Confessions of a School Nurse

by Michael Alexander

  But what can you do when a ‘family’ member comes to pick them up?

  So, one fateful Friday afternoon, Maria was driven away by her uncle who liked to dress as a chauffeur. Her uncle wasn’t around when Maria drank herself unconscious; no parents, no aunts or cousins, not even the driver – an all too familiar scene. I was the one who the hospital contacted after finding her student identification in her purse, and I was the one who picked her up and took her back to school.

  Maria made a full recovery, but her time was up. ‘She’s a danger to herself’ was the general consensus. Even her father didn’t put up a fight; he was probably already looking at the next school to send her to.

  None of us heard from Maria again.

  Enrolment by default

  I’m not alone in thinking our school is the best place for some of our charges; some parents will go to extreme lengths to get their child enrolled in a good school.

  Max was cool and stood out from the rest of the summer school kids. How does someone look cool? Well, true coolness doesn’t come from trying; it’s a confidence that comes from managing to survive life’s ups and downs without being burned out or turning into an arsehole. In Max’s case, this confidence made him appear older than his fifteen years, but in a good way. He was kind, helpful, said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and didn’t argue. The image he presented was one that any parent would be proud of.

  I first met Max during my one stint working with the summer school. Max spent the whole eight weeks of summer at school. Summer school is not really school, it’s more like a summer camp run by different staff for a whole new set of kids; it’s completely independent of the regular school. It’s not unheard of for students to spend the whole eight weeks at summer school, but it doesn’t tend to be a regular occurrence. I asked if Max normally spent his summer at camp.

  ‘My parents are busy with the business,’ he began to explain. His answer sounded rehearsed, the first sentence excusing his parents, his tone almost apologetic. ‘But I’ve been to some awesome camps.’ He proceeded to list the things he’d done over past summers: white water rafting, rock climbing, abseiling, bungee-jumping, paragliding … ‘But I think this place is the best yet. My parents are going to enrol me for the school year.’

  There’s always a trickle of people from summer camp who end up enrolling for the regular school year, but Max was the exception. He didn’t get accepted into the regular school year.

  ‘It’s bullshit’ was how Max described the school’s decision to exclude him. The decision surprised me as well, as most private schools are not always discerning when it comes to accepting students. Money talks, so there must be a big reason why he wasn’t accepted. I asked him if he had any idea why they’d say no.

  Max wasn’t an idiot and didn’t try to lie. ‘Just some stuff,’ he began, ‘I did some stupid stuff in the past.’ He wasn’t going to elaborate and it was none of my business, but I wished him well, wherever he ended up.

  Summer school came to an end and everyone went home, everyone except Max. No one could get hold of his parents or any relatives, and he had no flight booked home. The only contact the school received was through the accounts department, who had received three years’ worth of tuition. That sort of money can usually buy you almost anything including a new identity and a fresh start.

  Enrolment by abandonment is not common, but it does occasionally happen. In cases such as these, I try to look at the bright side. I like to think that we are a better place for the student than their actual home. Of course, this may not be true, but it has definitely proven true in the past, as in the case of Maria and now Max.

  The gap between summer and regular school is usually one week, and Max was thrilled at the turn of events; he simply stayed in the same room he had been in all summer, although his roommate had left when camp finished. Everyone leaves at the end of camp; even those who have decided to enrol for the regular school year. But Max simply turned up at the dining hall at meal times and was served, and went to bed at curfew time, just like he did during the summer. He even asked if he would be keeping the same room once school started.

  As far as I’m aware, no one actually told him that his parents had abandoned him, although they did ask him if he had another number they could contact them on.

  Max ended up being officially enrolled at school, and his parents were eventually reached. The excuses they made were the usual: travelling and not having their phones with them, or going to such far-flung places there was no internet or phone coverage, or simply claiming that the family ‘secretary’ had made a mistake and it was a simple misunderstanding.

  Max spent the next three years at school and during that time I found out about his past. It turned out he had been a terrible bully, and had actually put a fellow student in hospital.

  ‘I was an asshole,’ is how he described his former self. I asked him what made him change. He said that he had been forced to go into hospital and see the damage he had done, made to apologise to his victim and the victim’s family. ‘You have no idea of the hurt you do.’

  I can’t remember Max getting into any trouble during the three years I knew him, although it did make me wonder what makes someone like Max become a bully. All I found out was that he was moved regularly, and had been raised by a fresh batch of strangers whenever he changed school.

  I’m no psychologist but I do wonder if there was a sense of abandonment, much greater than the just being left behind after summer break, a sense of being alone in the world that was deep rooted in him, that made him make some bad decisions in his earlier years.

  Thankfully, he learned from his mistakes early enough. He came out the other end a better person and a decent young man who, from this point on, will always try to be cool.

  The Ivan effect

  Part one

  When I was a student, school trips consisted of hiking, more hiking, even more hiking, and hiking until we’d hiked so much we became lost in the woods. ‘How much further?’ everyone would grumble as we were led up a 2000-metre peak. We’d pitch our tents and wake up to fresh snow, a stream to be forded, and yet another peak to conquer. I loved every minute of it.

