Kindergartner Handed Out Jello Shots to Classmates, School District Says
A kindergarten student handed out Jell-O shots to three of their fellow classmates at Johnstown Elementary School
The affected children were evaluated by the school nurse and taken to the local hospital
Greater Johnstown School District is investigating the incidentA kindergarten student gave Jell-O shots to their fellow classmates in Johnstown, Penn., on Wednesday, May 14.
The Johnstown Elementary School student reportedly gave three other students 'alcohol in the form of small jello cups,' according to a news release from the Greater Johnstown School District.
Once the faculty learned of the 'isolated incident,' the students were immediately taken to the nurse's office for an evaluation.
Additionally, emergency medical services (EMS) were called to the school 'out of an abundance of caution.' EMS assessed the students and took them to the local hospital for appropriate medical care. The affected students' parents were alerted and met the children at the hospital.
Never miss a story — sign up for to stay up-to-date on the best of what PEOPLE has to offer, from celebrity news to compelling human interest stories.
The school district took possession of the Jello cups and is investigating the incident. 'We are cooperating fully with local authorities to determine how the student came into possession of these items and to ensure the continued safety of our students and staff," the district said.
The school district confirmed that counselors and support staff would be available for students 'who may need assistance processing [the] events.'
The news release concluded by thanking staff, administration, school nurses and school police officers for their "swift response.'
A representative for Johnstown Elementary School did not immediately respond to PEOPLE's request for more information on Thursday.
Read the original article on People
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
6 hours ago
- Yahoo
She Thought Something Was 'Wrong' with Her Body. A TV Show Helped Her Find the Answer (Exclusive)
Karren Lovejoy had sensed something was wrong with her body since she was a teenager, but couldn't explain why It wasn't until she watched Sex Education that she finally heard the word 'vaginismus' — and everything began to make sense Now, with support from her husband and the Reddit community, Karren is sharing her story on TikTok to help others feel less aloneKarren Lovejoy never imagined her journey to intimacy would be shared with millions, but her candid TikTok confession about vaginismus has shattered the silence around a condition many women suffer through in isolation. 'So, I was a virgin until I got married,' she shares in her now-viral TikTok clip. 'And I'm probably thinking, 'Oh, you did this very noble thing of saving yourself for marriage.' No, not really. I just simply couldn't.' She first realized something wasn't right when she tried to use a tampon as a teenager. 'It didn't feel like there was any way a tampon could go in there,' Karren tells PEOPLE. 'It just felt like it was blocked, like there was a wall.' That same wall, both literal and emotional, returned years later when she attempted penetrative sex for the first time. 'I was just crossing my fingers that magically it would work,' she says. 'But in the back of my head, I knew it wouldn't.' The emotional toll of those early experiences ran deep. 'It was confusing and frustrating, because I felt like something so easy and simple for everyone was not easy and simple for me,' she says. 'I just had this lingering feeling like something was wrong with me,' Karren continues. 'Like I was broken in a way that no one else seemed to be.' After a second painful attempt at sex, Karren knew it wasn't something that would resolve on its own. Around that time, she watched the show Sex Education, where a character experienced vaginismus, and for the first time, she had a name for what she was experiencing. 'I was like, okay, I think I have a name for this thing, and I'm just gonna go to my gyno and see what's going on,' she recalls. 'I told her, 'I don't think I have a hole,' and she looked and said, 'Well, you do. It's just very small. You need to see a physical therapist because you have vaginismus.' ' Hearing a name for what had plagued her for so long was a revelation. 'It was the first time I felt like I wasn't imagining it,' Karren says. Even before that appointment, Karren had already been trying to make sense of her body. 'I searched on Reddit and found the vaginismus thread, and I was like, okay, people are actually talking about it,' she says. But in her everyday life, no one had heard of it. 'Not my mom, not my friends — it just wasn't something anyone was talking about,' she explains. Karren's journey into pelvic floor therapy began soon after. 'I remember the first few sessions weren't even physical, they were more like talking therapy, which took me by surprise,' she says. Her therapist focused on mindset and body connection before anything else. 'We did breathing exercises, stretches and movements that helped me realize I had never felt like my body was mine,' Karren explains. For the first time, she learned that healing wasn't just about mechanics. 