Confessions of a School Nurse

Confessions of a School Nurse is part of the bestselling ‘Confessions’ series. (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Michael Alexander (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Disclaimer (#u6d216568-54a3-537a-9ef6-5659c47e0a8f)

The stories described in this book are based on my experiences working as a school nurse in boarding schools over the past ten years. To protect confidentiality, some parts are fictionalised and all places and names are changed, but nonetheless they remain an honest reflection of the variety and crazy goings-on witnessed during a decade’s worth of school nursing – surprising as that might come to seem!

PROLOGUE (#u6d216568-54a3-537a-9ef6-5659c47e0a8f)

A Taste (#u6d216568-54a3-537a-9ef6-5659c47e0a8f)

Marcus made sure no one was sitting near the door before closing it.

‘It’s really personal,’ he whispered to me over his shoulder.

‘It has to be a guy,’ he’d insisted when he arrived at the bustling nurses’ office. Most requests of this nature are girls asking to see a female nurse; though this was only my first week in the role, Marcus was the first student to ask to see a man, so my mind went into overdrive imagining the ways in which I could impart my knowledge in a reassuring, helpful manner to a young man in obvious need.

As Marcus turned from the door to face me, his hands delved into the front of his pants. He wasn’t in uniform; he wore loose track pants instead. I got the feeling than an inspection of that area was on the horizon. He refused a seat, so I asked him what the problem was.

‘You won’t tell anyone?’ he answered.

‘Of course I won’t tell anyone, just explain what’s wrong.’

‘They’re sore. My nuts are sore. And the left one seems bigger.’

Ah!

I could either take a look at Marcus now, or wait for him to be seen at the local doctor’s office. I chose the latter. There was no need for the poor lad to be exposing himself more than necessary. It’s not that Dr Fritz wouldn’t have trusted my judgment, but there’s more to feeling someone’s nuts than the average guy thinks. Is there a lump? Does it move freely? Is it attached to the testicle? Is the spermatic cord twisted? It would be up to Dr Fritz to decide what to do – whether it would require an urgent scan today or was something that could wait – so he would need to examine the lad properly. And besides, this environment wasn’t ideal for an intimate examination; the south wall of my office was made of glass, a window that looked out upon the mountains and a large terrace … a window with no curtain.

But Marcus was too quick for me.

‘You have to see them,’ he declared, whipping his pants down. Looking up, he gave a short scream.

No students were on the terrace, but Mrs Driscoll, the headmaster’s wife, was there with what looked like a prospective family … admiring the view.

Despite the incident, the prospective girl did enroll. Rumour has it she insisted.

Now don’t worry, I’ll get back to Marcus’s nuts in a minute, but before I do, let me tell you how I came to be here on this snowy mountain.

The first day (#u6d216568-54a3-537a-9ef6-5659c47e0a8f)

Why did I become a school nurse?

At the age of 32, I was a skilled professional with more than ten years’ experience working in England and New Zealand. I was a highly trained emergency specialist, who had worked in some of the biggest hospitals and busiest departments in the world, and the money wasn’t too bad. Why would I leave all of that? At that time, school nursing didn’t even seem like real nursing to me.

But, I needed a healthier lifestyle. Thirty pounds an hour sounds great at first, but the irregular night shifts – one on, one off, two on then one off – it ruins you. That’s what temp or agency nursing is about in London; you take the work when you can, even if that means spending your weekends with a bunch of drunks, dealing with abuse and violence, as well as the two-hour commute to and from the hospital. I’d chosen that life, but it’s not doable long term, and besides, there was a much bigger factor at play. My partner and I were expecting our first child, and I wanted a safe, healthy environment in which to raise my family.

My choice seemed simple, go back to my homeland, New Zealand, and get my old job back, or find work somewhere in Europe that had regular hours, no drunks, no night shifts, no underground and clean air. I didn’t feel that going back to New Zealand to work in a regular ward or a small emergency department was right for me, especially as my partner had never even been to my hometown, and we both wanted to stay close to her family for our first child.

So when I saw an advert for a nurse to work at a boarding school in the Alps, I thought all my wishes had come true. It not only seemed to fit all my requirements, they also even offered me a chalet in the middle of a ski resort. What more could a nurse with half a dozen ski seasons behind him ask for?

