Confessions of a School Nurse

by Michael Alexander

  Maybe he was telling the truth.

  A couple of weeks later Naif and I were at the local doctor’s office because he was suffering from a nasty throat infection and was going to need antibiotics. He was coughing so much I expected to see a bit of lung come up. When the doctor asked him if he had any previous health problems, Naif replied:

  ‘I had pancreatitis about a year ago.’

  Dr Fritz didn’t believe what he heard, and neither did I. He asked Naif to repeat what he had just said, and Naif confirmed he definitely had pancreatitis. Was that why he had left school so abruptly? He hadn’t seemed sick at the time.

  Pancreatitis is rare in someone so young. It’s a life threatening illness and there is no cure. They put you on a drip, keep you nil by mouth, stick a tube up your nose and into your stomach to empty it out, monitor your blood sugars, and give you massive doses of morphine and antibiotics, for days or even weeks. It’s not unusual to end up in intensive care. The treatment revolves around giving your body absolute rest and to be pain free, while you hope for the best.

  ‘Are you sure it’s pancreatitis you’re thinking of?’ I asked. ‘It’s a very serious problem. I’ve never heard of someone as young as you getting it.’

  ‘Well, I can never drink alcohol again or I could die, so I know how serious it is.’ Pancreatitis is a problem usually associated with alcoholics.

  Naif then told me the rest of the story …

  When he had suddenly left school at the age of fourteen, he had moved to London to study. His father had put him up in an apartment, and left him alone with a family friend.

  ‘He’s our driver,’ Naif explained when I asked who the family friend was, but he sounded much more as if he was a roommate, bought his alcohol for him, and doubled as a bodyguard.

  ‘I always have a bodyguard,’ Naif admitted, ‘except when I come here. It’s safe here.’

  Instead of studying or going to school, Naif became a teenage alcoholic. The only adults in his life were his ‘driver’ and the women he bought.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the world I live in,’ Naif said, and to demonstrate he flicked through at random some pictures from his iPhone. There were images of cars, nightclubs and women; very gorgeous women and a very sophisticated looking young man. The clothes and shades may have convinced others he was a wealthy man, but all I saw was a rich, lost boy.

  After surviving his close call with pancreatitis Naif had spent twelve weeks in an alcohol rehabilitation centre for young people. He claims it has worked, but knowing that you could die the next time you drink is a pretty good incentive for staying sober.

  Naif graduated from high school. He stayed off the alcohol, doesn’t take drugs, is in university, although the money hasn’t dried up. He posts pictures on Facebook of him driving his Ferrari, or sunbathing on some foreign beach. In all the photos I see of him, he still looks a sickly and pale young man, although a very well-dressed one.

  I never once heard him talk about his parents, and have yet to even see a picture of them … although it’s probably best I never met them, as who knows what I would have said or done.

  David

  While it is often hard getting in touch with parents, it’s usually for a benign reason: they’re on a plane or in an undeveloped place that is rich in oil and minerals but lacking in modern technology. Often these circumstances result in children that have learnt to fend for themselves.

  David was a good regular. By ‘good regular’ I mean he didn’t come to the health centre to avoid class. He was rarely sick. Instead, he liked to come and talk to us during lunch break because, in his eyes, we were the only people he could talk to normally. He had an air of maturity that only a handful of eighteen-year-olds do.

  ‘I can’t talk to anyone else around here. They’re just bloody stupid.’ Normally, I’d suggest that David’s remark was unfair, but he probably had a good point. He didn’t join in the usual hijinks that other boys got up to.

  ‘Mate, I’ve done it all before. It’s all I’ve done since I was fourteen. I’m tired of that shit.’ This was no kid before me, but an old soul in a teenager’s body.

  I knew very little of David’s background, except that he had joined the school for his senior year of high school. As I’ve mentioned earlier, it’s unusual for students to enrol for their final year, and I was naturally curious.

  ‘Why did you leave England?’ I asked. David shrugged his shoulders. ‘Too strict.’

  ‘What about that school in the States you were enrolled at? Why’d you leave that one?’

  ‘Just got bored.’

  ‘Why’d you come here?’

  ‘The snow; and I hear it’s pretty relaxed.’

  David knew boarding schools better than anyone I’d ever met. Since the age of eight he’d spent his life in and out of various schools in Britain, America, Africa and Europe.

  ‘So where’s home?’ I asked and he couldn’t give me a straight answer. He couldn’t actually identify a place which he called home. His accent wasn’t quite American or British, and although English was his first language, he was fluent in French, Spanish, German and rapidly grasping the fundamentals of Russian.

  ‘You’ve been around a bit. What do your parents think of all this?’

  ‘They don’t mind, as long as I graduate.’ The supposed attitude of indifference of his parents matched David’s own.

  ‘You sound like an old man before your time.’ David just grinned.

  ‘They let me do what I like, as long as my grades are good, and I stay out of trouble, and don’t do drugs. They said if I graduate high school they’ll pay for me to spend a year anywhere I like.’

  David planned to spend six months travelling around South America, and the other six months seeing Vietnam, Thailand and Cambodia. I also found out that he had spent the last summer break travelling with friends in a van around Europe.

