Guest Writer Harvey - Telling School

Me, Myself and My Immune System: A brief timeline of my love affair with Crohn’s Disease.

Harvey Hancock

Part TWO

Two days later. I am ready to go home from a two-week hospital stay where I learned I had Crohn's Disease, aged 10! I vow never to watch Scooby Doo as long as I live. I say thank you to the nurses who shoved thermometers in my mouth and pricked me with needles, give a hug to the special nurse called Sian who is very pretty and very friendly (I never see her again) and wobble my way back to the car. Two weeks in a hospital has taken its toll and I look forward to sleeping in my own bed, but things don’t go to plan. I stay feverish, with flannels all over my head to cool me down. I sleep fitfully and wake up shaking. I reluctantly agree to spend three more nights in the hospital.

Fast forward a month. I am on huge doses of medication and my face is swollen up from the steroids. I am at home and enjoying the last week of the summer the way any 10yr-old should – running back and forth from living room to toilet, sleeping with 3 fans in his room and not spending any time with friends(!). My only visitor is a teacher from school.

Mr Wallace, who is going to be my teacher for yr.6 comes along and asks me if I want to share the details of my diagnosis with the rest of the class when school starts in September. Kids can be cruel and I don’t want to regret anything, so I tell him I’ll see how I feel. I joke with Mr Wallace about how I could maybe say to the class that “every Friday evening, I turn into a big green monster” and he genuinely laughs, telling me that that is the exact kind of things that will make the children understand that I’m not to be feared, that I’m still the same Harvey. He leaves and I know that, with him as my teacher, I will be safe from the bullies.

 

Fast forward to the first day of school, and the moment of truth arrives. My friends have all asked about my fat face but I have declined to answer their queries. Whilst Sarah H talks about how she spent her summer dancing, I do some maths and work out that my 6 week summer holiday was split into 3 perfect parts – my holiday to Portugal, which was a write-off, my two weeks in hospital, which were a write-off, and my final two weeks of my holiday, also a write-off. As I look around the room, taking in the posters and noticeboards, the drawers to put our work in, and the bookcase full of new dictionaries, I realise that I am so, so relieved to be back around the children with whom I have grown up. Mr Wallace asks: “So, does anybody else want to share what they did with the summer holidays?”

I’m a confident child and, if I may say so, a pretty popular figure in the class, so I have no problems with public speaking. However, as I find my hand raising itself, almost automatically, I consider my ability to sail the impending storm if I do indeed choose to share my summertime misadventure. Mr Wallace doesn’t bat an eye-lid when he sees my hand in the air, a tiny fist with one finger pointing towards the sky, amongst 35 sets of hands that remain firmly in laps or fiddling with hair. “Harvey? How did you spend your summer?”

Many things happen at once. My hand falls into my lap. I question what I want to actually say. I actually put my hand up to say I went to Portugal, and to hide my new identity until the time was right. I see the faces of all the children who were bored stiff by Sarah’s ballroom dancing competition in the summer break. I look at Mr Wallace, willing me to do only that which leaves me feeling safe, understood and happy. In a moment of madness and sensing the silence in the room I say “I spent two weeks in hospital”.

Hair-fiddling stops and all eyes stare at me. Finally, an interesting story! Mr Wallace looks at me thoughtfully and, I will never forget this, he raises his eye-brows a bit and gives me a subtle, questioning nod. I reply in kind. He smiles. “Would you like to tell us why you were in hospital, Harvey, or would you like me to explain for you?”

I get stage fright and ask Mr Wallace to do it for me. I keep my head down, ashamed to be the centre of attention in such extraordinary fashion, so I don’t know what the other children are doing. But I listen. I listen hard, and Mr Wallace does a stellar job, explaining to everyone how I became very ill over summer but am now okay. He emphasises that I am not contagious or to be treated any differently to how I was before the summer. He asks if there are any questions. Simon V puts his hand up, sheepish but still noticeable. I dread his question. Mr Wallace suddenly becomes one of the greatest men I shall ever know by simply ignoring Simon’s hand and moving on. I breathe a sigh of relief and get on with the rest of my day. Nobody avoids me, but nobody asks me any questions; a perfect first day back.

Coming up in Part 3 - dealing with the difficult kids...