  But things have changed since I was at school, and field trips are no longer designed to just be fun, they need to have an educational purpose. ‘To experience other cultures,’ we’re often told, as students are sent to Rome, Barcelona, Paris or London.

  Sure, these trips had the occasional trip-ups. Like the time I collected Federico from jail because he’d put a piece of the Coliseum in his backpack. ‘It’s just a bit of stone,’ he’d said, protesting his innocence. Two hundred euros was enough to buy his freedom.

  Then there was the time I had to pick up Denis from the secure room at the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence after he was caught placing the wrapper of a chocolate bar in the hands of a convenient statue. He received a 100 euro fine. The money wasn’t an issue, his family was incredibly wealthy – but his parents were suitably horrified when they found out. I stood by him when he made the phone call home. Awkward.

  But it wasn’t until a stay at a beautiful chateau in the south of France that I really felt I’d lost control. It was the annual Paris trip, which involved a quarter of the school spread out between homestays and hotels.

  ‘It’s the best time of year to go.’ Marie was Head of the French Department and this was her tenth trip with the students. It was mid-spring and while it was still cool at night in the mountains, Marie kept reminding us that ‘it’s just right, not too hot or cold and no crowds’. This was my first time joining the trip. I figured the only way to get to grips with the French language was to immerse myself in it fully. I chaperoned Ivan and three other boys and we stayed in a bed and breakfast that was over half a century old.

  I didn’t know Ivan at all, but that’s what’s good about school trips; it’s a chance to get along, and find out a bit about each other.

  ‘You’re supposed to be speaking French,�
� I snapped, during dinner. I was getting seriously peeved by Ivan’s lack of manners. After asking the waiter if there was a McDonald’s nearby, the boys had then asked to see a menu in English before simply ordering the same meals.

  ‘I’m not good at French, and I’m hungry. Is that OK?’ he retaliated.

  It wasn’t OK but it was the first night, so I kept the peace.

  ‘So what are we to do tonight?’ Ivan asked once he’d scoffed his fries and nuggets – not exactly your typical French cuisine, but they’d ordered from the children’s menu. Dinner was over in twenty minutes and they were bored already.

  ‘We must have some wine; that is French, yes?’ Ivan was baiting me, but I enjoyed telling him no.

  ‘But everyone else gets to drink, it’s not fair.’ The boys didn’t have drinking permission as they were still one year shy of their senior year. It wasn’t uncommon for students to be allowed one glass of wine on special trips, but it was entirely up to the person in charge.

  I had planned an evening stroll through the village, and to meet up with a couple of the other groups, maybe wander into a bar and relax, but there was simply no way these likely lads were getting a drop while I was in charge.

  It should have been magical walking through the cobbled streets of a medieval village, but the three of them were uninspired with such living history, and I was uninspired with them. At the earliest opportunity they retreated to their room and their gadgets.

  Good night …

  I was jolted awake at 3am by shouting coming from down the corridor, and I made my way to the boys’ room.

  I found the owner, our host, pleading for an answer from the boys.

  ‘Why?’ he begged. ‘Just tell me why?’

  The boys had destroyed the room. They’d burnt the towels and thrown them out the window. There were scorch marks on the wall, antique drawers, wardrobe, and the mirror was broken.

  The pleading didn’t move Ivan; he calmly opened his wallet and asked ‘how much?’

  The owner should have been raging, shaking his fists and lashing out at my boys, but he just wanted to know why. Ivan couldn’t give him an answer, just a wallet full of cash.

  ‘Get out, get out now, out …’ spoke the owner deliberately, but Ivan didn’t move.

  ‘Calm down, we’ll pay, just tell us how much … combien?’

  Of all the opportunities he had had to use French, he had to start now.

  ‘Out now or I’ll call the police. You have five minutes.’ This got through to Ivan and we all hurriedly packed our bags and made our escape.

  ‘He overreacted, yeah?’ Ivan was looking for the support of his friends, and they were unswerving in their loyalty.

  ‘At least it’s warm out tonight,’ one of the lads said, at which point I was ready to explode. I could have physically strangled the lot of them.

  The following Monday the boys were sent home for two weeks while the school decided if they would let them back. It was reassuring to know the parents were horrified – you never know what to expect from our parents. They readily paid for all the damage, and promised their sons would do whatever was necessary to stay at school. They even made donations.

  Ivan was allowed back, but if he stepped out of line again, he’d be gone. If he failed his classes or talked back, he’d be gone. If he was caught smoking, drinking or even skipping class, he’d be gone. The school was ready to ban him from any further trips, but an exception was made …

  Part two

  ‘I’m not going.’

  It was spring break and the students were going on a wide range of trips, many of which sounded fantastic: sailing, surfing, kayaking, even one that went to Scotland that involved golfing and a visit to a whisky distillery. But Ivan was going on a very different trip, to an orphanage in Lithuania. Although there were plenty of people wondering what the orphanage had done to deserve someone like Ivan.

