This summer, at Michindoh, I am the Health Officer. I am Wilderness and Remote Location First
Responder trained and certified.
Therefore I meet the minimal requirements of the state of Michigan to do basic
triage and dispense medication in a camp setting. It makes me, in short, a professional drug
dealer (as my counseling staff has so informed me). But it is far from the extent of my job
description... [Despite being told once, on an unofficial and definitely
ignorant level, that I didn’t really have a lot to do. I laughed a little in
attempt to cover up my inner weep.] It
is true that on a good day, my office can be quiet if my campers are involved
in activity without injury, but I rarely pause for significant periods of
time...and never long enough to truly get bored. I wake up before the campers and go to bed
long after they do. I am doing
paperwork, and filing old forms, and pouring medication and dispensing
medication and double-checking health forms and making phone calls to parents
to let them know their daughter was stepped on by a goat and no longer has a
toenail on her left most big toe. I am a
dedicated boo-boo bandager, official homesick whisperer, tear wiper, complaint
listener, water nazi, and sunblock enforcer.
I carry a radio and am on call 24 hours to anyone who needs me to fly at
a moment’s notice to reach in and save the day.
And I do my best.
But my job comes with added bonuses. Like the title “Health Officer” makes me the
most qualified member of camp staff to deal with anything gross.
Like vomit. In the Nature Center. All over the coat closet. And when a camper wets the bed...his clothes
and sleeping bag end up in my biohazard bag and often my wash machine. I put on my personal protection equipment (or
PPE’s as the Red Cross likes to call them...aka: gloves) and hold my breath,
pray for a strong stomach and smile while letting counselors and campers know
that it isn’t a problem or an inconvenience and its part of the job and I’m
happy to serve. I’ll admit I don’t
always take on these endeavors with a joyful heart and sometimes the smile is
very forced. [I’ll even admit that after
dealing with a suitcase of clothes and bedding that had been peed on three
nights in a row but not noticed until they had sat in 100+ degree weather...
made me throw up.] But it is part of my job and onward I go...
And yet, nothing could have prepared me for the radio
message I received this week. The one
with ominous cues forewarning me about the situation at hand.
“Andy to Anika”
“This is Anika. Go
ahead.”
“Anika...What is your location?”
“Main lodge. What’s
up?”
“We have a...situation...down at the teepee’s. Could you bring down a biohazard bag? Some one had an...accident.”
“Well, I’m waiting for a camper to return from her t-ball
game. Dad should be arriving within the
next 10 minutes. Is the situation
contained?”
“Oh, it’s contained.
In the second port-a-potty. I
could take care of it but you have the bag and the gloves.
And, you’re going to need gloves...
You might want to come sooner than later...”
Needless to say, before the conversation was done we had
verified this as a “Number 2” situation of rather intense proportions. Bless Andy for trying to be so discreet over
the radio but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I opened up
“port-a-john, second from the right”...
With a pile of fecal matter in a happy pile in the middle of
the floor...and the rest splattered and covering the seat and walls and four
articles of clothing and also a towel left behind, I was quite taken
aback. I do what I have to do – always.
But
I don’t “do poop”. I hate poop. I removed the clothing, tied it into the
biohazard bag, turned to go back in with my bottle of bleach, and turned back
out to gag. I went green in the gills
and pale in the face. To the day camp
counselor who had accompanied just to laugh from 10 feet away, I looked out and
proclaimed “I’m going to need more bleach!”
It was just as I finished removing the cowpie in the middle
of the floor that my radio bleeped. Andy
again. I emerged from the port-a-potty
with my gloved but brown hands in the air as I looked despairingly at the black
talking box. My laughing accomplice
brought the box to my face and pushed the button so I could talk. Bless her.
10 minutes in to this cleaning endeavor and Andy had a new idea “Anika, if you want to just take care of the clothes...I’ll call [our boss] and
have the company come out and clean the outhouse professionally....” I started to laugh. Laughter that came as the outcry of my
uncomfortable and unfortunate position.
My accomplice kept trying to hold down the button with failure as it
moved further and further from my mouth as our bodies convulsed. Really?
You couldn’t have thought of that 10 minutes ago? Finally, regaining
composure, I replied. “I’m up to my
elbows in a bowel explosion! That would
be great!” [Despite being so far into
the project, I was nothing short of ecstatic not to have to finish it]. As I cleaned up the basic mess and removed my
PPE’s, I turned to my counselor friend and replied “Is it okay to say bowel
explosion over the radio?” Neither of us
were sure and I was pretty sure the answer was “no”. Oh well. It was the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts.
Needless, it has been the ongoing and retold story of the
week...akin to much laughter and faces of shock, disgust, and horror. And it has also made me an involuntary
superhero. [“Anika, I appreciate you!”
has been a recurring exclamation.
Apparently there are others in the world who “do poop” worse than I
do].
And yet, it’s made me reflective, as life often does. Because it’s not the first time I’ve been up
to my elbows in bowel explosion. [“Crap
happens” might be a registered and trademarked family expression, actually...] Sometimes
you find yourself in the middle of life that stinks. Is gross.
Unwarranted. And not your problem. You didn’t cause it; it wasn’t you who pooped on the lid of a
port-a-john! But it has become your
problem and is now somehow your responsibility.
And somehow, in someway, it has to be dealt with. It seems unfair and quite unfortunate but
there is a rarely a team of professionals to come and clean up the mess. And referencing a bowel explosion out
loud? Rarely acceptable. We keep our own crap a secret (although we’re
often too willing to express others’) and we go on because it is life and our
job and part of the price we pay for being alive in an ever falling and breaking
world.
The question then becomes whether or not bowel explosions
can be prevented or whether they must simply be dealt with?
Sometimes I don’t feel like we recognize our ability to start
from the front end. To be proactive in eliminating what’s causing the problem
from the beginning. I honestly feel at
loss with the tragic occurrence of Port-a-John #2 but what about the rest of
life? Where are we, in some ways,
responsible (either directly or by sheer apathy), for the crap that
results? Or where, at minimum, can we step in and step up instead of stepping back?
On the other hand, too often I think we assume crap must be
simply dealt with. And for the most
part, I feel like that’s true. But we “deal”
with it the wrong way...by merely putting up with it. Accepting it.
Almost like walking in, seeing the crap, stepping to the side, and
completing our business. Sometimes we have to be willing to dive into the crap
and do something about it. Not for the
accolades or the superhero status but because if not you, then who? We see the crap, suck up our pride, put on
our PPEs and dive into the world’s bowel explosions up to our elbows and try to
rectify the problem and hope that leaving the situation better than we found it
will somehow be enough...
Crap happens and bowel explosions do too. But that doesn’t mean the world has to
stink...
[...and other unfinished thoughts and incomplete
conclusions.]
