Camp Nurse

by Tilda Shalof

  “Tell me about the campers,” I asked.

  Rudy picked up one end of the canoe and caressed the wood. He looked like he wanted to get back to working on it. “It’s a diverse group. We have kids from wealthy families, from middle-class families, along with children who are subsidized by philanthropic organizations like the United Way. Kids who live in mansions, and others who live in public housing. We have children who are in foster care. Kids from interfaith households. Kids from same-sex parents. Kids from Jamaica, India and Ethiopia, and China. Every summer we host a contingent of counsellors from Israel. Most kids are Jewish, but not all. Oh, I almost forgot.” He put down the canoe. “I should explain about our inclusion program. We have campers with various needs and abilities and we help them integrate into camp life.”

  “Together with the so-called normal ones?” How well I knew how needy “normals” could be.

  “The new term for ‘normal’ kids is ‘typicals.’ At Camp Sol we have some campers and staff who have special needs. We do everything we can to help every kid enjoy camp to the fullest of his or her ability. We have specialized staff to support our vision of inclusion.”

  “You mean to help the special needs kids?”

  “Not just them. There are lots of situations at camp in which someone might feel they don’t fit in, don’t you agree?” I nodded. “Off the top of my head …” Rudy closed his eyes to better help him recall the kids who had special needs because he clearly didn’t think of them as different from all the other campers. “We have a twelve-year-old coming for the first time this summer. He’s been recently diagnosed with diabetes and uses an insulin pump. The head of tennis is a paraplegic. He’s competed in the Paralympics and gets around that court pretty fast in an electric wheelchair. We have a few staff with Down Syndrome who assist the counsellors. We have kids with Tourette’s and a few with varying degrees of autism.” He scratched his head to help him come up with the others. “We’ve got a fair share of kids who may act a bit strange, but everyone finds a way to fit in. Oh, yeah, we have a kid who uses a wheelchair and comes with an attendant who lives with him in the cabin with the other boys his age. I can’t understand a word he says but the kids do.”

  “Aren’t there camps for children with special needs?”

  “Our parents say they don’t want their kids segregated because of their medical diagnosis. The kids themselves don’t see it as a problem. It’s just the way they are.”

  “I guess it’s good for them to be there.”

  “At first, that’s what I thought, too, but I’ve discovered it’s even better for us.” He thought about it. “It has an interesting effect on the other campers. They step up and take on more leader ship. I also think it makes them behave better.”

  “What about bullying? How do you handle it?” Since he didn’t seem to have any questions for me, I interviewed him.

  “Bullying isn’t a big issue at Camp Sol. Maybe praying together with their friends makes kids a little less likely to be cruel.” He went on to explain that they provided anti-bullying training for the counsellors and had a rule that a counsellor stayed in the cabin every evening, a time when bullying often occurred and homesickness peaked. “The main thing is that every child feel included. Camp Sol isn’t perfect, but we work at it. On most days, it’s pretty darn good.”

  “What about the prayers and the study sessions? Don’t the kids complain?”

  “They complain a lot,” he said with a playful grin, “about the food and the mosquitoes, but I’ve never heard them complain about a day of rest. What’s there to complain about? We can all use that. Camp can get pretty hectic, as you probably know.”

  In theory, a day of rest wasn’t a bad idea. Like most nurses, I didn’t have set days off work. They occurred willy-nilly. My “week end” could easily be a Tuesday-Wednesday. My days off were spent recovering from night shift, shopping for groceries, or attacking my “to do” list of chores and errands that I didn’t get to the rest of the week. But a mandated day of rest? I didn’t know about that. I recalled how the counsellors at Camp Na-Gee-La had ridiculed religion. “Praying?” Mike, the director, had scoffed. “What’s that all about? Is that like God’s your imaginary friend?” Yet, I also recalled the discomfiting feeling I’d had when “God” was uttered at that farewell campfire at Camp Carson. For me, something had been missing at both of those camps, but was it God? How would my kids take to going to a camp where they would have to study and pray? Well, I may have opted out of religion, but I hadn’t turned away from spirituality. “I guess it’ll be good for my kids,” I said to Rudy.

