Camp Nurse

by Tilda Shalof

  “How are things now?”

  “Well, for starters, my parents went splitsville.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  “I hope you’re getting help for your problems.”

  “My parents are my problem, but yeah, yeah, I go to a shrink now.”

  “The same one you told me you lied to?”

  “I used to lie, just randomly, but I don’t any more.” He looked at me to see if I bought that. “Listen, I had to lie ’cause my parents never trusted me.”

  “Should they have?”

  “It’s better to keep them in the dark. The mo in our house was don’t ask, don’t tell. My dad didn’t think I knew about his affair, but I went into his computer and saw the e-mails – and they say they can’t trust me! Hah! So, can you help me or not?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Rudy had already turned him down and I didn’t want to be the one to tell Eddie he wasn’t counsellor material. “I’m pleased to hear you’re doing well,” I said, skirting his question for now.

  “Well, it’s been rough, but you just have to deal, you know? I’m still on meds and I know I need them, but I’d like to come back and be a CIT.”

  “You seriously injured Seth, and Mitchell, too.”

  “You know, someone told me I was a bully, and I’m like, you’ve gotta be kidding. I’m always the one being bullied. Oh, I know I did some bad stuff, the bug spray and other things, too.” He looked closely at me to see what I knew but I knew enough. “I guess I used to be kind of a jerk, but I’ve changed.”

  “Well, I’m sure …” I demurred, “I guess it’s possible …”

  “Could you speak to Rudy and tell him that? Do you have any pull with him?”

  Sure, people change. Didn’t Rudy always say that? I would stand up for anyone who’d been wronged or fight for a cause I believed in, but I didn’t see how I could go to bat for Eddie. “I didn’t think you liked camp. Why do you even want to be a counsellor?”

  “Because of Seth. He saw me as a person, not just some troublemaker loser. I want to do that for some other kid, maybe a kid who has problems like I do – I mean, did. Oh, you probably think I’m whacko, a freakazoid, a psycho,” he said quite cheerfully.

  Those were compliments compared to what I had thought of him last summer. What I thought now I wasn’t sure, but he still showed no remorse, nor insight into his actions. “I’ll be honest with you, Eddie, there aren’t many of us who saw your behaviour last summer who’d want you anywhere near their child, and as a CIT you’d be taking care of little kids.”

  “But, hey, I do volunteer work in a homework club. I’m getting straight A’s at school and I sing in the fucking choir! What more do you want?”

  You may sing in the choir, but you’re no choirboy.

  “Good luck,” I said, knowing it wasn’t much to offer.

  “That’s so unfair,” he said as I walked away.

  I called Rudy to tell him about my conversation with Eddie. He sounded heavy-hearted about his decision. He never wanted to exclude anyone, but “Eddie’s too much of a risk,” he said regretfully. “I can’t take the chance.”

  Despite the fact that there was no longer any cachet to having your mom at camp (if there ever had been), and the growing realization that Harry didn’t want me there any more (but was too nice to tell me), I went back for a third summer at Camp Sol. How much longer could I keep up this camp nurse gig? My time was running out to be a grown-up interloper in this child’s paradise. I figured I’d better squeeze in another summer while I could.

  Time was passing fast. That fall when Harry turned thirteen, he changed almost overnight, in all the ways he was supposed to, but still, it took me by surprise. His voice deepened and he got taller. When I went to lug his heavy duffel bag from the car to heave it onto the camp bus, he took it from me easily, along with Max’s too, and slid them on. He now had muscles and heft to his body. When did all of this happen?

  When I arrived at camp, Xiu-Ling and Frankie ran over to greet me.

  “Hi, my name is Cookie,” Xiu-Ling shouted and waved at me, “and this is Cupcake.” Frankie curtsied. “And that’s Lollipop, Brownie, and Candy.” She introduced the other girls in their cabin.

  “Me likey cookies,” said Frankie in a baby voice.

  “Me likey cupcakes,” said Xiu-Ling. “Stop! You’re making me laugh!”

  “No, you’re making me laugh!” Frankie squealed with delight, which made them all dissolve into sweet giggles.

