PUCKED Up

by Helena Hunting

  I stop arguing. If I don’t accept medical attention, I’ll be setting a bad example. Plus, no one’s balls should ever be this big. My growing entourage makes their way through the mess hall to the area where the medical center is. It’s like a mini-triage unit crossed with a physiotherapy center. I’m familiar with a lot of the equipment. When we get there and no one moves to leave, I clap my hands together. “Okay, everyone. Thanks for getting me here. I appreciate all your help, but I don’t think I need a cheering squad for the rest of this.”

  “Um . . .” Doppelganger raises her hand like we’re in class and I’m the teacher. “Can I get a quick picture with you?”

  “Group photo!” Randy says, a stupid, jerky grin on his face. “Everyone in!”

  He mashes everyone together, Bathroom Interloper and Doppelganger on either side of me. My smile is more grimace than anything else. I’d flip the bird, but this will undoubtedly make it to the Internet. I hope he doesn’t get my actual package in the picture.

  Finally, once the photo shoot is over, they all leave.

  In the far corner of the clinic, a kid is hooked up to a bunch of machines, an IV bag running to his arm. As soon as he sees me, he ducks his head like he’s embarrassed to be here, or he witnessed that display of idiocy.

  I recognize him from earlier in the week. He hasn’t signed up for any of the competitive hockey business, but he’s been to every lesson. He’s an amazing player, but he’s quiet, always leaving as soon as the lesson is over before I can talk to him. He’s missed the campfire a couple of times.

  “Hey, man. I’m Miller. I’ve seen you playing this week. How’s it going?”

  He lifts his head, his eyes widening in surprise. “Uh, I’m Michael.” He looks at the IV drip. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “You getting gassed up so you can play with me tomorrow?” I nod to all the shit he’s hooked up to.

  He smiles, but it’s sad and old, way older than it should be for a kid. “Something like that.”

  Nurse Debbie appears in her white running shoes and scrubs. I’d like to say she’s in her mid-fifties and looks like my aunt. She doesn’t. She’s more Debbie Does Dallas than Nurse Ratched. She’s probably in her early to mid-thirties—I’ve slept with older—with dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s soft around the edges, but it works for her. She’s too attractive to be a nurse. I’m not sure how I feel about her having to look at my junk. But the itch has become as pervasive as the burning sensation. I’m getting close to not caring that there are people around to witness me scratching my berries.

  She does that thing women do when they see something they like. She pats her hair and smooths a hand down the front of her scrub top. It’s an unconscious reaction. She clears her throat and props her clipboard on her hip, flipping into professional mode. “How can I help you?”

  “I got bit by a spider, and it’s swelling.” I want to shove my hands in my pockets, but there’s no room.

  “Why don’t you have a seat so I can take a look?”

  “Uh . . .” I incline my head in the direction of my young friend. “We’re gonna need privacy for this.”

  Nurse Debbie’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. She does that strobe-light blink thing. “Privacy?”

  “It’s not in a PG spot.”

  She strobe blinks a couple more times and gestures to one of the cots. She hands me one of those gown things and closes the curtain while I drop my shorts and put it on. I’ve never put the lightning rod on display under such shitty circumstances.

  When I’m gowned up, I invite her in. Nurse Debbie doesn’t bother to mask her shock when I show her my junk. “Oh my God.”

  I’m not sure if it’s an optical illusion, but my balls seem even bigger than they were last time I looked. They’re about the size of a softball now, with one side significantly more swollen than the other. They usually resemble a couple of plums hanging out together. Right now the left one is massive, and the swelling has traveled to the other side. It makes my dick look a lot smaller than it is. And the shaft is swollen where it meets my balls, so it’s taken on a torpedo-like shape. If I had an orange condom, I could paint my balls green and call it carrot dick. Except I don’t think I could get a hard-on right now if I tried.

  “It’s a little swollen.”

  Nurse Debbie’s eyes flip up to mine, her disbelief obvious. “A little?”

  “Okay. A lot. But it’s not a big deal, right? The swelling’ll go down if I take an antihistamine and ice those babies.”

  “Do you know what bit you?”

