he got it.

I shook his inhaler. It was almost empty. “Do you have another?” He looked away. “This one’s almost finished, Sarge. You should never be without it.” He still didn’t respond. “I’m going to get you a new one.” He walked to the door and turned back, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Okay, but send the bill to my welfare case worker,” he said, “not my foster parents. They have no more money to spend on me.”

I tried to not look sympathetic because I knew Sarge wouldn’t want my pity. “Okay. Will do,” I said, as if what he’d just mentioned was a simple matter of account-keeping.

“Thanks, I owe you one, Nurse Dude.”

“Okay, then, why don’t you just tell me what’s for dinner.”

“Food,” he snapped, back to his usual irritable self. “Ood-fay,” he added in pig Latin. “Eye of newt. Mystery meat! Toxic tuna with arsenic thrown in. Are you happy, now? Didja ever wonder why the infirmary is next to the mess hall? That’s so when the kids get food poisoning, they can go straight to you.”

“Why won’t you ever tell me what you’re cooking?”

“No chef likes that question.”

With the third week came even more wonky headaches, irritated rashes, queasy stomachs, scratchy throats, and assorted bumps and bruises. It seemed like everyone at camp had one complaint or another. I did what I could to make things better, and luckily the problems were fairly minor. Nothing turned into pneumonia or septic shock, and certainly not flesh-eating disease. I handed out a panoply of over-the-counter painkillers. I sang the corny old song about “black flies pickin’ at my bones in North On-tar-i-o,” but of course they didn’t find it the least bit amusing. Sometimes, as a private joke, I put ordinary Vaseline on their bites and they walked out, satisfied and cured; it soothed them just as well as the expensive ointments, which wasn’t much.
^*
Sometimes all the kids needed was a hug, a few moments of attention, an explanation, a short rest, distraction, encouragement, or reassurance, all of which I could easily give.

Sometimes my nurse-patient consultations took place in the mess hall. Hardly a meal went by when I didn’t feel a tap on my shoulder. I’d be mid-bite and a camper or counsellor would bend down to show me some sore part of their body or divulge a private matter. “Come see me later,” I begged, “during office hours!”

An unusual dish was served up at one meal. When girls at a nearby table started jumping up and shrieking, I went over to investigate. It turned out the hot dog lunch was the inspiration for one boy to place his penis inside a bun and offer it to them on a plate. “Who wants to lick off the ketchup?” I heard him say.

“Put that back where it belongs immediately!” I shouted, but
no one could hear me over the roar of laughter of the entire camp.

Sometimes they came to me with problems that might actually be serious. A disturbing disclosure was made over the veggie stir-fry one time.

“I’ve missed my period,” said a counsellor, plopping down on the bench beside me. “It’s been two weeks. Should I be worried?”

“Yes!”

The sluggish, overweight ceramics instructor who always had a “quick question” for me finally got my attention when she happened to mention in passing that she’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes. “My blood sugar rate is around 2.1 or maybe it’s 21? I can’t remember. Which is worse?”

“You need to see a doctor,” I told her. “It could be serious.”

“My diet doctor ordered vitamin B
₁₂
shots. He said you’d give them to me.”

“We don’t stock that in the infirmary.” I dreaded making another request of Wheels. “You’ll have to get it yourself.”

“What about two B
₆
? Do you have those?”

“It doesn’t work like that …”

I was often stumped by the kids’ problems. You have to know a patient’s medical history and personality in order to determine the best approach and method, and I had very little to go on. I was operating on a strictly need-to-know basis.

As for my own kids, I hadn’t seen them in days. One morning, I headed down to the cabins in search of Max. His cabin was quiet and I assumed the campers were out at their activities, but I knocked first. (I didn’t want a repeat of the scene when I’d walked into what I thought was an empty cabin and found two counsellors in bed, making out.) No one answered, so I opened the door and stepped into the darkened room. A burly, hairy guy was lying in Max’s bed, naked under a sheet that fortunately covered up his private parts. He squinted at me and shielded his eyes against the light from the open door. “Who are
you
?” I asked.

“Who are
you
?” he grunted. “You woke me up.”

“I’m the nurse. Why are you sleeping in my son’s bed? Where is Max?”

“Who’s Max?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned over, and settled in for more shut-eye. I slammed the door behind me and set off in search of Mike. It was a shame they’d never gotten around to giving me a walkie-talkie because I was ready to scream at the whole camp. Imagine, this scary thug, sleeping in a child’s bed!

