Mcclelland & Stewart, Fachbücher, Camp Nurse (Englisch, Tilda Shalof, 2010)

Chapter 1 The Treatment For Nature Deficit Disorder “ There’ s been an accident — someone’ s bleeding to death! Come quickly!” Those were the first words I heard when I arrived at Camp Na-Gee-La. I had just turned in the driveway when I was greeted by this call to action from a frantic young man wearing only swimming trunks. I parked my car, grabbed my first-aid kit, and with my two sons on my heels, followed him through a thicket of trees to where his injured friend lay, also in bathing trunks, bleeding from a large, nasty gash on his knee. A pool of dark blood was spreading on the ground beside him. I was unfazed by the sight, and even my kids were calm. They were used to Mom handling emergencies. It’ s what I do for a living. While I assessed the wound I asked him his name. “ It’ s Zack, and I’ m gushing blood!” Dripping, yes, oozing, maybe, but definitely not gushing. I knew exactly what to do. I took the blue-and-white beach towel still draped around Zack’ s neck and pressed down on the wound to staunch the bleeding. “ Ahh, not my Toronto Maple Leafs towel!” Zack looked at his knee, winced, and looked away. “ Am I hemorrhaging?” “ Don’ t worry, you’ ve got plenty more blood,” I reassured him. In the intensive care unit (ICU) where I’ ve worked for the past twenty-two years, I’ d seen mattresses filled with blood. I’ d cared for patients whose blood poured onto the floor at my feet, blood that I sloshed around in as we worked to save their lives. This was nothing. “ How did this happen?” I asked. Zack said he’ d tripped while running through the forest on the way back from the lagoon. I glanced at the flip-flops he was wearing. Not the best choice of footwear. After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped. I cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide from my first-aid kit and bandaged it. “ You’ ll have to go to the hospital for stitches,” I told him once I’ d helped him to his feet. A deep, jagged gash like this would need stitches in order for it to heal. “ When was your last tetanus shot?” I asked. Zack hadn’ t a clue. “ Is it really bad?” he whimpered. “ You’ re going to be just fine. Are you a counsellor at the camp?” He nodded. His friend, who’ d been watching anxiously from the sidelines, now stepped forward to introduce himself. “ Hi, I’ m Mike, the camp director. You must be Tilda, our nurse.” Camp director? He looked more like my kids’ teenaged babysitter. When we’ d spoken on the phone, he’ d seemed older than this gawky kid, still with traces of acne and a boyish grin. Mike had told me he was doing a graduate degree in political science at the University of Toronto, so I knew he had to be in his early twenties, but he looked about sixteen. “ Welcome to Camp Na-Gee-La!” Mike said. I reached out to shake his hand, but he pulled me into a hug instead. “ Good thing you arrived when you did. Man, I was freaking out.” I looked around. We were deep in the wilderness of beautiful, green Northern Ontario at a “ Youth-Leading-Youth Summer Camp Dedicated to Creating a Better Society with Equality and Justice for All!” That was its motto. I was pumped, eager for my new role as camp nurse in charge of the health and safety of about a hundred children, and their teenage counsellors, too. Apparently I was already on duty.