by Tilda Shalof
I also enjoyed observing the CIT “activities of leadership development.” One activity was a game called “Which Would You Rather?” that posed thought-provoking questions such as: Would you rather see into the future or communicate with animals? Would you rather be famous or smart? Their Truth or Dare game must have been abandoned hastily because I kept coming upon the cards strewn all over the campgrounds, blown around by the wind.
Truth: What do you do when you really want to punish your parents?
Dare: Remove your top or eat a bug.
Truth: What’s a more important political issue: poverty or the environment?
Dare: Perform your best “sick” routine you do to punk the nurse.
Another leadership session started off well but soon erupted in a messy food fight. They were making a map of the Middle East, with gumdrops for Egypt, raisins for Jordan, popcorn for Israel, and licorice sticks for the West Bank, when suddenly, they started hurtling gobs of chocolate pudding (the Mediterranean Sea) and blobs of green Jell-O (Sea of Galilee) at one another. Well, one look at that scene and anyone could see why there’d never be peace in that region!
On one of my last nights at camp there was an emergency. It was the most terrifying situation I’d ever faced as a nurse – not because I didn’t know what to do, but because I had to face it totally alone and completely ill-equipped to treat it properly.
Mike banged at my window in the middle of the night during a rainstorm, shouting, “Hey, Nurse Tilda! Wake up! Come quickly! Someone’s having a seizure!” I jumped out of bed, fortunately still in my clothes, and charged out the door. My heart was pounding as we raced to one of the Comrades cabins. I had no idea what to expect. I ran in and found thirteen-year-old Amanda lying on the floor in the midst of violent convulsions. This was a true full-blown or grand mal seizure. The other girls and the counsellors were gathered around her, terrified, and I pushed them aside to get to her. I knelt down and turned Amanda on her side and cleared the space around her of people, furniture, and obstacles. Had we been in the hospital, I would have given her a shot of Valium and called a “code,” to summon the resuscitation team, but here, all I could do was try to keep her safe while we waited it out. After a few long minutes, the seizure eased up and she lay there, unmoving and unconscious but breathing, slowly and deeply. I took her pulse; it was steady but rapid. Wheels was already waiting outside the cabin in the van. I thought about calling for an ambulance, in case Amanda deteriorated on the way to the hospital, but I let myself be persuaded by Wheels that he could get us there faster. He came in and helped carry her to the car. We laid her on the back seat and I crouched on the floor, next to her.
As we drove to the hospital the rainstorm turned into a raging electrical thunderstorm of biblical proportions. Visibility was poor, even with the high-beam headlights on. There were no streetlights on those winding country roads and it was only during the intermittent split seconds when the sky cracked open in a burst of light that we could see where we were going.
I thought through all the possible scenarios. What if Amanda went into cardiac arrest? Mentally, I prepared myself to perform CPR. What if her airway became obstructed? If that happened, she would need an emergency tracheostomy; I’d have to cut into her windpipe and breathe air into her lungs. I didn’t even have a scalpel or an airway with which to perform such surgery, much less the qualifications or the guts to actually do it. But if I didn’t make an airway, she’d have no oxygen flow to her vital organs. I noticed a plastic straw on the floor of the back seat, probably from someone’s trip to the Dairy Queen. I picked it up. Mentally, I landmarked her neck for the cricothyroid membrane, the place I’d have to slice open with a scalpel (if I had one) and then insert the dirty straw to make an airway for her. In the hospital, I had assisted in hundreds of these procedures on my patients, both emergency ones and planned ones, but under completely different conditions! I held on tightly to the crumpled straw in one hand and to Amanda’s hand with my other. Oh, why did I listen to Wheels? I should have called for an ambulance!
Amanda continued to breathe. I shone a flashlight into her eyes to check the response of her pupils. They were equal and reactive, which was a good sign, but when I pressed down on her breastbone, there was only a minimal response to that painful stimulus, indicating that she was still deeply unconscious.