  Ivan was determined not to go to Lithuania, because, in his words, it was ‘full of shitty poor people’. None of the teachers minded. Who would want him on such a trip, he’d only be a burden. But after a long discussion with his family, it was decided this particular excursion would do the troublemaker some good.

  Ivan was going to spend a week living and working with children, from infants to teenagers, who were stricken by absolute poverty. How would someone like Ivan relate to someone who has nothing, not a single possession to call his or her own, not even parents?

  Mr Driscoll once said there is no such thing as a bad child, just bad behaviour. I wanted this to be true, but at what age does your childhood leave you? I didn’t care if Ivan was no longer a child, he was eighteen years old and legally an adult, I simply wanted to see if he had the ability to show compassion and empathy towards other human beings. Ivan and I were to be travelling buddies once more.

  Would he let me down again?

  Ivan made a friend on the first day of the trip, even though he wasn’t looking for one. Anastasia climbed into his lap. She was six years old and all she knew was the orphanage.

  ‘She likes you,’ said our host, a middle-aged woman who had spent her entire life looking after the poor. Ivan didn’t know how to react, but Anastasia did.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, as she pulled his arms around her. Ivan mumbled a reply.

  After this, Anastasia was permanently attached to Ivan. She pulled him around the orphanage showing him where she ate, slept and played.

  Everyone in the group made friends with the children. The workers at the orphanage were female and they kept on reminding us that most of their children had never had an older male influence in their lives.

  It’s not possible to be human and not show compassion when confronted by such realities.

  ‘They seem so happy,’ I remember Ivan saying. He’d been there two days and thanks to Anastasia I was beginning to see a different side of him. And he was right, they did seem happy. ‘But they have nothing,’ he added, sounding perplexed.

  They didn’t even have a proper football because the one they’d been using for years was patched over and kept on deflating. When Ivan bought them a new ball, he was swamped with hugs from the youngest orphans, while the older teenagers got competitive and enjoyed thrashing the visitors in a friendly game. I couldn’t believe how such a small gift could be so appreciated.

  After that, everyone started buying gifts. It’s what we can do to help. A new cot, new blankets, new sporting equipment, even a laptop, although the internet wasn’t the most reliable. But what meant even more to the orphans was people spending time with them, even if our lot didn’t always have a choice in the matter. When the students sat down, a small child would make their way to a spare knee or lap; Ivan’s lap belonged to Anastasia.

  ‘They don’t have much physical contact,’ explained Greta, the woman in charge. ‘People don’t want to hug them, especially someone with HIV.’ Some of the kids are HIV positive, she had explained, but thanks to the UN and WHO they got their medicines for free.

  On the morning of our departure Ivan was in tears. He was saying farewell to Anastasia who had her own trickle of water down her cheeks. How does one say goodbye in situations like this? You know you’ll never see them again, and as you go back to your secure world, you realise such things don’t exist for these children, and you suddenly appreciate just what you have.

  That week changed Ivan forever.

  In my opinion, all students should be made to go on humanitarian trips just like this. As educators, I feel it is our duty to educate not just the mind, but the soul.

  Fun in the sun

  Not all trips abroad are life changing. Admittedly, I often volunteer to be a ‘responsible adult’ on a trip simply because it sounds like so much fun; sometimes I even get to plan my own trip.

  Strangely enough I’ve discovered that I’m quite good at arranging these, especially when it’s the students who are paying. The senior Greek sailing trip was a particularly inspired idea, or so I thought.

>   ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Mohammed.’ We were sitting on the deck of the yacht while I was regaling everyone with memories from my school days. ‘You can’t beat roughing it in the bush,’ I said. There was a collective groan and rolling of eyes.

  ‘But we are roughing it,’ Mohammed said. ‘Abdullah hasn’t had a shower in two days.’ There were some chuckles at Mohammed’s remark. ‘I thought the yachts would be a bit bigger. I feel I’ve been deceived,’ he added.

  For the last two nights we’d slept out at sea, cooked our own food, learned a bit about sailing, had our first scuba diving lesson, and despite the occasional attempt at complaining about the cramped quarters, everyone was having an absolute blast. But now we were headed to a popular island famous for its night life. We were trailed by a second yacht, the girls’ yacht, led by the trip leader, Johnno.

  The students had been pleading for some free time at a local night spot on one of the islands. ‘We’re seniors. It’s my last year at school. I want to have some fun,’ Mohammed said. Mohammed had argued his case many times in the last 48 hours. It was an argument the rest of the group echoed incessantly. ‘We do have drinking permission. Other seniors on other trips get to drink.’

  ‘You don’t even drink alcohol. It’s against your religion for crying out loud.’

  ‘But I like to buy my friends a drink,’ he replied.

  Johnno and I had agreed on a compromise. Once we set foot on land, we were going to have a traditional dinner together at a restaurant recommended by our captains, and allow the kids some wine with their meal. ‘It wouldn’t be traditional without a shot of Ouzo,’ complained Nikita. We ignored his remark.

  The food was superb, the wine adequate, and the boys were enjoying spending an evening together with the girls. The only problem with the meal wasn’t the food itself, but the loud music blaring out of a local bar just down the road.