I’m the author of this story. Here’s the worst field trip experience, which gave me a permanent medical condition.
The summer before the previous story, my school district was experimenting with running its own summer program for elementary students. They’d have regular teachers also on summer break hired to run it, and it would use one of the existing schools. All children in grades one to four (ages six to eleven) who went to schools in the district would be welcome to enroll. Lunch would be provided, there would be field trips every Friday, the hours would be similar to regular school, and there would only be a nominal fee upfront. For working parents, it was a godsend.
When we got to it, it was okay. The teachers who had taken the position were the ones who worked at the school that was hosting it, which was the wealthiest of the six elementary schools in the district. Even we oblivious kids noticed that they were a little snobby to those of us from the “less desirable” schools. Groups were based on what grade we’d be in come fall, and each teacher had about thirty-five kids to watch over.
I don’t remember most of the time there, just a tie-dye project the whole “school” did (they stole my cousin’s to give to a student who went to that school during the year who was absent the day we dyed them), a pretty cool demonstration/talk from a guy with a “pet” bald eagle who did wildlife rehabilitation, and the field trip in this story.
One Friday in the middle of the summer, we were going to a semi-local resort that had a spring-fed pool with nearby streams where you could catch crawdads with your bare hands. I loved swimming at that time and was ecstatic that I could just stay in the pool the whole time. My memories of the day are hazy, with only a few clear moments. During the few times I was out of the pool, I visited the singular drinking fountain on the property to view a hummingbird guarding its nest but didn’t take many drinks. By the time we had to leave, I must have been exhausted and a little sunburnt, but I was satisfied. I don’t think I was on the bus I came in on, but my cousin helped me onto his bus, and those teachers must have decided to just let me be since his bus was split between our age groups anyway and notified my bus so the whole caravan of three or four buses could head off.
It was an hour ride home, and fifteen minutes in, I started vomiting uncontrollably. Thankfully, I had just collapsed onto the first seat, and the driver had a real garbage bin onboard. The air conditioning was either broken or non-existent, there were no extra bottles of water, and I wouldn’t have been able to keep it down at that point anyway. I was only seven and didn’t know what was happening, I was scared I would die, and I started crying into the trash bin.
My six-year-old cousin did his best to comfort me by giving me what was left of his water bottle, rubbing my back, and asking the teachers for help. They didn’t do anything except comfort the other six-year-olds who started crying because my condition scared them, and then eventually have everyone move back so there was an empty buffer seat between me and my cousin and everyone else.
Once we got back to the pick-up site, I was puking less but still sort of crying. There, we met with my older brother coming off his bus, and we waited for our dad to pick us up, which I’m told was thankfully faster than usual. I’m pretty sure I remember my brother and cousin getting me to sit in the shade of a tree on my towel and one of them staying with me while the other got my dad to help me into the car when he arrived. My last clear memory of this day is crying while apologizing as I started puking again in my dad’s back seat.
Apparently, I was still semi-lucid so my dad just immediately took me home. There, he set me up on his bed with the ceiling fan on high and our air conditioning turned up, kept alternating cold wet cloths on my forehead, and tried to get me to keep down drinks. I hadn’t gotten better by the time my mom got home, about an hour after we did, so they made the decision to get me to the hospital. There, apparently, I had an IV to help rehydrate me and get my core temperature down, and I was released later that night because I had been alert and conscious the whole time.
My parents spent the next week taking turns taking us kids to their workplaces (they both had offices, thankfully). Then, they decided to have my grandma watch us with our cousin before they could get us into the daycare they used during the school year for the last few weeks of summer.
From my point of view, I passed out in my dad’s back seat and then woke up from a nap in my grandma’s bed. I was a little confused but knew I was in a safe place. More importantly, I knew my aunt and uncle who lived with my grandma had treats in the freezer, so I went out to the living room to ask if I could have a Fudgesicle. I forgot about the confusion by the time my parents got us, and it didn’t come up again until I was almost an adult.
At no point during or after were my parents ever contacted by anyone at the summer program. The school even tried to get them to reconsider when my parents called to unenroll me and my brother.
I had a heat stroke on that field trip, and ever since, I have had to be very careful about my body temperature and can’t take much direct sunlight. On bad days, just washing my hair with hot water can make me overheat and leave me exhausted for hours. It also took a few years for my long-term memory to recover and develop properly, but I think it’s more or less normal now after puberty.
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