Oh, hurry, hurry, get us to the hospital. Wheels had to drive slower than usual because it was so dark and treacherous.
“Wow, it’s like Jurassic Park,” he said as another bolt of lightning turned night into day and then back to night again.
“It’s like a horror movie, except we’re in it,” I said gloomily from the back seat. What was I doing here? I wish I was back at home, in my bed, safe with Ivan.
“Hey, Nurse Tilda, don’t be stressed. Amanda seems better, now.”
“She is seriously ill.”
“Oh, I’ve seen worse, much worse.”
“This has the potential to be worse.”
“Oh, well, the potential.”
Although she didn’t appear to be seizing, I was afraid Amanda might be in a state of an underlying seizure, called status epilepticus, which could cause permanent brain damage. “Amanda! Wake up,” I shouted at her, fruitlessly.
“She’s tired, let her sleep,” Wheels suggested.
“She’s not asleep, she’s unconscious,” I said. You fool.
“I’ve brought kids to the hospital who were in way worse shape than this. Last year we had this kid who fell through a window and, like, lost almost all of his blood. I sat with him for hours in the er. They just bandaged him up and sent us packing. Most of the people waiting in the er don’t even need to be there,” he said cheerfully. “You practically have to be having a dying spell before they admit ya, these days. I’m sure they’ll send us right back to camp. You’ll see, she’ll be back at camp tonight.”
“She is staying in the hospital, and then she’s going home.”
“Listen, Camp Na-Gee-La has a perfect record. We’ve never sent a camper home. Besides, do you know who her parents are?” He told me their names, a politician mother and movie producer father. By that time we had arrived at the hospital. He pulled into the parking lot, straight into the reserved spot of Dr. McNab, Chief of Surgery. “Don’t worry. He knows me. No explanation necessary.” He hitched up his pants, scooped Amanda into his arms, and carried her into the emergency department.
The triage nurse took her immediately. The doctor examined her and quickly administered an intravenous drug to try to break the seizure. By then, Amanda was beginning to wake up, but was groggy and confused. She had no recollection of what had happened. They admitted her for further tests, including a ct scan of her brain. It was three in the morning, and I had to call Amanda’s parents. Shocked and distraught as they were, they said they would be leaving shortly from Toronto to be with her. I went back out to the waiting room, which was indeed full, as Wheels had predicted.
“Boo!” Wheels jumped out at me from behind a plastic decorative tree. “See, what’d I tell you? Half these people don’t even need to be here. Where’s Amanda? Did she have a good nap?”
I gritted my teeth in response.
I tried to snooze on the drive back to camp, but Wheels played the radio and chattered non-stop. Rain was still coming down, but the heavy storm had blown over.
“I’ve been at plenty of other camps but this one’s the best. I used to go to this Johnny Appleseed–type place, run by real Native people who were trying to take back their culture. They said Thanksgiving prayers to the trees and the wind – you know, like ‘I thank the Lord for the birds and the bees and the apple trees.’” He took his hands off the wheel, clasped them, and closed his eyes in fake prayer. “Me? I’m more a rub-a-dub-dub-thanks-for-the-grub Yayyy, Ggggod! kind of guy, but hey, whatever floats your boat. That place was wild! We got to go to their sweat lodge and smoke the peace pipe.”
“Keep your hands on the wheel!” I sat up to shout at h
im. “Watch the road!”
“Yup, my parents always sent me off to camps. I guess they needed a break from me, no explanation necessary there, ha ha … Oh, I’ve been told I’m a handful. They tried to put me on meds, but I don’t need them any more. Obviously, I can deal.”
Just get us back safely, I prayed.
“Once they sent me to one of those 4h camps in the States. You know, all that head, heart, hands, and health stuff – it made me puke. So goody-goody! Yeah, right! One summer the nurse came up with her daughter who was a counsellor and they were both sleeping with the same counsellor. Can you believe it? Hey, anyone you dig at camp?”
At that moment, I was grateful to see the entrance to camp, thus ending Wheels’s monologue.
