"What School Nurses Make"
Dot Warner RN, BSN, MS, NCSN
Editor, NCSN Newsletter
Forwarded by: Barbara Connolly, MSNO Pay Equity Co-chair
Dottie says she composed this one Friday at the end of a typically busy
week
looking over a weekly staff memo including the essay "What Teachers
Make".
With Dottie's permission, we now share her perspective.
This essay can be another tool in negotiations.
"What School Nurses Make"
Dot Warner, Editor, NCSN Newsletter
NECSN Newsletter Spring 2007, p. 6
“The dinner guests were sitting around the table discussing
life…” So the
story goes, in a warm-hearted piece entitled “What Teachers Make”
[author
unknown], frequently circulated among educators. An arrogant CEO puts
a
teacher on the spot with the condescending question “what do you
make?.”
implying, of course, that her low salary signifies a lack of status.
The
teacher responds with a litany of what she makes: “I make kids
wonder…I
make
them question…I make them read…” And finally, she zings him with
the
clincher, “I make a difference. What do you make?”
School nurses constantly grapple with this issue, ironically striving
to be
paid as well as our teaching colleagues. I wish, just once, certain
people
would ask me this thought-provoking little question: “You’re a
school
nurse—be honest. What do you make?”
You want to know what I make? I make kids with asthma understand
what’s
actually going on in their lungs. I make them demonstrate how to use
their
inhaled medications effectively. I make them measure their own peak
expiratory flow and interpret the numbers to determine how well their
asthma
is controlled, and what they should do about it. It’s hard to learn
when
there’s not enough oxygen getting to your brain.
I make kids with diabetes visualize what’s happening to their
metabolism at
the cellular level. I make them count carbohydrate grams by reading
nutrient
labels, and calculate their own insulin dose. I make them recognize,
and
verbalize, the symptoms and treatment of hypo- and hyperglycemia.
It’s hard
to learn when your body shuts down for lack of glucose.
I make kids with twisted ankles and strained muscles understand how to
cope
with minor injuries and recognize serious ones. I make them repeat
back to
me the acronym RICE, standard self-care for most sports-related aches
and
pains. I make them feel good about their efforts to stay fit and
healthy.
It’s hard to learn when you are in pain.
I make kids who are truly ill with infections feel better by soothing
their
sore throats and reducing their fevers. I also make kids aware, often
for
the very first time, that sometimes it’s really OK to stay at school
when
you don’t feel perfect. It’s hard to learn when you’re really
sick, but
also
when you are just pouting.
I make kids hurting from grief and fear believe there are adults at
school
who care about them. It’s hard to learn when you are scared.
I make mental health my business, and I intervene with mental health
issues
more often than you would ever believe. I make a link between school
and
psychiatrists, counselors, and physicians. I make hard choices as I
weigh
the needs of the individual against the safety of my school community.
It’s
hard to learn when your thoughts are disordered.
I make kids feel informed and confident in dealing with their changing
bodies. I make my office a safe haven for girls with menstrual issues,
complete with not just pads and unsoiled clothing, but straight
answers to
their questions. I make eye contact as I address kids’ underlying
fears
related to sexual activities. It’s hard to learn when you’re
devastated
with
worry and embarrassment.
I make middle schoolers feel competent and comfortable in handling
broken
braces on their teeth, torn contact lenses in their eyes, and infected
jewelry in their body piercings. It’s hard to learn when your teeth
throb,
your eyes burn, or your belly button is draining pus.
I make sure my students can see and hear, by routinely evaluating
their
vision and hearing. It’s really hard to learn if you can’t see the
board or
hear the teacher.
I make referrals, I make phone calls, I make connections to people and
agencies that provide healthcare, glasses, and dental care to families
in
need. It’s hard to be a good parent when you feel hopeless.
I make assessments every time a child walks through my door. Simple,
or
serious? I make the call—is this headache an emerging sign of deadly
meningitis, miserable chronic migraines, or simply algebra-avoidance?
Chronic disease, or adolescent drama? I make dozens of decisions every
day,
and I make them alone, without another healthcare professional to back
me
up. I make them knowing that no one in my school really understands
the
complexity of my nursing assessment, the hundred observations and
clinical
judgments that are taking place each time I care for an ill or injured
child.
I make teachers and administrators feel at ease, because I’m here to
deal
with the daily blood and guts, as well as the occasional
life-threatening
emergency. I make the effort to educate educators about our
students’
health
problems and medications, and what they can—and can’t—do to
help.
I make contact with counselors throughout the school day. I make
professional collaboration a reality, not just wishful thinking,
because we
can do more for kids together than either of us can accomplish alone.
I make phone calls to more parents in a single day than many teachers
make
in a week. I make an impression of this district with every call. I
make a
few of them unhappy, because they really don’t want to be bothered.
But
most
of the time, I make things right, because most parents are grateful
for the
professional care I give.
I make do with limited supplies, crowded space, and a lack of privacy.
I
make the best of a computer system that does not work right for
healthcare.
I make peace with compromising my professional standards regarding the
confidentiality and legality of my documentation. I make the best of
things,
because I really want to be here.
I make time for professional development and continuing education,
even
though the district doesn’t recognize this, or adequately reimburse
me for
my time and expenses.
I make my school, my students, and my colleagues safer, healthier, and
more
comfortable than they would be without a school nurse. I make it
easier for
teachers to teach, counselors to counsel, and administrators to lead
our
school. I make it possible for kids to learn.
And for this, in public education, a world run by educators who
continually
bemoan the lack of respect their low salaries reflect in the eyes of
our
society, I am paid far less than what my nursing skills, experience,
and
education are worth in any other practice setting. My worth to this
district, with my BSN and 20+ years of nursing experience, is 68% of
the
salary of an entry-level teacher, fresh out of college. What I’m
paid, is
embarrassing to admit.
But, you want to know what I make? I make a conscious decision to
practice
nursing in a school setting. I know I make a difference, too.
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