Camp Nurse Memories

I was talking with a cousin recently who reminded me our mothers had both done stints as volunteer camp nurses as this had given the two of us the chance to go with them and have a free camp experience.

After covering the usual of learning to canoe, we remembered the joy of the multi-door outhouse and how some hated it. Then, how that led to constipation issues over the two weeks we were there for those who avoided using the outhouse meaning our mothers had to call their mothers for permission to use a laxative. Then, how the worst offender one year was the camp director herself, plugged like a cork in a wine bottle was how my mother put it, and a few of the kitchen staff and general workers. All older than campers, all paid, all female, and many worse than the campers when it came to avoiding Old Smelly.

For the camp director and the staff suffering cork in a wine bottle syndrome there was no need to call their mothers. All over 18 and most in their 20s. My mom and my cousin's mom gave these older ladies a choice. First, they could have a good dose of the laxative and be busy running to the outhouse shed for the next 24 hours, or they could get up on the table for two suppositories and likely be just fine again in 15/20 minutes. If they weren't then it was enema time and they could be assured they'd be near instant cured.

Many of the senior staff opted for the suppositories. Not as strange back then as it would be now as chances are they were already familiar with suppositories and enemas at home. The camp director, twice we knew of, said she do the enema. One of the kitchen staff during my two weeks (at least that I knew of) had to have an enema when the suppositories didn't work and one staff lady, (cousin couldn't remember if she was kitchen staff or not so may have been the same one) had an enema when my cousin was there. My cousin wasn't sure if she'd opted for the enema to start, or if it came after a failed suppository try.

One of the nice things for them after suppository or enema use, was the infirmary had its own outhouse for patients right around back in the trees --- 20 feet out the back door. Clean, mostly odor free and private. You'd think a corked up camp director would have treated herself to the infirmary outhouse but the rule was it was only for patients. Even mom didn't use it on a regular basis.

Memories!

Ah, yes, the famous dreaded outhouse problems. I wrote elsewhere here about going to a remote fishing camp with my husband many years ago. It was not only off the grid, although I don't think that expression had been coined yet, but the word "rough" comes to mind given that it had a hand pumped well, wood stove, and an outhouse. There were a couple of times when I used it to pee, but most of the time found a secluded spot in the bushes. As for making a BM, I opted to just hold it, but that can only work for so long and after day 3 I was feeling bloated and just plain uncomfortable. Fortunately, I had brought my folding syringe with us and one morning as my husband was out fishing I gave myself a much needed enema. The good news is that the enema worked as intended, but the bad news was that I had to use that outhouse. Not my favorite experience, but I do remember it vividly like it was yesterday.

My All boys summer camp Infirmary was pretty modern with flush toilet. The nurse was competent in dealing with the issues of the all male staff and campers. Cuts, bug bites, sunburn and various injuries were handled professionally.. The gastrointestinal issues were typical. Diarrhea occasionally and constipation from dehydration amongst 100 campers and 20 staff were routine. The red enema bag in the main bathroom was seldom dry. One morning, I was one of six boys receiving an enema. All were given in private, but no doubt about what was happening. The building was not soundproof and we couldn’t miss what the nurse and patient were discussing. We each got our bag of soapy water bent over the bathtub. It was almost like being at home. I would rate the experience an A plus.

Apparently, I have lived a charmed life for I have never experienced the indignity of using a non-plumbing toilet.

I do have a funny story about a Japanese restroom. I was in Japan on business. The NEC executive, who was Stanford educated, was showing me around. He asked me if I would like to try a real Japanese restaurant. I readily accepted his invitation.

The restaurant was great until I had to go to the restroom. We had a couple of Japanese drinks. FYI, the Japanese make some good scotch. A female attendant greeted me once inside the restroom and handed me a warm, damp cloth. When I entered the stall, there was just a hole in the floor with two railings on each side. I said to myself. "I don't freaking believe it!" I urinated in the hole and used to cloth that the attendant provided me. I was still laughing when I returned to the table. The executive realized why I was laughing. He apologized profusely. I replied. "When in Japan do as the Japanese." We both laughed.

This topic brings back memories of my first boy scout summer camp when I was 11. The camp week ran from Sunday morning to Sunday morning. I already had constipation problems and this environment made it so much worse. The only edible food was bread and mashed potatos. In addition, the heat and humidity pretty much guaranteed that everyone was dehydrated. The only toilets for the campers were outhouses that consisted of a bench with three holes in it. The smell in that heat was the worst thing I had ever smelled.

On Tuesday, I remember having a slight urge to have a bowel movement. I walked down a trail to the outhouse to give it a try. I walked in and the stench was just too bad to stay. Plus there were two other boys seated on the bench. I could not imagine sitting down between them. On Wednesday at breakfast, the camp ranger got up in front of all the boys and staff and announced that anyone who had not yet had a bowel movement was to report to the camp nurse.

After breakfast, my scoutmaster questioned each boy in our troop about whether he had had a bowel movement. I lied because I figured that the constipated boys were going to get a laxative or an enema. The boys who admitted that they had not pooped were escorted to the camp nurse by the scoutmaster. One of them was my tentmate.

At the nurse's cabin, the constipated boys were given a laxative. I later spoke to a few of them and they each described a horrible tasting salty drink. I am guesing it was magnesium citrate or something like that. I discretely asked several of them if there was an enema involved and they each denied it.