  Most of the old crowd were back – Alice, Louise, Matti, and Layla. Seth came by later to say “hey.” He’d lost a lot of weight and had a beard that made him look much older and serious. He seemed preoccupied. His easygoing, jovial manner was gone. He was on medication now and wanted to keep that confidential. Of course, I said, and found a place in a cupboard to store his meds.

  As for Alice and me, we slipped back into our daily routine: breakfast pill call, followed by the morning clinic, which usually carried on till after lunch. Somehow we always managed to get away for a walk, a swim in the lake, or a paddle in a canoe. The first few days flew by and the kids stayed well. At night, we continued to welcome the counsellors who dropped by to chill and relax – chillax – serenade us with music, replenish their first-aid kits, tell us what their kids had said or done that day, and occasionally, bare their souls. It went on late but they were irresistible to us. We’d never turn them away.

  That summer they seemed to have a lot more on their minds: school, travel plans, and for some, the reluctant realization that their camp days were coming to an end.

  “Camp is my security blanket,” one wailed, only half joking. “I have to move on but I haven’t a clue what to do for the rest of my life. I wish I could stay here forever.”

  Matti said this was his last summer at camp. “I’ve got to get a decent-paying job in the city. I want to make music, but realistically I don’t think I can make a living at it.”

  “I won’t be back for sure,” Layla announced. That was a surprise, because I guess we assumed as Rudy’s daughter she’d always be there. “I just got into law school.”

  Many had a desire to give back to their communities, through volunteer work or political activism, and to find ways to tackle the big issues: saving the environment and combating social injustices such as racism and poverty. I’d attended an open-mike session in the staff lounge where a group of them talked about their upcoming mission to Guatemala with Habitat for Humanity. So many of them had big dreams of doing noble work, but one night they also enjoyed a flight of fantasy about ideal jobs such as toy designers for Lego sets, greeting card copywriters, skateboard designers, and cosmetic labellers, coming up with “Campfire Crimson” lipstick and s’mores-scented perfume. They kidded each other about becoming celebrities or being filmmakers, actors, or rock stars, and a startling number wanted to do “something related to forensics.”* More than anything, they all expressed a longing to be known for something and to make their mark. I had a feeling many would.

  One morning, at the beginning of the second week, I came in for pill call and found Alice looking worried. She’d been up all night with Murray, a counsellor. “Around one o’clock he banged on my door, but when I opened it he was gone. He’d run off to throw up. He managed to stagger back in and has been vomiting non-stop ever since.”

  “Was it an upset stomach? Did he eat something that disagreed with him?” I asked with the annoying innocence of one who’s had a good night’s sleep.

  “He’d just returned from a day off in Toronto participating in a karate tournament. He ate dinner with his cabin, felt fine afterward, but got sick during the night.”

  “Sick?” I asked.

  “He’s sick,” she said, firmly, “really sick.”

  “How sick could he be?” C’mon, impress me, I’m an ICU nurse!

  “Sick.”

  Sick is an important word and the inflection and tone are crucia
l. Even in the ICU where all of our patients are sick, when a nurse says a patient is sick in the way that Alice did, the seriousness goes up a few notches. I peeked in, took one look, and had to agree with her. The fit young man I’d seen doing kicks and punches in the martial arts studio was now a pathetic-looking, pale, clammy specimen, sitting at the edge of the bed, shivering, and clutching at his stomach, as he leaned into a garbage can to retch.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t hear the commotion. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You weren’t on call,” she said with a chuckle. Now, it was my turn to marvel at my own imperturbable nurse sleep.

  Louise arrived to examine Murray. When she was done she came out of the room and stripped off the vinyl gloves she’d had the foresight to put on when she heard Alice’s report. Louise was positive he had gastroenteritis – a stomach virus – which was very contagious. He would probably be better soon, but the main thing was to prevent its spread. Alice and I started scrubbing down all the surfaces in the Health Centre.