I applied and after a phone interview, background and police check (I’d be living and working with children, after all) I was offered the job.

Walking into my new office on that first day with Mr Driscoll, the headmaster, made me forget about big city life almost immediately.

The southern wall of the school consisted of a window looking out onto towering peaks over 3000 metres, the highest already capped with snow, despite only being late August. I felt a pang of guilt thinking the view was even better than what I was used to back in New Zealand.

Yes. I knew I’d made the right decision for me and my budding family. I felt this could be home.

‘You’re free to do as you see fit,’ Mr Driscoll said as he showed us around the clinic. My colleagues in crime, Justine and Michaela, glanced at me in surprise. None of us had ever worked in a boarding school before; we had all come from the frontline of the nursing profession, used to being surrounded by large teams. We had taken the leap from the Accident and Emergency to an elite boarding school. We had a clean slate.

Justine was from Alaska. She had spent the last ten years in emergency medicine and had come over with her husband who had a job as a maths teacher at the school.

Michaela was from Minneapolis and specialised in paediatric emergency medicine. She had also come with her husband; they had always wanted to live in Europe.

‘With your combined experience, I trust you’ll do a great job,’ Mr Driscoll added. And with that, he left us to it. The school was to be our playground.

On our first day at work, we found out that we were alone; alone and in charge of 400 students, some of the world’s most privileged children. There was no on-site doctor lurking in the background who we could turn to for help; no alarm button to press when things turned sour; no oxygen, no intravenous access, none of the equipment that I’d gotten used to having on hand, ready for instant use.

The 400 children came from over fifty nationalities, and while the majority spoke English to a high standard at least ten per cent knew little or none of the language. Other than English, the next most common tongue was Russian.

The other nurses and I were to be responsible for keeping the children healthy, taking care of them when they were ill or hurt, helping them to get along with each other, counselling them through life’s hurdles, and arming them with the knowledge that comes from being an ‘old woman’ or ‘old man’ who has made it this far in life without too many major screw-ups (the fact that we’re not even grey doesn’t seem to matter to the kids).

I was looking forward to the challenge. No longer would I have to deal with shootings, stabbings, heart attacks, strokes, violent drunks or demented, incontinent or suicidal patients. Instead, I was going to be looking after fit, young, healthy teenagers. How hard could that be?

The parents had spent a fortune to send their kids here: 100,000 euros per child per year. I assumed they would be hardworking, motivated, intelligent, considerate, good-natured, balanced individuals …

However, as you’ll discover over the course of this book, I’m not always great with assumptions.

Marcus’s jewels (#u6d216568-54a3-537a-9ef6-5659c47e0a8f)

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Marcus cried, whipping up his tracksuit bottoms to hide himself from the family crowd gathered outside.

I bundled Marcus out the office, into the car and off to the local doctor’s office. Thankfully, Dr Fritz’s surgery is in the centre of the village, only a five-minute drive away.

Proximity and willingness alone made Dr Fritz the unofficial school doctor. In addition to running a full-time GP practice, he was also our first port of call if there was an issue the nursing staff felt needed a doctor’s opinion, and we would make an appointment at his office and send the child along. Even on his time off, it was not uncommon for him to see our students if the matter was urgent. Dr Fritz was also there if a student needed specialist help, as he knew who the closest and best experts were, and referrals were made through him.

Like all born and bred mountain men, Dr Fritz is a no-nonsense man. He’s also one of the hardest working GPs I’ve ever met. He is always there during the day or available in the middle of the night, no matter what, and it wasn’t unusual for him to put in an eighty-hour week.

He even has the ‘unique quirks’ that often come not only with living in an isolated mountain village, but being the only GP for a whole community.

He was happy to see Marcus straight away. Pain in the testicles can be very serious. Torsion (a twisted spermatic cord) is a surgical emergency. Within minutes, the doctor had Marcus lying on the examination table.

He began his assessment as all doctors do, by examining the whole person and not just the affected part, and gradually worked his way to Marcus’s testicles. I had wondered if he was going to glove-up as he doesn’t always, and in this case didn’t, although he was completely professional in his exam. At one point Marcus raised an eyebrow and gave me a worried look, but he kept quiet. It isn’t wise to question any man who has your nuts resting in the palm of their bare hands.