More than Medicine

When I walk past the little door next to F House marked “Wellness Center,” I usually think of band-aids, flu shots, and that antiseptic smell. It’s the kind of place you only step into when you’re forced to. 

Up until this interview, I hadn’t had a chance to greet and think about the people inside that room.  Sitting there with our school nurse, the clinic felt less like a sterile room and more like a storybook with a hidden main character.

Before 2016, she was nowhere near the chatter of hallways or the squeak of sneakers on a gym floor. She had trained as a nurse and worked in the oncology department of a second-tier hospital — long night shifts, hushed corridors, and an endless stream of patients — a ward heavy with the presence of loss. 

“Many of the patients there were so young, just nineteen or twenty, but already waiting for death,” she said quietly. She described the emptiness of walking past beds that were occupied one day and empty the day after. 

It was truly a heavy, draining work, “"the kind of job that swallowed your soul.”. She had even been thinking about moving to surgery, somewhere faster, somewhere more skill-based, somewhere she wouldn’t go home thinking about death.

And then, by chance, she saw a job posting for our school. She tried it for one day. 

“The first thing I noticed was how alive the kids were. Creative, curious, full of ideas. I t felt like I could breathe again,” she said, smiling. Nearly ten years later, she’s still here.

Unlike in a hospital, her “big wins” aren’t measured in surgical successes or saved lives. They're little moments that quietly change someone’s path: she remembered one boy who fell during sports, “it didn’t look serious, but I insisted he go for an X-ray,” she said. His parents thought she was overreacting. 

But the X-ray did show a fracture. 

Catching it early meant proper treatment and no long-term damage. That’s the kind of behind-the-scenes heroism you don’t usually see in hospitals.

She knows our school’s “health seasons” better than anyone. 

“Monday mornings are full of pale-faced kids with headaches,” she laughed,  “weekend all-nighters plus 5 am alarms equals a full waiting room.” During interschool varsity games, the clinic becomes a sprain and bruise factory, so she stocks up on ice packs beforehand and keeps a wheelchair ready. And with flu season approaching, she’s already coordinating with the cleaning staff to disinfect classrooms more often.

But the clinic isn’t just about health — it’s also a kind of 24-hour student help desk. Because she lives on campus, her doorbell rings at all hours… 

“A  boy came at midnight to borrow a blanket because his was too thin. Another wanted a needle and thread for a torn jacket,” she said, shaking her head with a grin. “It’s normal now.”, he doesn’t just dispense medicine; she dispenses a sense of safety.

Her attitude toward her job surprised me the most. When I asked if she’d ever wanted to be a doctor, she just smiled gently. “People think doctors are more skilled. But nurses do different, equally important work. I’m good at it, and I like it.” 

There was no regret in her voice, only confidence. In that moment, it struck me how much quiet pride there is in knowing your place and doing it well, even when it’s not the place everyone expects you to be.

The clinic seemed to mirror her — practical, steady, but also unexpectedly warm. The faint hum of an air purifier, the smell of antiseptic and green tea, a thank-you card from a student pinned next to a poster about handwashing. Even the cabinets told stories — rows of neatly labeled bottles, ice packs stacked closely, blankets folded for late-night emergencies. Then a knock on the door interrupted us. Another student, another story. She got up without hurry, moving with the calm of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Walking out of the wellness center, I realized how much of our school’s life runs through that small space. Not just our scrapes and sprains, but our late-night worries, emergencies, and small comforts. In her own quiet way, our nurse holds it all together — one ice pack, one midnight blanket, one reassuring word at a time.