  “That’s Pediatric Judaism.” He looked at me askance, like he was suddenly having second thoughts about my suitability.

  Well, perhaps a dose of religion would do me good, too. I’d call it Medicinal Judaism.

  Rudy went off on a new tangent. “When you think about it, camp is a shock for kids these days. Sometimes I’m amazed at how they cope with it at all.” He started getting restless; puttering around with papers on his messy desk, making me realize our meeting was drawing to a close. “We throw a bunch of city kids together in the middle of the forest, cut them off from their electronic gadgets, put fifteen or so together in close quarters. Some have never shared a bedroom before. For many, camp is the first time they meet kids from another neighbourhood or from a different school. It’s a huge adjustment.”

  I noticed he hadn’t mentioned “safety,” even once, and I asked him about it.

  “If safety is what parents are after, they’d better keep their kids home,” he said dismissively. He picked up a wooden paddle, walked over to his canoe, stepped into it, and kneeled down like he was ready to push off from shore. “All of our attempts to keep kids safe are creating the most worried, anxious, stressed-out kids I’ve ever met. The only way to keep kids safe is to teach them how to look after themselves. Those are survival skills.” He pointed back at the quote from the Talmud, hanging on the wall. “We’re all so safety conscious these days, yet no one’s feeling any safer. Camp’s a place to learn how to take risks and confront difficulties, a place where kids can go wild, yet still be under our wing.” He smoothed his hands over the wood along the inside of the canoe. “Hey, man, do the math. When you add it up, the number of camp hours is greater than school hours, considering it’s round the clock, weekends, too, especially if they stay for the whole summer. Think of the opportunity to impart some good values to our kids. Sure, there’s fun, but we can do much more than keep them safe and entertained.”

  I liked Rudy and what he’d told me about the camp. The sight of that canoe was enticing to me, too. I could feel it luring me back in … to camp.

  “Okay, I’ll come, but on one condition.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I don’t have to go to prayer services.”

  “Hey, no pressure, man,” Rudy said, backing off, his hands up as he and Ringo walked me to the door. “Do your own thing.”

  “One last question,” I said, just before leaving. “What about candy? What’s your policy there?”

  “Two tuck shop visits per week and lots of treats, but no candy or junk food from home. They don’t need it and it attracts critters, especially bears. Camp Solomon is right in the heart of bear country.” He said all that seriously but couldn’t resist slipping back to his usual big, sunny grin.

  * No, Harry, don’t worry; I won’t sign us up for that one. My circus days are over.

  11

  SURVIVAL SKILLS

  It was the summer of Crocs! It seemed like just about everyone had a pair of those stubby, rubber clogs that came in every colour of the rainbow. (To me, they looked more like toys than shoes.) Harry didn’t want them but Max wanted a pair in every colour. He settled on two pairs – bright yellow ones that made him look like Donald Duck (at least he could be spotted all over camp) and turquoise ones that he promptly gave away to his new friend, Ryan, underneath him on the lower bunk.

  No Crocs for me. This time I
wasn’t going to dress to fit in – and as it turned out I didn’t need to. Camp Solomon fit me as easily and comfortably as a pair of Crocs. They say “three’s the charm,” and maybe it’s true. At this camp, it didn’t take me long to find my groove. One of the reasons was that here were people my own age to play with. They were adult staff, or “inclusion co-ordinators,” who helped the special needs kids, as well as the ordinary needs ones, to cope with camp. There were also visiting rabbis, cantors, and educators, many of whom came with their young families. The babies in high chairs and toddlers running around outside the dining hall gave the place the feeling of family. I enjoyed having adult company and sitting together at our own table, and I think we lent a certain gravitas to the mealtime mayhem.

