Act 6, Scene 2
A Change of Prescription
Thursday, May 13th, 2:30 pm.
Wickham School Infirmary.
It had been a little more than two weeks since the constable's visit.
With the greatest hesitation, but feeling they had no other option,
Roger and Angela took their son to Dr. Venton, the psychiatrist, who
prescribed a regimen of long term therapy with Ian Monroe and
medication. Nigel seemed to improve somewhat, but both Roger and
Angela, and indeed, Claris, realised he wasn't quite the Nigel they
had known. The boy seemed perpetually lackadaisical and exhausted.
When he couldn't sleep, the doctors prescribed a mild sedative. When
Nigel began wetting the bed, the doctors prescribed more therapy, and
another medication so he'd not be quite so sedated at night.
As for Nigel's schooling, there had been no complaint from either the
teachers or the administration regarding the lad's original
difficulty, but in the interest of his son's welfare and to satisfy
his curiosity, his father had decided to take the day from work and
observe his boy at school. He meets Headmaster Chandler for the first
time in the outer office.
"You'll excuse me for not coming in earlier," Roger apologised to the
headmaster. "It seems I'm perpetually at work."
"Well, I appreciate you popping in," Chandler smiled, "I'm concerned
over Nigel the boy, as well as Nigel the student. Before we go down
to Mrs. Farthley's class ..."
Roger politely cut in.
"Do you really think it would be alright?" he asked, "After that row
we had ... over Nigel's ascendency to Mount Olympus," and he laughed.
"No, no. It'll be alright," the headmaster assured, "She's gotten
quite over it."
The two men walked briskly down the hallways of Wickham, Chandler in
the lead. Everything was at right angles, and the headmaster turned
right, then right again, then left, their footsteps echoing down the
corridors, until they came to a door. The door said, 'Infirmary.'
"Is he here?" the boy's father asked with some alarm.
Chandler laughed dismissively.
"No, no. But the nurse is responsible for administering Nigel's
medications," he explained, "And I thought you might want to take a
look, be sure all was in order to your satisfaction, and ask her any
questions that you might have."
Without waiting for a response, the headmaster opened the door and
went in. Roger followed, feeling completely out of his element. The
nurse, Mrs. Browning, was a very nice sort of person, but firm in a
very nurse-like way ... vaguely military in bearing. She showed him
where the medicines were secured ... in a glass-door cabinet hung at
adult height beside her desk. It was securely locked at all times,
she assured him. Roger nodded, almost appearing disinterested, and
hadn't any particular questions he wanted to ask. So Mrs. Browning
volunteered some pertinent information.
"Mr. Macmillan," she said, "You should understand that the medication
prescribed to Nigel, the one for depression, does tend to make some
children occasionally sleepy and others overly active, and the side
effects can vary in a child depending on the time of day and
circumstances. Nigel's medication seems to have helped him
behaviourally, but his teacher informs me that, at times, he has
difficulty concentrating on his lessons. Just so you know."
"Thank you," Roger said, feeling a bit apprehensive.
"Yes. Thank you Mrs. Browning," Headmaster Chandler concluded,
"You've been a great help to Nigel."
He turned to the boy's father.
"Let's pop in on Mrs. Farthley's class," the headmaster smiled, "And
see how Nigel is today."
And off he went, his coat tails sailing and Roger following his lead
through that scholastic maze. Clack, clack, clack, clack; the sound
of their heels in the halls, measuring the moments before Roger would
see his boy. At last, they came to Room 7. The headmaster quietly
opened the door and beckoned the uneasy father in. The class was in
the midst of an arithmetic lesson ... something ghastly, such as long
division ... with Mrs. Farthley standing at the front waiting for the
young boy beside her to complete a problem she'd written on the black
board. The children in the class murmured when their headmaster
suddenly appeared and their teacher turned towards the door.
"Excuse us, Mrs. Farthley," Chandler said, "But Mr. Macmillan is here
to unobtrusively observe his son."
Roger noticed the woman's face went pale, so he tried to flash a
friendly smile and wave. The little boy, a slight fellow with
reed-like arms and legs, turned from the board and looked at him. The
fact he wasn't Nigel gave Roger a feeling of disappointment, for he
knew his son used to be enthusiastic about school, and although he
struggled with mathematics, he was a good student.
"Where exactly is Nigel seated?" Mr. Chandler asked.
