Seen It All

Patricia is a beautiful, vibrant and good-humored woman who was an elementary school nurse in the same district in New Jersey for thirty-two years. When I asked her if she’s seen it all, she replied, “Seen it all and heard it all.”

Patricia told me that not only did the kids come into her office for their issues, but that parents and teachers spent a good deal of time in her office, too. She knew all about the marital problems of most adults who came in to sit with her and usually knew about her students’ conflicts at home long before their teachers and even sometimes before their parents did. But most of all, she said, “People just needed to talk.” And Patricia was there to listen.

She said that she always kept quiet games and coloring books for the kids and music on the radio turned down low. And she always made herself available for chit-chat. I asked if she could tell the fakers right off the bat and she said, “After a while I got pretty good at telling. Headaches and stomachaches were the most popular because they couldn’t be seen. Sometimes they were bored but most times, they just needed a break. Or someone to talk to. If a kid trusts you enough, they’ll start to tell you things.”

If she saw something was amiss with a student, or was told something in confidence, she always waited for the child’s teacher to, “form his or her own opinion.” Then, if the teacher came to her with a similar finding or hunch, she could corroborate what she knew and they could work towards a solution together.

One little first grader she remembered “was a recent immigrant with a troubled mother.” Patricia was as compassionate as she could be and then the little girl moved away suddenly and always left her wondering. Fifteen years later the girl returned one day to tell Patricia that she was okay now, and so was her mom. She asked to pose for a picture with Patricia and stood close as they smiled.

Decades before there were aides and experts assigned to students with disabilities and special needs, teachers with spirited or disruptive students would send them out of the classroom to Patricia’s office for most of the school day. One little boy with ADHD, she said, “practically lived in my office” for his entire K-6th grade career. He came back every year after that to give her a big hug on the last day of school. Every year without fail, a big hug.

“As the years went on,” she said, “I saw too much of the parents. I just wanted to tell most of them to get out and go find something to do. But I had to be nice.” Patricia’s cousin chimed in, “She’s very even tempered and she’s wonderful with people who annoy her. I should know.”

“How did you avoid burn out?” I asked. “Well, it changes every year,” Patricia said, “but there is no greater bunch than the teachers. There was just so much camaraderie. It wasn’t all work; we had fun in between. Things can get stressful, but as long as you have friends to help you through… and I miss the kids. They were so much fun. But they had so much they had to do. And then after school activities—they just needed a break. I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.”

She said that she wishes she’d kept some of the excuse notes she got. I thought they might make an excellent coffee table book for doctor’s waiting rooms and lobbies. Then I asked her what I knew was a leading question, but I asked it just the same. “Would you say that most kids are basically good kids?” “Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said without missing a beat, “that’s why I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.” Always, I repeated to myself. That’s a precious commodity in these times. Thank goodness for school nurses like Patricia.

Thank goodness for the benefit of the doubt.