Playing Nurse

You know, I never liked playing nurse very much.

Playing house, yes.

Playing Indians, yes.

Even playing cat/dog/horse or playing store, yes.

But playing nurse? Hm.

Playing “pretend” was a very important and frequent pastime as I was growing up. My best friend Jenny and I invented all sorts of excellent scenarios for make-believe—we were masters at pretend. In the summers we “cooked” gourmet dishes made from outdoor ingredients (our favorite was the abundant, yellow pollen from my backyard tree; even if the collection made her brother react violently with allergies, it made an intriguing “soup” when mixed with water).

We celebrated our dolls’ birthdays and threw elaborately creative parties with games, miniature homemade muffins on our tea sets, and perhaps a makeshift piñata (leftover Halloween candy in a paper bag).

We often bossed our little brothers or coerced them into playing with us. Once, the four of us marched through the woods as a “Nature Club,” shouting it in time while lugging a giant branch along with us for at least a mile of trail, making all the passerbys smile at our naïve energy (though I laugh with embarrassment, now).

I do recall playing nurse with Jenny; it was probably her idea every time. My brother was the placating patient, if we got bored of our silent dolls. We have a great picture of us, all dressed up with paper nurse hats and administering water and fishie-crackers to Elliott on a bed of blankets in the hall. I enjoyed the care-taking, the tucking in, the reading of stories… but never invented injury, or imagined serious blood or illness. How would we know where to begin with medicines? I left the diagnoses to Jenny. Without forecasting too soon, or passing judgment on childhood preferences, I would venture to say that I was never cut out for nursing.

Yet, here I am, discovering that being a high school dean is maybe 55% relationships and discipline control and 45% "nursing" (on a basic level, which is enough for me). Goodness! I have lost count of the daily incidents that require my “medical expertise,” from dislocated fingers in intramural football, mysterious stomach pains and general headaches, to serious allergic reactions to peanuts, a badly sprained ankle, a kidney stone, and a gall bladder infection. Not to mention the morning and nightly regular meds that are distributed from the dean’s office. I didn’t sign up for this. :)

It’s good to have an attitude of caretaking, anyway. Dean Fitting relieves some of the pressure by reminding us that we are not trained medical professionals: we won’t be able to handle the most serious of incidents on our own. At the same time, so much of this experience is providing for the needs of the kids in any way we can: emotionally, spiritually, and physically. If one kid has a head-splitting earache, I have no idea what to do for them longterm, but here: have some hot water in a Ziploc and lay down for a bit while I decide the next course of action. And as it turns out, when faced with an actual vomit situation, I remained remarkably calm and compassionate!

Without trying to sound pessimistic, there’s no other choice.  I have previously written on this, but I clearly remember the pivotal and horrifying realization (during said vomit incident) that I am IT. I am the dean. There is no higher authority, no other rescuer, no one else to clean up for me. No Jenny, in other words. In that case, I’ll try to channel my friend-- and others I know who delight in medical pursuits.

Playing nurse may never be my first preference—but it’s probably good for me. :)