  All that day and into the next night, Murray had a raging fever, and stomach cramps so severe he could only drag himself out of bed and crawl to the toilet, where he had uncontrollable diarrhea. I watched over him, dozing off and on, stretched out on the waiting room couch. It was about two o’clock in the morning when I heard the sound of running footsteps outside my window. I unlocked the door. One of the other counsellors in Murray’s cabin stood there, trembling. “Help me,” he moaned. “I’m dying.” He turned his head away from me as an arc of vomit spewed from his mouth and hit the wall. He collapsed at my feet and lay there, writhing and moaning. Another counsellor who’d come with him had run off to vomit into a garbage can and was making his unsteady way back in. “What is this?” he cried. “I’ve never been so sick in my life.”

  I put on gloves and a gown and stayed with them while they went through agony, violently ill all night. By morning, they were taking turns running to the bathroom with diarrhea. Then, they stripped off their clothes, covered themselves with sheets, and flopped down on the narrow cots, one on either side of Murray, who was now peacefully asleep.

  I went to wash my hands. On second thought, I decided to take a shower. Just before entering my room, I peeled off my clothes and dropped them in a heap outside my door to be boiled, bleached, and laid out in the sun later when I had the time.

  After lunch, a little boy from Murray’s cabin came over to me.

  “I think I just threw up.” He rubbed his stomach.

  “You think so? You don’t know if you did or not?”

  “Something came out that looked like the bean burritos I just ate.”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” his friend reported. “His yark was bright orange.” He peered at the sick boy. “Hey, you look pale. Maybe you should eat some meat.”

  “Can I have a Tums?” the boy asked me. “That’s what my mom gives me when my stomach is upset.” He suddenly bolted off to find a garbage can, but – blat! – missed it entirely.

  This was no upset stomach. This was a virus and it was spreading – fast!

  “Can you give me medicine to make it better?” he called out as he ran off to the bathroom, but he didn’t make it there in time, either. I went to get a mop.

  Later that afternoon, I heard someone just outside the Health Centre groaning.

  “Owww … my stomach hurts.” I looked out the window and saw a little girl doubled over, vomiting on the ground. “I feel sooo yucky. I want to go home,” she cried as her counsellor tried to soothe her. A few minutes later, another counsellor brought in a little girl from the same cabin. She dropped down onto the floor, sobbing and begging for her teddy bear that she’d thrown up on and that her counsellor had washed and hung outside to dry. Her counsellor held her and stroked her hair while the little girl threw up again and again. The counsellor herself looked pale and I had a feeling she’d be down soon, too.

  By evening, the CITS started dropping. One boy lay on a cot while his girlfriend stood at the door. They looked like Romeo and Juliet, gazing at each other with desire, but forbidden to touch, or even come close. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Love you too,” he mouthed weakly as I pulled the star-crossed lovers apart.

  This outbreak was escalating at an alarming rate. We could barely focus on measures to control it when we were so busy taking care of patients. We didn’t even get to some of them in time and would come upon kids lying limply on their beds or even on the floor, too weak to get up. After the vomiting came diarrhea and extreme fatigue. Their eyes became red and sore from the strain of retching and their mouths were parched. We had to examine each person carefully so as not to miss any of the other things that can also cause nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, things such as appendicitis, a bowel obstruction, or even ordinary heatstroke. I recalled Kitch’s warning that stomach pain that wakes a child in the middle of the night is always serious.

  Rudy called an emergency meeting of all staff.

  “This is a very aggressive virus,” Louise said.

  “Tell me about it,” someone mumbled, going outside for air.

  “It’s the bubonic plague,” someone said glumly. “Everyone’s gonna get it.”

  “This thing’s gone viral,” Matti said, putting down his guitar. He picked it up again and wiped it all over with antiviral cleanser before putting it away in its case. He was looking unwell himself. Even those who weren’t sick were feeling queasy. They also were caring for sick kids and knew the chances were high they might get the bug, too. All we could do was try to contain it with frequent, thorough handwashing. Isolation at camp was going to be difficult and probably already too late.

  “The bad news is that it is highly infectious and if you get it, you’ll feel rotten,” Louise said, “but the good news is that it is short-lived and you’ll all recover.”