  When I was his age there was no way I’d have the know-how or confidence to do what he had just done, and no way my parents would have let me even if we had the money, and I told him so. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve had to raise myself. I don’t see much of my folks.’

  Between the ages of eight and thirteen, David spent on average two months a year with his parents. If he wasn’t in boarding school, he was in summer school, and when he was older, he began to develop a circle of friends in similar situations. They would spend their vacation time at each other’s holiday homes, and by the time they were sixteen, they began exploring independently.

  David loved his parents and, at least on the surface, seemed happy with his life. I was also impressed by how mature he was, and by what he’d accomplished in such a short time. Yet, I felt sorry for David, even though I have no right to. I suppose it’s just natural to assume that the way you were raised was healthier than others who are different. All the same, I could never imagine being an absent parent. I love seeing my children too much. And isn’t that what being a parent is all about?

  Edward

  Unlike David, Edward had a home. It was here, with us. He’d been here five years.

  He was the perfect student: handsome, polite, good at school, he didn’t smoke or do drugs (well, he’d passed every drug test!) and he was popular with his peers. He wasn’t abandoned here; his parents visited regularly and he spent every break with them. I liked his parents and I wanted to emulate their success. If my kids turn out like Edward, I’ll be happy.

  But how well did I know Edward? Five years is a long time, you begin to think you know all there is to know about a person, but then they surprise you. I did know that Edward appreciated what he had; the chance of a good education, in a safe environment, while still being able to follow his passion. Edward was good at sports, especially football, and if his grades continued the way they had last year, he had a good chance of finishing his senior year in the top three of the school. As an active boy with the right attitude, I wouldn’t normally have come to know Edward at all as he rarely visited the health centre. But
Edward’s passion for skiing nearly rivalled my own.

  ‘You’ve got a sweet life,’ Edward said to me. It was a quiet Friday afternoon and we were watching a clip on my work computer of some extreme skiing. Friday afternoons used to be very busy, but since management (very cleverly) made a rule that if you are sick on a Friday, then you don’t get to go out Friday night, things changed.

  I do have a good quality of life, I can’t deny that. Living in a small mountain town in a developed nation has its advantages. It’s clean, you’re constantly walking either uphill or down so you’re always exercising, and the crime is negligible. The local police officer usually turns his bedroom light off at ten, so if you are going to do something nefarious, you know the best time to begin. But then the police won’t have difficulty trying to find you as everyone knows who you are and where you live. I started to feel uncomfortable with Edward’s description of my life. ‘I don’t just sit around watching YouTube all day,’ I replied defensively. ‘I had to work to get to this stage,’ I added.

  Edward gave a brief chuckle then explained exactly what he meant. ‘I mean you live in a ski town and go up the mountain whenever you want; and when you’re not skiing, you only have to look after a bunch of spoilt kids.’

  ‘You’re being a bit hard, aren’t you? They’re not all spoilt. They didn’t choose their parents.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m not like them. Don’t make that mistake.’ I promised I wouldn’t.

  ‘The job isn’t always easy. You’ve been here long enough to know what winters are like. Sickness, ski injuries, broken bones. It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘Yeah man, but c’mon, what more do you need out of life than to ride? You’re living the dream, even when you’re old.’ He actually meant what he said, about my age that is.

  I once felt the same way, but there was no need to tell Edward how that changes for most people. Growing up and having a family changes everything, usually for the better, and he would either find that out for himself, or not. If that’s his dream, I’m not going to deter him, although I did ask one favour of him.

  ‘Please promise me before becoming a ski bum, you finish university.’

  ‘Don’t think I have much choice.’

  ‘Good,’ I added, my tone brisk, not asking for an explanation.

  While Edward would soon be a young adult, like most people his age a bit of direction from family is a good thing. My parents had said exactly the same thing to me: ‘Make sure you get an education, and then you can ski.’

  During ski season, the first sign of a problem is often in the grades. Edward’s tan deepened as his grades dropped.

  ‘They’ll pick up,’ he said to me one day on the chairlift. When I commented that he didn’t seem worried he said his parents were more worried than him.

  ‘Dad went to Princeton, so he expects me to do the same.’

  ‘You won’t get accepted to Princeton with average grades,’ I said, and the conversation died briefly as he paused, as if unsure what to say.

  ‘Who said I want to go to Princeton?’ he blurted out. I kept silent.

  ‘I’d prefer Colorado anyway.’ Colorado is great for skiing, and if I were in his place, I’d choose the same, as it would mean a university education as well as endless powder skiing on my doorstep.

  By February Edward’s grades had dropped even further; he was barely passing his Maths class. His tan was still beaming, but he wasn’t the same. He wouldn’t come and talk with me like he used to and he had even begun to miss some of his classes. Rumour had it he’d taken up smoking, and he’d been in a fight with his roommate. I only heard about these things through the people dealing with his discipline issues, but soon I was involved far more than I wanted to be.

  In late March I received a call from a teacher in Edward’s dorm. ‘I think he’s taken something, he won’t stay awake.’ There are some words that always make your skin crawl and your stomach sink, as well as make you run.

