School nurses

When my children were in school and got head lice, I learned the full metaphorical scope of words like "lousy" and "nit-picking." I also learned that school nurses didn’t give a hoot for my opinions.

Despite my boards in pediatrics and dermatology, my protests against schools’ policies of dragging parents out of work to pick up a kid on whom the nurse found a nit, or thought she did, even after multiple treatments and fine-tooth combing (another nice, real-life metaphor) went unheard.

In vain did I cite policy statements by august professional organizations that no-nit policies were unnecessary. No sir – they find one dead egg case, and Johnny goes home. His parents are obviously irresponsible anyway, not to mention unhygienic. So I gave up, and my children grew up.

What reawakened these memories was my annual visit to Marcie, my eye doctor. "I really like your PA," she said. "Jared saw her when the school nurse sent him home with a rash. Your PA asked him why he was there. ‘The nurse sent me home,’ he said. ‘OK,’ said your PA, ‘now you can go back.’

"They once sent Jared home because of a chalazion," Marcie continued. "I called them up. ‘He’s on tobramycin,’ I told them. ‘And a chalazion isn’t contagious anyway.’ But they didn’t believe me!

"My husband called them. ‘My wife is an eye doctor,’ he said. ‘Oh,’ they said, ‘We didn’t know what kind of doctor she was.’ "

Probably the most egregious example of high-handed school medical behavior I have ever seen played out in my office just last month. The Hightowers brought in 4-year-old Jeffrey with an impetiginized rash. We started cephalexin, pending culture results. When these showed MRSA on Friday afternoon, we called the family to switch Jeffrey to trimethoprim-sulfamethoxazole.

Janice Hightower became very upset. "Should I call the school?" We suggested she use her discretion, because by Monday Jeffrey would no longer be contagious. "But I’m a teacher," she said. "I feel responsible." So she did.

The next day, Jeffrey’s dad, Brian Hightower, came to school to coach baseball (his kids stayed home). During the game, all the parents got text messages informing them: "Someone in the school is infected with MRSA, and school is closed until further notice." He then sat in stunned silence as the other parents commiserated with each other about what happens when their children have to hang around with other kids whose parents are irresponsible, dirty, and a lot of other unpleasant things.

On Monday, Brian Hightower brought Jeffrey’s older brother, Jason, to the office. Jason had no skin lesions at all. "My wife won’t let me go home without antibiotics for him," insisted Brian. We told him there was nothing to treat, and he left. Later, Janice Hightower called. "This is like ‘The Scarlet Letter,’ " she said. "We’ll never be able to show our faces in the community again."

We tried to reassure her (the MRSA culprit’s identity had mercifully not been divulged), but she pressed on. "When he grows up and kisses his first girl," she asked, "will he have to tell her about this?"

Things went downhill from there. Several days and many phone calls later, the Hightowers began to calm down. Jeffrey and Jason returned to school, which had somehow managed to reopen. I have no idea which medical authority authorized the reopening, any more than I know who told them to close it in the first place. Jeffrey hasn’t been sighted kissing any girls yet, other than possibly Aunt Susie.

What this episode says about how people judge and treat others who are ill, not to mention how ancient ideas about disease persist long after they are supposed to have been discarded, doesn’t need to be spelled out. Better to take polite notice and move on.

But it also says quite a lot about the limitations of our professional authority outside the spheres where we’re in charge. In the office, people may or may not listen to us, but at least they act as though they might.

But outside the office, in schools for instance, what we have to say often doesn’t count for much. Or anything.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail him at our editorial offices at [email protected].

When my children were in school and got head lice, I learned the full metaphorical scope of words like "lousy" and "nit-picking." I also learned that school nurses didn’t give a hoot for my opinions.

Despite my boards in pediatrics and dermatology, my protests against schools’ policies of dragging parents out of work to pick up a kid on whom the nurse found a nit, or thought she did, even after multiple treatments and fine-tooth combing (another nice, real-life metaphor) went unheard.

In vain did I cite policy statements by august professional organizations that no-nit policies were unnecessary. No sir – they find one dead egg case, and Johnny goes home. His parents are obviously irresponsible anyway, not to mention unhygienic. So I gave up, and my children grew up.

What reawakened these memories was my annual visit to Marcie, my eye doctor. "I really like your PA," she said. "Jared saw her when the school nurse sent him home with a rash. Your PA asked him why he was there. ‘The nurse sent me home,’ he said. ‘OK,’ said your PA, ‘now you can go back.’

"They once sent Jared home because of a chalazion," Marcie continued. "I called them up. ‘He’s on tobramycin,’ I told them. ‘And a chalazion isn’t contagious anyway.’ But they didn’t believe me!

"My husband called them. ‘My wife is an eye doctor,’ he said. ‘Oh,’ they said, ‘We didn’t know what kind of doctor she was.’ "

Probably the most egregious example of high-handed school medical behavior I have ever seen played out in my office just last month. The Hightowers brought in 4-year-old Jeffrey with an impetiginized rash. We started cephalexin, pending culture results. When these showed MRSA on Friday afternoon, we called the family to switch Jeffrey to trimethoprim-sulfamethoxazole.

Janice Hightower became very upset. "Should I call the school?" We suggested she use her discretion, because by Monday Jeffrey would no longer be contagious. "But I’m a teacher," she said. "I feel responsible." So she did.