  “That’s great,” they said sarcastically.

  “After two or three days of misery, you’ll get better,” Louise went on to say. “It’s rough – I won’t lie to you – but you’ll all survive. What we’re going to have to do is redouble our efforts to control it, or else it will turn out to be a disastrous summer.”

  Many were feeling like it was already. The burden of caring for sick kids and keeping the others well and preoccupied was wearing on them, but they soldiered on.

  We beefed up the handwashing blitz. Rudy installed new, portable handwashing facilities and bottles of hand sanitizer were placed on each table in the dining hall. We ordered cases of rehydration fluids to replace lost electrolytes (salts and minerals) and glucose (sugar); gallon jugs of antiviral cleaner; boxes of vinyl gloves, disposable masks and gowns; and ten-pound bags of kitty litter to absorb messes and smells. Alice and I worried about vulnerable campers like Steven whose immobility put him at risk; a girl with Crohn’s disease; a boy with a metabolic disorder; and most especially, Daniel, who had diabetes. And there were others, too.

  Everyone was either sick or worried sick. The virus was the main topic of conversation.

  “Am I going to get it?” so many children asked me.

  “I hope not, but if you do, you’ll get better. Keep washing your hands.”

  In the midst of all of this, ordinary wounds still needed bandaging, itchy bug bites needed soothing, and twisted ankles needed icing and taping. In fact, a minor injury that occurred back on the very first evening of camp was still keeping us busy with a time-consuming follow-up. It had been pouring rain and Xiu-Ling had run in ahead of Frankie, screaming that Frankie had fallen off the porch. Frankie limped in tragically, supported on one side by her dripping wet counsellor and on the other by Xiu-Ling, who’d run back to help her. Xiu-Ling was wearing a crazy hat that had a short pole on top to which was attached an open umbrella, and she kept her head cocked at an extreme angle in order to offer Frankie cover from the rain.

  “How did this happen?” I tried to keep a straight face at this comical sight.

  “She fell into the bushes and they were
thorny,” Xiu-Ling explained.

  Alice and I cleaned her up and covered her scrapes. But every evening since then, she came back to us to have the bandages changed. Painstakingly, we removed them as Frankie whimpered. “Oooh, please be careful,” she pleaded. “Ouch, ouch ouch!” We told her it would be easier if we did it quickly rather than prolong the agony but she wouldn’t hear of such a drastic approach. It was the third night of the gastro bug, the place was packed with sick kids, and Alice and I had no patience for the drawn-out procedure. Besides, by then, her scrapes had mostly healed. Meanwhile, we were hopping busy: kids were being carried in, the examining rooms were full, the waiting room was packed, and there was a lineup out onto the porch.

  I looked at Frankie’s sad face. “Frankie, can you do it yourself, tonight, please?”

  “No, no!” She shook her head. “I need you to do it and it’s Cupcake, remember?”

  “I’ll do it, but only if you let me do it fast, Cupcake.”

  “Me no likey.” She backed off, her eyes large behind her glasses.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time, right now.” For the Band-Aid ceremony.

  “I’ll do it for you!” offered Xiu-Ling. “Please let me, Cuppy-Cake? You likey?”

  I stepped back to watch this play out. Let Cookie be the bad guy. I watched Xiu-Ling distract Frankie with another silly joke and then in one smooth motion, ripped off the bandage. “Ta-da!” Xiu-Ling held it in the air, waved it like a flag.

  Frankie was stunned, uncertain how to react. Should she cry out because it was supposed to hurt? Be furious at me for allowing Xiu-Ling to do this to her? Be angry at Xiu-Ling for tricking her? Or would Frankie make another decision altogether?

  I busied myself, watching them out of the corner of my eye and thinking about these everyday choices: to cope or not; to be strong or to dissolve; to choose hope or despair, rise above it or sink down low. I readied myself to celebrate or console. Finally, Frankie made her decision. She burst out laughing, the surest sign of triumph! “Yay, Frankie!” a roar went up around the waiting room. She grinned at her achievement. Cookie and Cupcake went out arm in arm, laughing hysterically.