  ‘Call the ambulance. I’m on my way.’

  Edward wasn’t unconscious when I got there. He was sitting on the floor, his head in the toilet, vomit dribbling down his chin. He was mumbling a phrase, over and over. I crouched beside him, placing my arm across his shoulders, straining to hear what he was saying. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ he said again, turning his head towards me.

  ‘His roommate called me and said he thinks he’s taken something,’ explained Mr Fisher, the teacher on duty that evening. ‘I ran here and called you straight away.’

  ‘What have you taken?’ I asked.

  ‘Just some Tylenol. I’m sorry.’

  Tylenol, an American brand of paracetamol, is one of the worst drugs to overdose on but is often the most common. Perhaps because it’s accessible over the counter, people think it’s harmless. In correct dosages it is safe, but too much, even a small overdose and it can damage the liver severely. There is an antidote, and so the sooner Edward was taken to hospital the better.

  Mr Fisher confirmed that he had called the ambulance, but it was forty minutes away. I briefly contemplated taking Edward to hospital myself as I didn’t want to waste so much time, but decided against it. If he started vomiting again, lost consciousness or any of the dozen other things that could go wrong happened, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing. He could die in transit.

  Edward wasn’t able to give us a clear idea of how many pills he’d taken, although there was a half-empty bottle of vodka. His roommate confirmed that he had seen this bottle the day before and it had been full.

  Edward was taken to hospital by ambulance and I spent the next twelve hours at his bedside.

  This story does have a happy ending. Although Edward had taken twenty or so tablets, fortunately he had vomited most of them up almost as soon as he’d taken them. While his blood tests showed only a mildly elevated level of paracetamol, he was commenced on the antidote, and his liver function tests ended up being fine.

  Naturally I wanted to ask him why? But I was hesitant. The acute stage of an illness is not always the best time to delve in to find meaningful answers. The physical needs must come first, and when you ask these questions you ask yourself if you’re asking because you want to help, or because you’re desperate for an explanation. You want to know if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Yet sometimes asking questions at this time, when they’re the most vulnerable, is when you can get the most honest answer.

  I managed to stave off my curiosity until the following morning, twelve hours later, when he was sober and rested.

  ‘I never wanted to go to Princeton,’ he explained. ‘But my father will disown me if I don’t go.’ I told him he must have been exaggerating.

  ‘You don’t know my father. He offered to buy me a Lamborghini if I got in. I guess I won’t be getting one now.’ I asked him what he wanted to do.

  ‘My father wants me to be a lawyer. I don’t know what I want. I don’t want to be a lawyer though.’

  I had very little contact with Edward’s parents during this ordeal as this was done through the headmaster, but during the ten minutes I did spend talking with Edward’s father, I could hear the worry, the fear, and the utter heartache coming through loud and clear. Edward broke into tears when I told him this.

  Edward is now a grown man. He wasn’t disowned. He spent two winters living his dream working in a ski resort and eventually got his ski instructor’s licence.

  He did end up going to college, but graduated as a PE teacher, not a lawyer. He works at a boarding school that has a large focus on winter sports and he is one of the coaches of the ski team. He learned that his parents only wanted the best for him, and for him to be happy. It turns out they had no idea their son didn’t want what they wanted.

  Edward’s story made me realise the immense pressure many of my students have upon them. My parents always wanted me to do well, but I never felt forced to follow a path they chose f
or me. I now have a greater appreciation of the expectations some of the children have. As it turns out, I’m just glad Edward found his way, is happy, and is currently living his own dream.

  Rich personalities

  When Franco was asked to leave school he slipped away quietly, which was unusual for him because he was a flashy, seventeen-year-old fiery Italian. He talked a lot and dressed in ways that in many places would have got him beaten up.

  ‘You know nothing,’ he told me when I suggested that his choice of clothes wasn’t the most appropriate for the winter weather.

  ‘We don’t all dress like we’re from a farm.’ I had discovered him in the hallway about to head into a blizzard with only a shirt, a sleeveless vest, and dress shoes.

  Franco had a talent for putting together irritating combinations of words that made me rise to the bait. I’ve heard much worse, but it wasn’t what he’d said, it was the arrogance behind the words. I never once spoke to my teachers in such a manner, it would have been a sure way to get detention or, depending on the teacher, a caning. Manners need to be taught and sometimes enforced. As I marched him back to the health centre for a piece of my mind, I zipped up my fleece, hiding my plaid shirt.

  ‘I’ll be late for class,’ he protested.

  Franco had around $10,000 worth of clothes on, excluding his watch, and for all the money spent, he still didn’t have solid shoes for the snow, or a proper jacket to combat the cold. If he wanted to slip on the ice and freeze to death, then that was fine with me, but I was not going to let him get away with talking to me in such a tone.

  ‘Listen mate, I may know “nothing” of fashion, but I do know how to talk to people.’

  Franco tried to back-pedal, the arrogance gone. ‘Hey, I didn’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just you know …’ He left the thought hanging as he realised he was probably going to make matters worse, but I told him to go on.