The next day, Jeffrey’s dad, Brian Hightower, came to school to coach baseball (his kids stayed home). During the game, all the parents got text messages informing them: "Someone in the school is infected with MRSA, and school is closed until further notice." He then sat in stunned silence as the other parents commiserated with each other about what happens when their children have to hang around with other kids whose parents are irresponsible, dirty, and a lot of other unpleasant things.

On Monday, Brian Hightower brought Jeffrey’s older brother, Jason, to the office. Jason had no skin lesions at all. "My wife won’t let me go home without antibiotics for him," insisted Brian. We told him there was nothing to treat, and he left. Later, Janice Hightower called. "This is like ‘The Scarlet Letter,’ " she said. "We’ll never be able to show our faces in the community again."

We tried to reassure her (the MRSA culprit’s identity had mercifully not been divulged), but she pressed on. "When he grows up and kisses his first girl," she asked, "will he have to tell her about this?"

Things went downhill from there. Several days and many phone calls later, the Hightowers began to calm down. Jeffrey and Jason returned to school, which had somehow managed to reopen. I have no idea which medical authority authorized the reopening, any more than I know who told them to close it in the first place. Jeffrey hasn’t been sighted kissing any girls yet, other than possibly Aunt Susie.

What this episode says about how people judge and treat others who are ill, not to mention how ancient ideas about disease persist long after they are supposed to have been discarded, doesn’t need to be spelled out. Better to take polite notice and move on.

But it also says quite a lot about the limitations of our professional authority outside the spheres where we’re in charge. In the office, people may or may not listen to us, but at least they act as though they might.

But outside the office, in schools for instance, what we have to say often doesn’t count for much. Or anything.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail him at our editorial offices at [email protected].

When my children were in school and got head lice, I learned the full metaphorical scope of words like "lousy" and "nit-picking." I also learned that school nurses didn’t give a hoot for my opinions.

Despite my boards in pediatrics and dermatology, my protests against schools’ policies of dragging parents out of work to pick up a kid on whom the nurse found a nit, or thought she did, even after multiple treatments and fine-tooth combing (another nice, real-life metaphor) went unheard.

In vain did I cite policy statements by august professional organizations that no-nit policies were unnecessary. No sir – they find one dead egg case, and Johnny goes home. His parents are obviously irresponsible anyway, not to mention unhygienic. So I gave up, and my children grew up.

What reawakened these memories was my annual visit to Marcie, my eye doctor. "I really like your PA," she said. "Jared saw her when the school nurse sent him home with a rash. Your PA asked him why he was there. ‘The nurse sent me home,’ he said. ‘OK,’ said your PA, ‘now you can go back.’

"They once sent Jared home because of a chalazion," Marcie continued. "I called them up. ‘He’s on tobramycin,’ I told them. ‘And a chalazion isn’t contagious anyway.’ But they didn’t believe me!

"My husband called them. ‘My wife is an eye doctor,’ he said. ‘Oh,’ they said, ‘We didn’t know what kind of doctor she was.’ "

Probably the most egregious example of high-handed school medical behavior I have ever seen played out in my office just last month. The Hightowers brought in 4-year-old Jeffrey with an impetiginized rash. We started cephalexin, pending culture results. When these showed MRSA on Friday afternoon, we called the family to switch Jeffrey to trimethoprim-sulfamethoxazole.

Janice Hightower became very upset. "Should I call the school?" We suggested she use her discretion, because by Monday Jeffrey would no longer be contagious. "But I’m a teacher," she said. "I feel responsible." So she did.

The next day, Jeffrey’s dad, Brian Hightower, came to school to coach baseball (his kids stayed home). During the game, all the parents got text messages informing them: "Someone in the school is infected with MRSA, and school is closed until further notice." He then sat in stunned silence as the other parents commiserated with each other about what happens when their children have to hang around with other kids whose parents are irresponsible, dirty, and a lot of other unpleasant things.

On Monday, Brian Hightower brought Jeffrey’s older brother, Jason, to the office. Jason had no skin lesions at all. "My wife won’t let me go home without antibiotics for him," insisted Brian. We told him there was nothing to treat, and he left. Later, Janice Hightower called. "This is like ‘The Scarlet Letter,’ " she said. "We’ll never be able to show our faces in the community again."

We tried to reassure her (the MRSA culprit’s identity had mercifully not been divulged), but she pressed on. "When he grows up and kisses his first girl," she asked, "will he have to tell her about this?"

Things went downhill from there. Several days and many phone calls later, the Hightowers began to calm down. Jeffrey and Jason returned to school, which had somehow managed to reopen. I have no idea which medical authority authorized the reopening, any more than I know who told them to close it in the first place. Jeffrey hasn’t been sighted kissing any girls yet, other than possibly Aunt Susie.

What this episode says about how people judge and treat others who are ill, not to mention how ancient ideas about disease persist long after they are supposed to have been discarded, doesn’t need to be spelled out. Better to take polite notice and move on.

But it also says quite a lot about the limitations of our professional authority outside the spheres where we’re in charge. In the office, people may or may not listen to us, but at least they act as though they might.

But outside the office, in schools for instance, what we have to say often doesn’t count for much. Or anything.

Dr. Rockoff practices dermatology in Brookline, Mass. To respond to this column, e-mail him at our editorial offices at [email protected].