'I think I had been on autopilot for most of my life, and this was the first time I started to see that I could be one with my body,' she says. Just as things began to improve, the COVID-19 pandemic interrupted her progress. 'When we had to switch to telehealth, it felt like starting from square one,' she shares. Alone in her room, Karren tried to stay committed, but fear crept back in. 'I knew if I was left to my own devices, I would ignore my body again because it was scary,' she says. The idea of penetration was still daunting. 'Even though I wanted it, deep down it just felt invasive and terrifying,' Karren says. Eventually, encouraged by stories she read on Reddit, she bought a set of vaginal dilators. 'I had them for a year and didn't touch them,' she admits. 'The idea of putting something up there just didn't sit right with me.' What finally pushed her forward was love — specifically, meeting her future husband. 'When we knew it was serious, I told him about the vaginismus,' she says. 'And he said, 'Okay, what do we have to do to fix it?' ' They began scheduling 'dilator meetings' while Karren was still in college. 'He'd be on the phone with me, playing calming Japanese onsen music,' she laughs. 'I would cry beforehand, but knowing he was there helped.' Using the first dilator was a breakthrough. 'It was like, whoa…this is actually possible,' Karren says. That support made all the difference. 'It meant a lot, because he didn't see it as something strange or shameful,' she says. 'He prioritized my needs over his, and that kind of patience is so rare. When your partner is gentle and understanding, it makes you feel safe enough to open up.' Even so, the path wasn't painless. 'After months of using the dilators, I could finally put in a tampon, and I thought, 'Okay, I can do this,'' she says. 'Then I got married, and on our wedding night, I screamed bloody murder.' That night wasn't a miracle moment, but a milestone. 'The pain was still there, but I wasn't alone anymore,' she says. Karren's body had learned to associate sex with pain, and rewiring that response took time. 'I didn't look forward to it, because I just had a feeling like it was gonna hurt,' she says. But the safety her husband created helped her slowly peel away the fear. 'That gentleness, that understanding — it helped bring down the walls,' Karren says. 'It just kept getting better and better.' Now, sex feels different — not just physically, but emotionally. 'It feels empowering,' she says. 'I finally feel like I can experience intimacy the way people talk about it.' Sharing that journey online wasn't an easy choice. 'I had already talked about it on YouTube, but TikTok was different. It spreads faster, and it's scarier,' Karren tells PEOPLE. For weeks, she delayed posting the video, unsure how it would be received. 'I kept feeling a nudge to just do it, and I'm so glad I did,' she says. The flood of messages she received afterward was overwhelming. 'So many people DM'd me, saying they thought they were strange or broken,' Karren says. 'It reminded me how many of us are walking around feeling alone.' She hopes her story helps dispel common myths about vaginismus. 'People think it means your vagina is just really tiny. That's not true,' she says. 'It's often more mental than physical.' Never miss a story — sign up for to stay up-to-date on the best of what PEOPLE has to offer, from celebrity news to compelling human interest stories. There are other conditions that can mimic it, too, she points out. 'Like vulvodynia or a hymen that's blocking the entrance,' Karren says. 'So it's important to see a professional and not try to guess on your own.' Karren also wants the medical community to catch up. 'Some gynecologists understood, and some just didn't,' she says. 'It felt very dismissive, like, 'Well, this is the tool we use…deal with it.' ' She believes the first step is simply talking about it. 'Once something has a name, it becomes easier to explain, easier to ask for help,' she says. Today, Karren's relationship with her body is unrecognizable from where it began. 'It's significantly improved my confidence and my autonomy,' she says. 'I used to feel like I had no control over anything.' That change has trickled into every part of her life. 'Now I know I can do hard things, advocate for myself, and speak up,' she says. 'I feel like I'm in control now.' For those just starting their journey, she has one simple message: it is possible. 'I never thought I'd wear a tampon, let alone have sex,' Karren says. 'But it's possible.' Read the original article on People
Epoch Times
11 hours ago
- Epoch Times
The Best Father's Day Gift
After the nurse took my blood pressure and left the room, I waited alone for the arrival of my physician. At my age, this particular moment of an annual physical can bring some long thoughts. What if this was the visit where my doctor said, 'Well, Jeff, I'm afraid I have some bad news'? I began planning how I would tell my children and friends of my impending demise. As I paced the small room, I stopped by the magazine rack, where there were several copies of 'People' and even a 'New England Journal of Medicine.' There was also a Bible. As I opened it, my finger fell on Proverbs 17:6: 'Children's children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers.'
