Why why why...

I had to re-check a couple of kindergarten boys who had failed my initial hearing screening. It's not unusual at that point: I do my screenings in the hallway, and sometimes the excitement makes the little ones unable to focus long enough to pass the screening exam. I met the teacher at the hallway entrance as they were returning after recess, and she pointed one of the boys out to me and said the other was still in the bathroom. The kindergarten bathroom is left propped open so as to minimize funny business, and I could see the little boy's feet dancing around the stall. He finally finished up and I saw his feet near the stall door, seemingly poised to leave. Next thing...he lays down on his stomach, and crawls out of the stall underneath the door. Imagine his surprise when he stood and dusted  himself off and saw me at the doorway, hands on my hips, eyebrows raised, and trying very, very hard not to laugh.

Sadly, I didn't feel I should let the kid get away with it. I told his teacher, who had him turn his card from green to yellow (I think there are consequences when it gets to red). I was as much amused by this exit as I was disgusted by the germs that must be all over the front of himself, and received no explanation as to why he went that route. I don't understand the logic of a five year old, obviously.

Justified

The most terrifying part about my job is that when it comes to medical decisions, I'm it. I have friends that are teachers that envy the schedule and flexibility; for example, I don't have 30 kids knocking at my door when I get to school after the first bell rings. My response is always that they wouldn't want to be the one everyone's looking at in an emergency, and I usually win with that. Twice last week I had heavily wheezing kids in my office; for both, I took a listen to their lungs with my trusty stethoscope and was pretty alarmed at what I heard. Neither said they had ever had asthma before or used an inhaler, and in both cases I was able to reach the parents and they were taken to the doctor. The result of both: inhalers prescribed. It is totally satisfying when you're right in this job, because even though I've heard plenty of wheezing in my short time here, there's no one right there that you can ask for a second opinion.  (Not to mention the parents appreciation when a trip to the E.R. wasn't for naught.)

On a completely different note, I helped a nurse screen at a different site this morning. As I pulled up, the paramedics and fire department were in the parking lot. A student had fainted, everything was fine, but all I could think was, "Really?" I have seen the fire department and local ambulance company way more than necessary, and I can't even get away from them when I go somewhere totally new.

It's Still Red Ribbon Week

After hearing a student was offering drugs to his classmates, the fifth grade student (yes, that's 5th grade), was summoned to the principal's office. A search of his backpack turned up a makeshift pipe with marijuana residue, and the student confessed both that he does smoke and was wanting to distribute. The cops were called, the parents called, and the student was picked up. All any of us in the office could think was: that poor kid. He apparently brought Hustler magazine to school as a kindergartener, at that time saying that his dad didn't want to bring it to work so he stuck it in the kid's backpack. It's not the kid's fault that his parent(s?) are inept; and this incident reaffirms my believe there should be a license required to have a child. Oh, and it's Red Ribbon Week: this all took place under a zillion red ribbons and decorations suggesting we're too cool for drugs at this school.

As part of Red Ribbon Week, each day has a theme. Today's was pajama day, the first spirit day I've ever "dressed up" for. Naturally, while in my pajamas, I forgot my wallet and needed gas to get home, so I had to a) borrow money from a secretary and b) actually go in to pay and be seen at the gas station, in my pajamas, in the middle of the afternoon. It was also one of the first days I didn't bring enough to eat and had to go to the cafeteria and ask for spare food for the hungry nurse, trudging through the cafeteria in my pajamas.

World Series 2012, Game One

I work close enough to the San Francisco Bay Area to be feeling the effects of the baseball fever that has spread among residents. (Where were all these fans a month ago? Suddenly I have company.) Nowhere was it more apparent than at my elementary school, where it's Red Ribbon/Spirit Week, and today's theme was Sports Day. Everyone was dressed up in sports gear, much of it in support of the SF Giants. A tiny first grader was in my office, saying her stomach hurt, and I've been doing this job long enough to know that if I can keep them talking and distracted, most stomachaches will soon be cured. She was wearing a Buster Posey shirt, and I asked if she liked Buster Posey:

Tummyache Girl: He's my boyyyyyyfriend. 

Me: Oh really? Does he know that?

Tummyache Girl: Well, no, but every time I see him on TV, I go like this [demonstrates fainting]. 

Me: Well, he's playing tonight and if you have a date to see him on TV, your tummy better start feeling better. 

Tummyache Girl: You're right! I have a date! I'll see you later!

And out she skipped. Those are the moments I love my job, much better than the hours I am continuing to spend trying to work with Time Bomb diabetic. 

Vision charting

After two years of begging, I finally got my hands on a near vision chart. It's pretty straightforward, like every vision chart, you have the student read the symbols. Unfortunately though, there's a symbol I can't explain in this one. Is it an apple without the stem? A deformed heart? Or, the kids' favorite, a butt? I don't know, but I wish whoever (whomever?) invented this chart thought about the children that would be looking at them.

TGIF

I can't pretend Time Bomb diabetic isn't sucking the life out of me; I feel like this entire week has been phone calls and emails in relation to her. It's made me particularly thankful for my younger kids that are always good for a laugh. I asked Spitfire diabetic, who is 9 going on 29, if she was dressing up for Halloween. She scoffed, and when I asked why, she said, "That's what stores are for." Because what silly kid goes door to door asking for candy when you can just buy it yourself at a store?

Talking to a wall.

After I checked my kiddos in Diabetic Land, I returned to my middle school to find Time Bomb diabetic about to eat lunch in my office. Another nurse is in charge of her now, but I happened to get back early and beat the other nurse. Imagine how fast the blood drained in me when I asked her to check her blood sugar and she showed me the number: 39.