  Like Max, I also made an instant new friend. Her name was Alice Gordon and she wore lavender Crocs. A public health nurse with two daughters at camp, she had also left her husband back in the city while she worked to cover the cost of camp for her children. Together with Louise Mandel (navy Crocs), the camp doctor, who came with her teenaged boys to camp, we were the health care team.

  Not called the infirmary as at Camp Na-Gee-La, nor the Medical Centre as at Camp Carson, at Camp Solomon it was the Health Centre, or, as the kids called it, the Health Hut. The name itself gave it a positive spin. Nearby, Alice and I had our own quarters, clean, simple dorm rooms. It didn’t take long to familiarize myself with the layout of Camp Solomon. Around the periphery, nestled in the woods, were the camper cabins, connected by paths that converged onto a main road that led to the central gathering spot, “the Tent,” which provided shade, and with the flaps up, a breeze. The dining hall was a polygon-shaped building with windows on all sides that ran right up to the ceiling, providing a view of leafy green trees, a wide expanse of sky, and the clean, sparkling lake.

  At this camp, morning pill call was handled differently than at Camp Carson. Campers were expected to come to us for their meds. The onus was on them and their counsellors to make sure they got their meds, rather than on us to track them down. They were good about coming and, perhaps because they wanted to get to breakfast, they usually arrived on time.

  First to show up in the morning were two nine-year-old girls, Xiu-Ling Rosenberg and Frankie Colwin. Xiu-Ling was petite with long black hair, and Frankie was also small and wiry, pale with short brown hair, and glasses that magnified her eyes and always made her look startled.

  Xiu-Ling noticed me reading her name. “It’s Zweeling,” she said helpfully. “I’m from China. My parents rescued me from being drowned by some village peasant, a.k.a. my biological father,” she added cheerfully. “I have add and Tourette’s but I’ll let you know if I start ticcing ’cause I’ll need the chewing gum my parents sent. It helps me.” She took her friend’s hand. “Frankie has add, too. Hey, what meds are you on this summer?” she asked Frankie, who told her. “I’m on the slow-release stuff now,” Xiu-Ling boasted. “It has fewer side effects and stuff. Ask your parents to switch you over.” They got their meds and walked out arm in arm.

  Thirteen-year-old Sharon was in a bad mood. She had a headache and was annoyed to have to come to us for the medications she took at home independently. I explained that we had to keep meds locked up, but she was impatient and left as soon as she swallowed her pills.

  We were just about to lock up when Bradley arrived at the last minute. He was on daily allergy pills but preferred to take matters into his own hands. “You may not see me from time to time,” he cautioned as he slapped a baseball into his catcher’s mitt over and over. Thwack! “I decide when to take my meds. Don’t worry, I’m gifted, so I know what I’m doing.” Thwack! Thwack!

  “How will we know whether to expect you or not? Will you RSVP?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Thwack! Thwack! He launched into the history of his allergies and all the signs and symptoms but we hurried him along so we could all get to breakfast. As we were leaving, we noticed that with all of his chattering, Bradley had forgotten to take his allergy pill, the one he had come for. “I’ll take it to him,” I said.

  “No need. I have a feeling he’ll be back.” Alice pointed at the baseball he’d left behind on the counter.

  When I entered the dining hall for breakfast, camp came back to me in a wave: the noise of hungry kids, their excited voices, the breakneck speed of eating, and the hilarious post-meal announcements. But at Camp Solomon, there was one difference. I learned not to dig in to my food as soon as I sat down but to wait until everyone arrived and recited a grace together before the meal.

  After breakfast, the day’s routine was also familiar. A morning clinic was held for anyone who had complaints of any sort. Most mornings, by the time Alice, Louise, and I strolled back to the Health Centre, coffee mugs still in hand, a small but vocal crowd had gathered. We handed out slips of paper for the kids to write down the reason they’d come and then decided in what order to treat them.

  I went out to the waiting room. “Who’s got the ‘fly buzzing inside his skull?’”

  A sleepy-looking boy closed his comic book and waved. “Yo. That’d be, uh, me.”