“Good night,” I said as he let me out in front of the infirmary. I was ready for bed but by now the rain had stopped, the sun was up, and it was almost time to dole out the morning meds.
Later that day, I spoke with Amanda’s doctor in the hospital. The brain scan had showed a small cerebral bleed, a tiny stroke, that likely caused the seizure. She would be going home to Toronto to be examined by a neurologist and undergo more tests. She would definitely not be coming back to camp. I never found out how she was after that. It was often like that in the ICU too. We got our patients through a life-threatening situation and stabilized them. Once they progressed to the floor, they went home and we never heard how they fared. Our job was to get them through the crisis.
There were only three more days left at camp and it looked like I was going to make it! I sat reviewing my notes and making sure they were in order. I had written them one quiet day when all activities had suddenly been cancelled. (I soon found out why: The latest Harry Potter tome had arrived and everyone who could lay their hands on a copy was busy reading.)
Freddie A. Eleven-year-old with sore finger, painful after two days, improved after x-ray and ice cream cone.
Daliah C. Camper claims to have been bitten by a rattlesnake. States she heard “rattles.” On examination, no findings. Possible insect bite? Camper kept overnight for observation in infirmary. Vital signs taken every four hours. Condition stable. Slept well. No signs of neuro-toxic venom poisoning.
Zack D. Counsellor. Knee wound still infected. Edges are macerated and red, still not approximating and very little granulation tissue. Appointments made with a doctor in town, but he refuses to go.
Allan E. CIT. Canoe dropped on big toe, left foot. Large blood bubble under the nail. Very painful. Ice applied and drainage with sterile, sharp object.
I left it at that short note for Allan E., but I’d never forget that toe! It must have throbbed, but he tried not to let on just how painful it was, though his eyes teared up and his fists were clenched. I knew what I had to do after reading about this very thing in my first-aid book. “This is going to seem scary,” I warned him, “but it will relieve the pressure.” With Sarge’s cigarette lighter, I heated a needle to a high temperature and inserted it into the centre of the blood spot. The hot needle melted the nail, the blood spurted out, and the pain was immediately relieved. Allan smiled, which was the biggest reward. It’s so much easier to inflict discomfort when you focus on the fact that it will make things better in the end.
It was my last night at camp. There was an outdoor barbeque, but Sarge’s cooking had turned me into a temporary vegetarian. (At dinner one evening, not long after the rotten meat fiasco, I had decided to take a chance on beef stew à la Sarge. My fork slid down into a decidedly un-stew-like object. I dug around and pulled out a used Band-Aid.) Eating Sarge’s food was my “Fear Factor.” So, at the barbeque, I played it safe. As I munched on a condiment burger made of ketchup, relish, mustard, pickles, and lettuce piled on a bun, Mike came over to say goodbye and graciously thank me. “Will you be back next summer, Nurse Tilda?”
No chance! I shook my head no.
“It was wild at times,” he admitted, “but that’s camp. I hope you felt the love. Anyway, the main thing is that everyone had fun. You had fun, didn’t you, Nurse Tilda?” Mike asked.
I couldn’t answer him right then because I was choked up with emotions. It was a mixture of relief, pent-up frustration, and gratitude that it hadn’t been any worse – and it could have been so much worse. Fun was not enough for me. I needed safety measures in place, a semblance of order, and … well, something else. Overriding all of my emotions was a nagging disappointment. I had come to camp to get outdoors but had spent most of my time indoors. I wanted to understand the appeal of camp, yet I now understood it less. Worst of all, I hadn’t connected with a single person there, and despite all the hijinks and hilarity going on around me, I’d been lonely and stressed out the entire time. My kids had had a great time, but I knew we wouldn’t be coming back here again.
That night there was a farewell campfire. It was chilly and the kids were wrapped in blankets and huddled close around the fire. I stayed just outside the circle where I could still feel the heat and watch the flames work their magic.
