Excuses, Excuses, that's all I ever get ! A nurse's work is never done when dealing with students. I woke up that morning, and wished I hadn't. My head was throbbing, one side of my throat felt like it had been scraped with a carrot peeler, and my eyeballs were hot and scratchy in their sockets. It took me five minutes to get out of bed. "Good morning," said my roommate brightly. 'Ugh," I replied, stumbling to the bathroom. I confess that I was no angel when I was sick. I figured, if I had to feel like I'd been dropped off B-rock, the famous rock cliff at Camp Wyldewood, I might as well look like it, so people could pity me. So that day I wore my old, red, paint-stained sweatshirt and tattered jeans, and let my hair hang, lankly plastered to my fevered brow. My reflection in the mirror looked miserable enough, and, pleased with the effect, I headed for my 8:00 class. About mid-morning I decided I was simply too sick to endure, so I wobbled painfully over to the nurse's station, or the health center, or whatever it was called. On arriving, I found the waiting room cluttered with students in various stages of decay. I fought my way to the window, 46 Excuses Gotcha! Sometimes it just doesn 't pay to get out of class , as Ben Ford from Jacksonville, Florida found out. Not only did he trick Mrs. Rector, a nurse at the clinic into believing he was sick, but she decided to give him medication in the form of an injection , better known as a shot! Some people will do anything to get out of class! - photo by Glenn Duhon. signed my name, and found a seat beside a friend of mine, who was also wearing a red sweatshirt and jeans that looked like they'd been through the meat grinder. Fondness for her welled up in my soul. 'What's wrong with you?" I asked. Her head lolled towards me, red eyes struggling to focus. ' 'My head's pounding, my eyes burn, and half my throat's on fire," she coughed. 'You're kidding!" I said. 'Which half?" ''Left ." "It's my right." I felt inordinantly pleased that there was someone who felt as miserable as I did. The nurse treated us at the same time. 'Well, and how are we feeling?" she asked. 'Ugh," we said. 'Well, then, we'd better check your temps." I have noticed, with dentists and with nurses, a peculiar fondness for filling their victim's mouth with hardware and then asking questions that cannot possibly be answered with a nod. This nurse waited till we had thermometers wedged under our tongues before inquiring into our biographical histories. After five minutes of mumbling we spit the thermometers out into her hand, and she looked at them one by one. "Hmm," she said to my friend, "you're sub-normal." I snickered. I have also notied that nurses' thermometers never seem to work. You can be so hot that moths are attracted to the glow from your cheeks, but according to the nurses' thermometers, you might have been hanging by a hook in a meathouse all day. But that day I had a fever. Next she checked our throats. "You've just got drainage," she told my friend, but informed me gravely that I had a "white spot" on my throat. She gave us class excuses and some vile red cough medicine which didn't cure our coughs but certainly kept us from telling her the next time we had respiratory problems. As we waded through the waiting room back to the door my friend said, "You know what your white spot is, don't you? It's just a nice way of saying 'puss pocket.' You've got a puss pocket in your throat!" Smiling indulgently, I held the door for her. She was just jealous. 11tt - Sherry Daniel
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