Even though this was the 1960's, I believe that laxatives were the only weapon used to combat constipation in my camp. I was a budding klismaphile and I would have probably agreed to an enema if it had been offered.

My tentmate's dose finally kicked in about 2 AM. He ran out of the tent three or four times during the night to relieve himself in the woods. My stomach was starting to hurt from being so backed up but I much preferred that to having laxative induced diarrhea and being forced to use the outhouse or woods.

I did not poop the entire week I was at camp. On the way home, my parents figured out how backed up I was and scolded me for not using the toilet the whole time I was at camp. I got a very thorough enema as soon as I got home.

Wow !

I went to YMCA camp every summer for four weeks from the time I was eight until I was fifteen. The cabins were rudimentary, the latrine was some distance away and hardly private - I remember the toilet stalls actually lacked doors - and the food was big on bread, cheese, pasta, and cereal. So tummy upsets and constipation were common. Living in a small cabin with seven other pre-adolescent boys led to conversations about every lurid topic I can tell you! We knew which of the counselors were horndogs and were pursuing the few female staff at the camp; we knew which boys played with themselves after lights out; who was old enough to actually have orgasms - there were few secrets in our small fraternity.

The camp nurse was the school nurse from the local catholic school and her son was one of the boys in our cabin. Like me, he attended camp every year since his mother worked there forever. We all knew that if you spent the night in the infirmary that you would certainly have a date with Mrs. C's enema bag. Mrs. C's son always had the inside scoop about who got an enema since he visited his mom in the evening and morning, and whether they "took it like a man" or "whined like a baby." When the victim returned to the cabin after his night in the infirmary we would make poking gestures with our fingers and tease the poor kid. It was what kids did - knowing you would get teased if you had to visit Mrs. C!! There was no HIPPA secrecy in that camp! Enemas were never far from our conversations since everyone got them at home - it was life in the early 1960's!

Paul attended the catholic school where his mother worked, but we lived fairly close and played together frequently during the school year. He had great stories about camp when the boy's session was over and the camp switched to girls only. He moved into the infirmary with his mom and could hear everything that went on. He said the girls got more tummy aches than the boys since they didn't like pooping in the open stalls and his mother was always giving enemas! He could watch his mother fill the bag at the kitchen sink and carry it into the two-bed ward, which only had a curtain for a door. Boy the stories he could tell! He even knew the names of some of the girls and I knew them too! His stories led to many nights dreaming about girls I knew receiving enemas!

I worked at the same camp as kitchen help at sixteen. Mrs. C. was still the nurse and still tended to sick campers. At the end of season I helped close the camp by clearing cabins and cleaning the buildings. While helping clear the infirmary, Mrs. C was throwing out two or three rubber fountain syringes saying they were just about worn out after only one summer. WOW! To be camper again!

Growing up I was a Boy Scout and got to attend my share of camping adventures. Sometimes we would go to a district camp that had cabins, but still had an outhouse. It was pretty smelly but I don't remember any of the guys ever avoiding it. Other times we would go into the woods, pitch tents, make a camp, and dig a latrine. I remember that the toilet paper was put on the end of a Y-shaped stick with an empty coffee can placed over it to keep the rain off. Like the outhouse, everyone used the latrine and we all thought it was great to be roughing it. When I got home my mom always asked about my bathroom habits and I don't ever recall needing to have an enema once I got home.

@ddell2 A similar squat toilet design ("Turkish style") is found in some public places (rest stops, cafés…) in European countries such as France and Italy, though they're getting rarer. They are I think installed because easier to clean and less unhygienic in case of inappropriate use. However, you would not find such toilets in France in any moderately classy place.

I went to YMCA camp for 7 years too. There was a camp nurse, and always rumors of enemas if you were sent there, but no confirmation. I was always constipated, the stalls had no doors, so campers would sneak in to poop when no one was around. In those days I think I was constipated all the time anyway. My mom did not promote or suggest enemas, but seemed to have stewed prunes for desert on a consistent basis.

I did get quite sick one year at camp with tonsilitis, but was never sent to the nurse. The following November my tonsils came out. While in the hospital admission process I received my first large volume enema.

On the subject of camping I went on a diving trip when I was 14, had no bowel movement all the while I was gone. When I got home I told my mom and she asked me to sit on the toilet and try. I told her I think I need an enema, where she said "if you need one then you need one". She obliged and that was the last enema my mom gave me, after that she would only get it ready and leave it to me.

The story below about an outhouse bench with 3 holes reminds me of my father's story from his trip aboard ship to Japan maybe a year before the Korean war. He said the ship's head was a long bench with holes and a trough of running water flowing underneath. The cute trick was to wait for several guys to be seated downstream then make a large wad of toilet paper, set it alight and float it down the trough. No mention of how the instigator managed to escape.

Until the 60s my sister's house had an indoor two holer. All the camps we rented in Maine where we went when I was a kid had a path, one faced the lake so it had no door. I have a picture of me and the preacher's daughter standing in the doorway of that one. Yes, the one who took me to her room while the grownups had a prayer meeting, to show me her doctor's kit. She almost got to use it on me when her mother came up to stop us. She came to the camp to stay with us for a week which was half my fathers vacation. Oh the fun we had for that week but she didn't bring her doctor's kit --- dammit.