Читать книгу Confessions of a School Nurse - Michael Alexander - Страница 14

‘You will let her rest now,’ demanded Mr Kowski. My finger itched closer to the ‘end call’ button, but I controlled my temper and my ego. Mr Kowski is far from the first, and will definitely not be the last person to have a go at me. The skill is in keeping your voice steady and calm.

Mr Kowski was calling from Moscow and was Irina’s agent.

Irina had just turned fifteen, but was already a regular in the first couple of months of school; at least two to three times a week. As far I could tell she had received great care – the camomile tea, late pass to class, the full check-up of subjective symptoms.

She’d come to the health centre this morning at two minutes to eight, right before the bell for morning class.

Irina claimed she was up all night vomiting, and had not slept, and was having to constantly run to the toilet. But I didn’t believe her.

Why didn’t I believe her?

Everything was normal. Her stomach was quiet, her temperature fine, her pulse and blood pressure normal, her lips and tongue moist, with none of that furry ugliness you normally get when your stomach contents are forced up and out. But people can have normal observations and still be sick. What they don’t do is look so great.

Irina’s eyes weren’t tired, they were lively, and she smelled good, of quality perfume, not the stench of recycled acid and dehydration. She’d also waited until the last minute to see me as well. When you’re that sick, you can’t wait to get someone to help. I find the genuinely sick waiting for me to open the door at seven in the morning still in their pyjamas.

After an examination I had tried to send her to her lessons, with no success. Instead of tears, she chose a more formidable weapon. She pulled out her iPhone.

Irina’s parents were furious, and like many of our students from non-English speaking countries, they had someone else speak on their behalf. Saudi and South American families usually have a secretary, a family friend who takes care of business, while the Eastern European families have agents. They use an intermediary either because their English is not good enough, or because they’re too busy to deal with minor issues like a sick child.

The family secretaries tend to be nice, while the agents are rarely so friendly. ‘I’m paid to be angry,’ one agent even confessed. ‘If a parent shouts at me, then I’m to shout at you.’ But I wasn’t going to ask Mr Kowski if his bravado was just an act.

I’m convinced yelling is a cultural thing. In some places, to yell at those under you, especially if you’re the one paying their salary, is normal, and I’ve even had students admit that if their fathers didn’t yell at their employees, nothing would be done. ‘They expect it,’ they explained.

I told Mr Kowski that, from my medical experience, Irina appeared well. ‘Are you saying she’s lying?’ His tone had quietened, but the threat no less.

‘Yes, she’s lying,’ I wanted to shout. Even good kids try to pull a fast one sometimes.

‘I’m not saying she wasn’t sick. What I am saying is that physically she seems well, and seems to have made a fantastic recovery.’

‘That may be so, but you make her rest, or else.’ Some battles are not worth fighting; they’ll cost you too much.

Irina spent the morning asleep. She had no further vomiting and I did not see her get up once to go to the bathroom.

I had to find a better way to get to the truth.

To aid me in my quest for certainty, I developed the PMU test. If a female turns up to the clinic in the morning, claiming she has a sore throat and has been up all night vomiting, but her make-up is immaculate and she looks great, then she has failed the Positive Make-Up test, and I am less likely to believe her. Obviously, this test is only applicable to girls.

Take Sara. Sara couldn’t see: ‘Sir, my eyes, everything is blurry,’ she insisted. She actually reached down, feeling for the chair behind her. This was one of the more unusual presentations, but I wasn’t concerned. She’d not only navigated her way out of her dorm and into the health centre, but her eye-liner was straight and her mascara not too heavy or too light, but just right. Her eyesight improved dramatically when I volunteered to be her guide and walk her to class. She nearly missed her English test.

Whereas Angela hadn’t slept an ounce. ‘My diarrhoea has been non-stop.’ She limped in with the assistance of her roommate, because that’s what diarrhoea does I guess. Both of them had perfect make-up. Obviously the bathroom didn’t smell bad enough to keep them away from the mirror, but I kept Angela for one hour during which I saw no symptoms. After forgetting to limp around my office, she made her way back to class having missed her PE class.

I can’t remember any patient in my twenty years of nursing putting on make-up after a miserable night spent in the loo emptying the contents of their stomach. I’m not talking about a touch of lippy, or a brush with some colour, I’m talking about the sort of make-up you use when preparing to take on the town, the complete works.

This was a breakthrough: a simple positive or negative test, which would help me sort the real from the fakes.

But unfortunately, it was only a matter of weeks before some of the students figured this out.

I’m not sure how they cottoned on to it, although I suspect Irina was the first to make the connections. A month after my run in with her agent, Irina turned up again with the same stomach problem, but this time without the layers of make-up, no perfume, a nice bedhead of hair, and wearing pyjamas.

Now I was stuck with a healthy looking patient, with no symptoms, no make-up, claiming she had a sore throat and had been up all night vomiting.

‘Who are you?’ I said when I first saw Irina in such a state. Oddly, without her make-up she actually looked healthier and brighter, more natural.

‘Sir, I’m sick, don’t make fun of me.’

It was at this stage that I gave up. If a child is so determined not to go to school, my job is not to figure out what is fact or fiction, but to go by their history. So I let her go to bed, but I made sure she had a bowl to throw up in, and told her I expected to see some vomit, or else.

After nearly ten years looking after school children, I’ve learned to pick the genuine from the not so genuine, but my greatest fear is missing the one child who looks only mildly unwell and sending them on their way with something major. This problem is exacerbated by the fact that on a day when there are activities, such as skiing, hiking or swimming, I can easily see up to fifty kids, all trying to get a medical excuse. Everyone loved such activities in my time, but this generation is different, delicate even.

But back then, I was still finding my feet. I had to rethink my strategy as to how best to manage the children.