Yahoo
17 hours ago
- Yahoo
In this rural Idaho county, paramedics are being trained to help with mental health crises
Just an hour after taking her first call as part of a new community paramedic program, Ashley Lynn reflects on the gaps it can fill in rural Washington County. (Kyle Pfannenstiel/Idaho Capital Sun) WEISER — In late May, Ashley Lynn responded to her first call. She drove over to the local sheriff's office, helped a man call 988 — the Idaho crisis and suicide hotline — and stayed with him until more help arrived. A paramedic for 20 years, Lynn is leading a new program in rural Washington County that's meant to help steer people experiencing mental health issues or searching for help for others toward the best resources. And, hopefully, free up resources for ambulances and law enforcement. 'The two worst places for someone in crisis to go is the hospital and jail,' Lynn said, repeating what she'd heard in crisis intervention training. 'Currently, that's our only option.' Southwest District Health launched the Washington County community paramedic program this year — calling it the first of its kind. While it's in its early stages and might evolve, some other rural Idaho counties are already wondering how they can do something similar. 'My vision for this program is to be able to bypass those destinations' — jail and the hospital — and 'get someone right into whatever service is going to best serve their needs,' Lynn told the Idaho Capital Sun in an interview. So, 'they're not accruing emergency room or ambulance bills. They're not occupying a seat unnecessarily in the jail, and they're actually getting help and maybe changing the trajectory to where they can get better.' SUBSCRIBE: GET THE MORNING HEADLINES DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX Idaho has a shortage of emergency medical services, or EMS, which is a largely volunteer workforce and isn't required to be funded by the state, Idaho Reports reported. For the past two decades, Weiser Ambulance District has worked with the same operational budget, Lynn said. Only one ambulance there is staffed with a paramedic daily. There is a backup crew, she said, but 'we don't have extra resources to go out and sit with someone who's experiencing a crisis.' 'Washington County has a really small, although very professional and amazing, team of EMS folks,' said Wendy Young, who manages the federal grant funding the community paramedic program as a project coordinator at Southwest District Health. 'So when somebody is out on one call, that means the next person that's calling, the next person that's in crisis — whether it's a health care or a behavioral health crisis — they might not get the response time that they would appreciate,' she added. If you, or someone you care about, need help with thoughts about suicide or self harm, or emotional distress, mental health or substance abuse issues, trauma or abuse, you can contact the Idaho Crisis and Suicide Hotline at 988. The 988 number is available by text and call — 24/7, every day of the year. Online chats are also available at The hotline can also dispatch a mobile response team of behavioral health professionals for in-person support. Teams are available from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. Mountain time, but will be expanded to 24/7 service on July 1, the Idaho Crisis and Suicide Hotline's website says. For now, the Washington County program is referral-based. Lynn's first call came from a local domestic violence-focused group. But as a paramedic, Lynn can pivot to people's needs on calls. She started by doing a basic medical screening and making sure the person was safe, she said. Then she called the crisis hotline, 988, and stayed until the mobile crisis team arrived. For calls, Lynn uses an unmarked, 'everyday looking' old county vehicle — not a full ambulance. 'Not every situation ends in transport or needing to go somewhere. But if we're able to stay with that person, deescalate the situation and hopefully resolve what's going on to some degree, and keep them where they're comfortable and safe,' she said. But paramedics on the behavioral health program crew aren't bound by the same time constraints as typical paramedics, who might need to head to another emergency call, she said. 'If we need to sit with someone for an hour, that's what we're able to do,' Lynn said. In EMS, burnout is high. But Lynn also hopes the program can show paramedics other career paths. 'My hope is that I can show that paramedics can do more than just cruise around in an ambulance and show up to bad calls and do paramedic things — that we have a lot to offer the health community,' she said. The program is funded by a five-year grant from the federal government agency called the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, said Young, with Southwest District Health. The grant funds 'need to be used to divert people away from 911 or higher levels of care such as emergency rooms when such diversion is appropriate,' she said. The grant is in its second year, with the first year largely spent on administrative tasks to set up the program. In other areas with community paramedic programs, local organizations, law enforcement and even hospitals sometimes pitch in funds. About an hour away in Ada County, the community paramedic program helps law enforcement, EMS and firefighters with calls. Last year, the program responded to nearly 1,200 calls for mental health crises, substance use or other needs, Ada County Paramedics Public Information Officer Ryan Larrondo told the Sun in an email. That work included steering people toward the community crisis center, inpatient psychiatric facilities and referrals to other resources. CONTACT US But the program also helps with patients' non-emergency needs, receiving nearly 200 referrals from local first responders last year for people who need health resources that aren't mental health related, he added. In Nampa, the police department is starting a program to send a social worker out to calls with a police officer — similar to programs in local law enforcement agencies in Ada County, like at the Boise Police Department. The hope is to reduce mental health holds and avoid arrests, said Nampa Police Department Deputy Chief Curt Shankel. 'Becuase that's really a no-win, right? They're not getting the help they need there long term,' he told the Sun in a phone interview. 'So we want to be able to divert that. And hopefully be in a place where we aren't getting law enforcement called as much to the same individuals, or getting to the point where we end up having to make an arrest.' SUPPORT: YOU MAKE OUR WORK POSSIBLE