"Oh ... yes. It is nice to see you again, Mr. Macmillan," she said
with dubious sincerity, "He's in the back, row four. Do you see him?"
Roger peered to the back. There were rows of questioning little
faces, but not Nigel's. He couldn't see Nigel's.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the headmaster. "I don't see him!"
"Neither do I," Chandler replied, "Where is he again, Mrs. Farthley?"
"Right back there ..." Then she stopped and said, "Oh, dear. He's
done it again."
And all the children, in unison, gave the kind of anticipatory
laughter one hears when an audience at a comedy play knows the punch
line before it's spoken. Obviously, whatever Nigel had done had
become a common occurrence. Chandler moved towards the rows for a
better look.
Roger was ahead of him. He took five steps and spotted his boy. In
five more quick steps, he was at Nigel's side.
"Nigel! Nigel!" the boy's father shook the boy's shoulder lightly,
"Nigel! It's your daddy."
Nigel was at his desk, but during the lesson, he'd slumped over and
had laid his head on top of his math book. He wasn't asleep, for
sleep is a soothing, reassuring thing to see in a child, particularly
if he'd been a handful for his parents earlier in the day. No. Nigel
wasn't asleep. He was in more of a stupor. His head was turned to
one side, his eyes not altogether shut but rolled back and unseeing,
his mouth opened just slightly and a ribbon of drool oozing slowly
down his lower lip and onto the page. His hand still studiously held
his pencil, which was poised motionless in the act of writing the
number '5'.
At this point, Roger Macmillan very nearly became overcome, but he set
his jaw and his nerve, and he gently swept his boy up into his arms.
The room now was as silent as a tomb. The pencil clattered to floor.
Without a word, he carried Nigel to the classroom door.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Macmillan," Mrs. Farthley said.
"I am, too." Roger replied, and went out through the door, carrying
his son.
A quick staccato of heels told Roger that Headmaster Chandler was
coming up from behind.
"Where's the infirmary again?" the boy's father asked as they moved
along.
"Follow me."
Shortly they came through the infirmary door. Nurse Browning stepped
back in surprise as Mr. Macmillan laid his boy carefully on the
infirmary cot.
"Is he alright?" she asked with concern.
"Yes," Mr. Chandler nodded, "But I'm not so sure about his father."
Roger had stepped up to the medicine cabinet. He turned the latch. It
was locked.
"Could you please give me my son's medications?"
Nurse Browning glanced at the headmaster for approval. Chandler
nodded, so she opened the cabinet and handed Roger a bottle. He
peered at the label.
-Flouxetine, 10 mg once daily. 100 count. May be increased to 40 mg
in children under the age of 12 for effectiveness. Patients taking
this medication should be monitored regularly for insomnia, anxiety,
mania, weight loss, seizures and thoughts of suicide. 4 refills-
An angry look suddenly crossed his face, anger at himself, for at that
moment he felt as if he'd been a complete failure as a father. He
turned to Nurse Browning.
"Thank you," he said, "Would you please look after Nigel for a bit.
I'll be right back."
And Mr. Macmillan strode purposely out the Infirmary door.
"May I come with you, Mr. Macmillan?" Chandler said, following him.
"It's your school." Roger replied, quickly pacing down the hall.
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
"Where's the athletic field?"
"Just there, to your right ... your right, Mr. Macmillan."
Roger burst through the double doors that led to the field, and the
green expanse of lawn beyond. There were no children out. The field
was empty. He walked to the edge of the grass and abruptly stopped.
Raring back, with a grunt he flung Nigel's pills soaring high into the
air. They tumbled in a grand arc, then at last descended and hit the
lawn with a bounce and a rattle.
"Damn it all!" Roger cried. He then became aware of someone clapping
slowly. He turned around, panting from exertion.
"Bravo." Mr. Chandler applauded, "Bravo. I would have done the same
myself."
Roger gave an embarrassed laugh, realising he'd become teary.
"I'm dreadfully out of shape," he said, "Don't get any bloody exercise
anymore."
"I'd say you've got a pretty good arm. Probably knocked a few wickets
over in your time." Chandler chuckled.
"Nah ..." Roger said. "Rugby."
"Now, would you me a favour," Headmaster Chandler asked, laying a
sympathetic hand on Mr. Macmillan's shoulder, "And dispose of those
pills before the children come out?"
HMSVV2010
|
|