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The Call

By on September 17, 2016
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By Vesna Zuvic

I got a call from the nurse’s office today while at work. The nurse informed me that she was with my daughter who was complaining of having a bad stomach and head ache. Moreover, she then updated me a tad more sternly that my daughter Sara wasn’t running a fever and that, in her opinion, she was just fine.

“It’s your call,” she concluded, “if you want to come pick her up.”

In disarray, I said I would without delay, even if the practical execution of the plan still remained questionable as I headed for my boss’s office for approval.

My heart sank immediately and I felt uneasy because Sara isn’t the type to complain about her well-being. In fact, she’s very rarely ill and never uses excuses to get out of school.

Shortly after, I was already at school picking Sara up. Tears came down her cheeks as she spotted me as if she had been holding them back awhile. “Oh, Mom, I really don’t feel well,” she uttered.

I had no intention of going back to work that day. As we came home, I dwelled upon her attentively for hours while she lay in agony on the couch. I put icepacks on her forehead and warm pads on her tummy and thought, “Oh, boy, if it doesn’t get any better soon, I’m taking her to the doctor.”

It got better soon after, to my utter relief, but a mother never lets her guard down. I was on alert control for the rest of the afternoon.

Sometime later, when her discomfort diminished, Sara relocated to the coziness of her own bedroom and, as I sat on the bed by her stroking her hair ever gently, she looked up and said serenely,” Thank you, Mommy. Thank you for coming to get me.”

“I would never leave you, Sunshine,” I assured her. “Leaving you in pain is not an option for me.” She clasped her long lean body against mine, eyes big as the Universe.

I knew she felt safe.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Sara livened up, regained her rosy vivacity and became quite her chatty self. As if suddenly struck by reminiscence and insight, she burst out gasping, “Oh my God, Mom, the nurse said that I should not be getting into the habit of playing sick. What habit? I NEVER do that!” I felt her candor disappointment and exasperation.

“She is a nurse,” Sara went on. “She should have more understanding and compassion than that!” She concluded her rhetoric and let life be.

But, I didn’t. Thoughts invaded my motherly mind as I tried to make some sense out of them. The incident kept haunting me devotedly as I gripped onto it, asking myself, “How did someone with no compassion at all end up being the school nurse?”

Sara is a girl, a beautiful, budding twelve-year-old. For all I knew, she was about to get her first period!

Waves of anger overtook my previous worries and, at one point, I seriously thought of calling the nurse or maybe even reporting the incident to the principal.

But, I didn’t.

Instead, I sat down to wear my anger out by writing.

An innocent child was senselessly shamed today while in pain only because there were no visible symptoms, other than her word, to support her feeling of discomfort.

And, on top of that, to make matters worse, I took my child home, which apparently will not look good on her record since, as of this year, the school has adopted a policy of monitoring kids’ grades and absences as a way of early detection of kids’ “sidetracking”.

Every absence is frowned upon.

What has happened so horrific to humankind when we as people as part of a so-called progressive society choose to use scant data to monitor our children’s well-being?

One of my daughter’s best friends has had real issues with depression yet, she never misses class and she is a “model” student – she gets good grades and always complies. How do you monitor that by grades and attendance only?

I am a teacher by profession. I’ve been there for almost twenty years. I know what it’s like to be pressured by curriculum and academic achievement, yet, I stand by my word – there is nothing as effective as genuine love and sincere compassion. It goes a long way. It makes the difference. It is the main ingredient of every decent human being.

I lived in a war-stricken zone in Croatia back in the early nineties. I saw my share of refugees and children without parents, alone and barely ten years old, living with some distant relatives or good Samaritans, children from Bosnia and rooms with forty-two children in a class. I know that because I was their teacher.

Although young and still inexperienced for the venture ahead, I knew I had to set my priorities straight. I could insist on the best academic achievement or I could just give these children what they needed most – love, compassion, and a shoulder to cry on.

I know now that I had made the right decision then.

I’ve received numerous expressions of thanks years after the war. I am still a close friend with some of the children who now have families of their own. Nevertheless, I do not think for one moment that I ever gave more than they gave me in return. It was a beautiful mutual exchange based on genuine care for each other.

It filled my heart and made it beam.

So, excuse me if I don’t understand – where are we going with all this mere collecting-data-pushing-academics-and-no-compassion business?

When there is no nurturing of the Soul, the mere academics do not have the power to lift us up!

I know, being a teacher is not easy, many will argue, and who am I to disagree? There are many valuable devoted-nurturing-teacher-souls out there, yet still, we need more.

But, unhappy people don’t make uplifting choices. We need to heal our own wounds before we can lovingly impact others.

I dream of a world in which, besides the academics, we teach our children the art of understanding ourselves, the ways of the mind and the heart, the art of love and compassion, and aligning with our True Selves.

But, we cannot teach what we as individuals don’t know and feel.

Our actions speak louder than words.

The only way to ensure that humanity lives in our schools (and the world!) is to educate our families – heal them – women predominantly.

It is a fact that most of the world’s teachers, nurses, and caregivers are women, and most of them are mothers, as well. The impact that they have on the children of the world is mind-blowing!

Love and compassion live side by side on some greater levels of awareness. It is God-given to us all but we must awaken first. We must heal thousands of years of wounds.

As a woman, a wife, as a long-time teacher, a three-time mother and one-time step-mother, I must conclude by saying: – to heal the women of this world is to heal the world itself.

∞

And, back to our school nurse…

When my racing mind finally calmed down, I was able to see the truth. I know why I didn’t call her. I didn’t call her because I knew that she was not aware. Not to lessen the damage done, but she shows no compassion because she received no compassion. Some long time ago she put on a cover to protect herself and she’s worn it ever since, stoically so, afraid to lay it down, alive in a dream-like world awaiting to be reminded of the real identity behind the iron mask.

*******

vesna-zuvicA mother, a wife, a teacher, a passionate advocate for children and women alike, a writer and a student at the S.W.A.T. Institute, Vesna Zuvic, born in Croatia and adopted into America, traveled long between the two of her worlds searching for answers only to find them hidden deep inside her Soul.

She shares some of her revelations in her first book Daring.

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