  I checked his ears and throat, took his temperature – Louise examined him, too – but since we couldn’t find anything wrong, we offered him a fly swatter, which he declined, then sent him on his way.

  Meanwhile, Alice had been busy with an anxious teenage girl who had a bump on her neck and who’d written “may have cancer.” Alice put her arm around her and led her in for a thorough examination, then explained that the bump was a swollen lymph node. “They help your body fight infection,” Alice reassured her. Next, she took the tall counsellor with “Big wart on foot. Been there for months” and taught him a slow-acting homemade treatment that involved duct tape. However, he chose to see Louise to get a prescription medication for a speedier remedy.

  I took the boy who was “all stuffed up,” and gave him a decongestant, nasal spray, and box of tissues, told him to wash his hands, and that he was good to go.

  A boy who had “puked all night in cabin (throw-up tasted like dill-pickle potato chips)” was looking better, but I let him lie down for a rest.

  Xiu-Ling and Frankie arrived. Xiu-Ling was crying and pointing at Frankie. “We were sitting in services and she hit me over the head with a prayerbook!”

  Frankie looked pleased with herself. I examined Xiu-Ling’s head and felt all over for swelling but found nothing. I placed an ice-pack on the sore spot. After a few minutes, I checked. “It’s fine, now, Xiu-Ling.”

  “But there’s a bump,” she wailed, “and it hurts so much.”

  Alice and I looked at each other and tried not to smile. I placed the ice-pack back on for a few more minutes and returned to ask how she was doing.

  “Bad. Very bad,” she cried. She rubbed her head and glared at Frankie.

  The morning crowd thinned out, but it picked up again as the kids starting coming for their lunch meds on their way to the dining hall. During a quiet moment Alice took the opportunity to search through the drawers for medication – anti-psychotics and behavioural drugs – that a fourteen-year-old boy named Eddie was supposed to be on. He hadn’t shown up for his breakfast meds and now not for his lunchtime meds either. It wouldn’t have mattered because she couldn’t find the meds anywhere. Alice looked worried because already – it was only the first day of camp – we’d been hearing lots of buzz about Eddie and it wasn’t good.

  Seth, Eddie’s counsellor, had been reporting to us that Eddie had been acting up, trash talking, and making racial slurs toward Sam, one of the other counsellors in that cabin, who was from Serbia. “Serbia is the skuzziest country in the world,” Eddie had said to him. He’d been bullying a boy named Mitchell, calling him names, “pantsing” him (pulling down his pants) and threatening to give him a wedgie. He’d mocked a counsellor who had special needs, for his slow, careful way of talking. Alice called Eddie’s parents to ask about the meds. His mother told her that Eddie’s behaviour had improved so much lately
that she and Eddie’s father had agreed to let him go off his meds for camp. Alice looked worried when she got off the phone.

  I continued handing out the lunchtime meds.

  “Hi, I’m Chelsea.” A tall girl with unruly blonde hair stepped forward, her hand outstretched for her pills. She talked at top speed and her loud voice was growing louder by the moment. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me ’cause I’m on three-times-a-day meds – breakfast, lunch, and late afternoon, but not too late, otherwise, I won’t sleep at night.” She barely paused to take a breath. “You must be the new nurse. I heard there was a new one this summer. Hey, did you forget my name?” she practically shouted. “It’s Chelsea and FYI I’m bi!”

  “Biracial?” I asked. “Bilingual?” Bisexual?

  “No, bipolar and I love it! I get mood swings.” She leaned over the counter to read the menu posted on the bulletin board over our desk. “Oh, it’s tacos for lunch!” She waved her hands up high over her head in jubilation. “Tacos are my most favourite food in the whole wide world!” She wrapped her arms around herself in a big hug. I couldn’t help but wonder if and when Chelsea would dip down to the other end of the “pole.” (And it didn’t take long to find out. Only two days later, I saw her at the lake, sitting at the end of the dock, sobbing into her beach towel over a perceived slight – an unintended diss – from another camper. Luckily, her counsellor arrived on the scene and managed to coax her back to the group.)