I found Mike in the staff lounge, lying back on the couch, listening to music with his girlfriend, Shona, who was draped over him, her head resting in his lap. He chuckled when I told him about the intruder. “Oh, that’s Spleen. He’s a legend around here.” He shook his head in recollection of past heroic Spleen antics. “Spleen – what a guy! Hey, don’t look so worried. He’s harmless. He’s buddies with Quade, Max’s counsellor. Spleen’s out on parole – I mean, on
vacation
. He’s staying with us for a few days before he moves on.”

“
Out on parole?
”

Shona giggled and turned away to hide her amusement.

“He was convicted of a
B
and
E
but I swear, he didn’t do it! Spleen is awesome with kids. We’re lucky to have him at camp.”

I guess I didn’t look reassured.

“He’s not a serial killer or a child molester, I promise you that.”

I wiped my brow in an exaggerated gesture of relief.

Eventually, at the waterfront I found my kids. Harry was swimming with his friends, watched over by a dopey-looking lifeguard. Max was happily playing with his gang on the beach, building sandcastles and smashing them down. I returned to the infirmary. There I found a raging, pacing Carly. She had buzzed off her ’fro and her almost-bald head was covered in a bandana do-rag.

“There are more cases of lice infestation!” she snapped at me.

“There’s an epidemic going on around here and you’re doing nothing about it.”

“I examined your campers’ heads. I didn’t find a single lice – I mean louse.”

“I showed you those white thingies in Sasha’s hair.”

“That’s dandruff. Nits stick to the shaft of the hair follicle. You can’t flick them off. I’m not going to treat a kid who doesn’t have lice.”

“Well, Wheels has already gone to town to buy me lice shampoo!”

“So, you are going to put chemicals on your scalp that you don’t need?”

“My head is so itchy. I’ve been up all night. This is so freaking me out.”

Everyone runs around barefoot, sunscreen bottles haven’t been opened, your own boyfriend won’t take care of the dripping, festering wound on his knee, and you’re worried about harmless head lice?

“This is a serious hygiene problem,” she said.

“Lice are a nuisance, not a disease. Besides, no one here has lice,” I told her.

I wanted to lock the door and barricade myself in there, but of course, there were no locks on any doors in this place. I put a sign on the door that I was going for a walk. First I stopped at the mess hall to fill up my water bottle at the fountain. As I was doing that, I noticed a little rivulet on the floor of what looked like … blood! I followed the stream to a large puddle that was being fed by a continuous drip from the unplugged refrigerator.
Was there a body in there?
I yelled for Sarge. He came running.

Packages of frozen meat had been placed in the fridge to slowly defrost, but instead had melted into warm, oozing messes. When Sarge saw the bloody puddles on the floor and
then the soft, grey meat he threw down his dishrag and cursed. “Damn kids! They unplug the fridge for their music at night and then forget to plug it back in again afterwards.”

I looked down at the meat blood. “When was the last party?”

He stopped to think. “Not last night, but the night before. I think.”

“Do not use this meat, Sarge. Throw it out immediately.”

I stood back trying not to retch at the smell of warm meat blood. “It’s rotten. It’s been out more than twenty-four hours.” I watched him thinking this over. He prided himself on his frugality and recycling. (I’d seen him make soup out of potato and carrot peelings.) Sarge didn’t take suggestions about his cooking at the best of times, but this was serious. However, he wouldn’t promise to dispose of it, and I stomped away, frustrated again.

In sheer desperation, I called Ivan to tell him my troubles, but he was out. I left a pathetic message, one that would make him feel sorry for me having such a terrible time while he was probably living it up, eating out at restaurants, and enjoying the single life, temporarily unfettered by any responsibilities. I returned to the infirmary to spin my first aid “Wheel of Fortune,” hoping for some sage advice to miraculously appear.

I landed on “Toothache: See your dentist.”

Thanks a lot! I spun it again.

I was laughing my head off at that one when Mike burst in, the screen door banging behind him. “Hey, Nurse Tilda! Someone’s on the phone from the public health department for you. Something about the water supply. Sounds majorly important.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking in this fresh disaster.

The inspector explained that there was run-off from the septic tank leeching into the reservoir – the lagoon – at the back of the camp. The underground spring that supplied drinking water to the camp was contaminated with unsafe levels of bacteria.

“What a bummer,” Mike said when I got off the phone and told him what was wrong.

I got up slowly, thinking rapidly. “From this moment on there will be no drinking water from the tap or the lake. Swimming and showering are banned. The water supply has to be turned off.”