Afterwards I walked back to the infirmary to pack my stuff. We were leaving first thing in the morning. The door to the infirmary was closed and the screen door barricaded shut with a chair on the inside. I knocked on the door and rattled the door knob. Eventually, Gidget and Moon Doggie came out, dishevelled and flushed, their arms draped about each other. I should have known. I’d seen rumpled sheets in there before. I guess I should have been turning down the blanket and leaving condoms on the pillow like chocolate mints!
“She ruined our fun,” I heard them say outside my window, “but what a great little love nest while it lasted.”
They left me some poetic graffiti on the cabin wall:
We made beautiful music in here.
Gidget played the meat flute and Moon Doggie hummed on her harmonica!
The next morning, my kids were sad to be leaving. I tempted them with the promise of bubble baths, unlimited television, gourmet meals – some of the things I’d been missing. “When we get home, I’m going to give you kids the royal treatment,” I told them.
“Mom, you’re the royal treatment,” Max said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
The three of us were quiet as we drove out of camp. The boys looked out the windows and didn’t even ask for the return of their electronic games. As I glanced into the rearview mirror and bid a silent farewell to Camp Na-Gee-La, I noticed that the recent storm had blown away the sign at the gate.
I returned my gaze to the road ahead and we got started on the drive home.
* I was only marginally aware that I was losing it.
5
THE BUSINESS OF FUN
By the time January rolled around (and a bitterly cold one, at that) the unavoidable bugaboo topic came up among the mothers in the school playground. “What about summer vacation?” we asked each other. “What are you doing with your kids? Have you decided about camp?”
I came up with a radical idea and told them about it. I proposed to spend the summer at home with my kids. We’d go on fabulous excursions around town and drives out to the country. We’d equip ourselves with all the supplies needed to build Popsicle-stick picture frames, lanyards, papier mâché masks, and clay pots. We’d do everything it took to stave off the dreaded “b” word.* I’d call it Camp Mom.
“You’ll never pull it off,” they said.
My kids were not pleased – to say the least. They loved camp. Play dates with Mom were not going to cut it. Besides, it wasn’t my companionship they craved. They wanted to be with their own kind, other children – and that’s probably the way it should be.
I thought about sending them to camp by themselves like most parents did. It wasn’t as if my kids needed, or even wanted, me there. As camp nurse, I’d have to be on call at night, face the daily mess hall feeding frenzy, and deal with attitude from rude teenagers. The freebie of the barter arrangement wasn’t worth it for the work and aggravation it entailed. Still, I had this fantasy of being that iconic camp nurse, hardy, youthful,
and adored by all the kids. I wasn’t ready to give up my dream.
Spring came quickly and I had to make plans. I perused camp brochures and advertisements. One day I found a camp that looked like it might suit my kids, and me, too.
Camp Carson seemed in every way to be the exact opposite from dangerous, fly-by-night, bare-bones, Camp Na-Gee-La. It was an established, accredited, well-organized camp that offered every conceivable activity and amenity. At first, the name caught my attention. I assumed it was in homage to Rachel Carson, author of Silent Spring, a book my father loved and had given me when I was twelve. Back in the 1960s, Carson had been one of the first environmentalists and had raised the alarm about pesticides, acid rain, and the depletion of the ozone layer. I imagined Camp Carson would be a back-to-nature sort of place with homespun values. However, I soon met the camp director, Bruce Carson, no relation. Oh well.
Still, Camp Carson’s glossy brochure was enticing. It was filled with photographs of smiling campers kayaking, canoeing, waterskiing, windsurfing and wakeboarding, doing arts and crafts, and horseback riding. There were also a few features I couldn’t have even imagined, such as a ropes course (including a “climbing wall” and a “trust bridge”), an extreme skateboard park, a video production studio, cyber-arts workshop, and state-of-the-art music studio where kids could record their own compositions, even make a demo.
“Camp Carson – a place where friendships are formed and memories are made,” was the camp slogan.
How beautiful is that?
“Providing a safe and fun summer experience for your child.”
What could be better?
“A place where every child can have a wow experience.”