  “A spider. I squished it when it fell out of my shorts.”

  “It fell out of your shorts?”

  “Yeah. I was chilling on the dock after dinner, checking my emails, ’cause it’s peaceful out there, and the reception is decent.” I don’t know why I’m explaining. What I was doing isn’t important. It’s the state of my balls that matters.

  “If you were on the dock, it was probably a fishing spider. It’s hard to know for sure until I get a better look.” She snaps on a pair of gloves. “This is a pretty extreme reaction, though, possibly because of the location. Do you have any allergies?”

  “I’m only allergic to penicillin.”

  “Ah. That could explain this.” She motions to my huge balls.

  “An allergy to penicillin can explain my nuts turning into grapefruit?”

  “The spider venom has similar properties to penicillin. It means you’ll have a more significant reaction.”

  My giant balls do seem damn significant. I glance at the clock on the wall; it’s already after eight. “How long do you think this is going to take? I need to go to the campfire tonight; the kids are expecting me. Tomorrow morning we’re playing kids-versus counselors before their parents pick them up. I need the swelling to go down so I can play.” Plus there’s going to be some local journalists stopping by, as per Amber’s suggestion.

  “We can get your teammate to cover for you.”

  “I don’t need Randy to cover for me. I want to hang out with these kids and play hockey and roast banana boats on an open fire. Just give me some antihistamine and a couple of painkillers. I’ll be good to go.”

  My man unit is still hanging out. Nurse Debbie is still staring. I can understand why. I’m gonna snap a couple of pics before the swelling goes down because they’re so crazy huge. I’ll threaten Vi with them if she gets on my nerves.

  Debbie crosses her arms over her chest. I should know better than to tell a medical professional what she needs to do. “I need to take a better look at the bite before I do that.”

  She makes me put my legs up on the cot and spread them. It’s an awkward, exposed position, way worse than look to the left and cough. She gets right in there and fondles my fuzzy, burning balls. Then she makes me roll over on my side and lift a leg. It’s like a porno, except not arousing at all. I consider how uncomfortable these positions must be for the chicks who star in the hardcore movies.

  The longer she’s down there, the more worried I become. My biggest concern is that some spider has mutated into a highly venomous ball biter and moved to Canada. It’s not logical; almost all of the most deadly spiders are found in Australia. Getting here means crossing an ocean on a twenty-four-hour flight.

  I calm my anxieties by reviewing the list of Canada’s most dangerous creatures while Nurse Debbie pokes at my balls. Moose are lethal if they walk out onto the highway and run into a car. Beavers get territorial over their wood. Bears are bears. I’m not sure about the rest of the animal population here. I guess it’s tame, like the people.

  Eventually I’m allowed to sit up. Nurse Debbie hands me a sheet to cover my business.

  “As suspected, it’s a fishing spider bite. It won’t cause lasting damage if it’s treated properly, but with your allergy to penicillin, it’s definitely worse than it should be. Plus the location is sensitive, as is the tissue there. I’d like to do a blood test to rule out toxicity, and I’ll give you som
ething for the swelling and pain. I’ll need you to come back in a couple hours so I can check again, and then again tomorrow morning before I can clear you for games.”

  “It’ll be fine by morning. I’ve taken a puck to the balls before, and my junk works fine. No stupid spider is going to get in the way of me playing tomorrow.”

  “If I don’t clear you, you can’t play.”

  I’m about to plead my case, but she puts up her hand. “I deal with athletes with medical issues for a living. You can argue with me until you’re blue in the face, but if I tell you it’s not safe to play, it’s not safe to play. You’ll find another way to do what you came here to do.”

  “Come on, Debbie. It’s the last day.”

  She puts one hand on her hip and points at my sheet-covered crotch with the other. There’s an obvious bump. “You only get one set of those. They’re not car parts. You can’t replace them. It’d be a shame if nothing worked because you decided to be stubborn, wouldn’t it?”

  I consider what she’s saying. I’ve had so many hockey injuries; ninety percent of the time I’m fine in a couple of days. Sure there’s residual pain. Sometimes there are creaks and cracks that shouldn’t be there, considering I’m only twenty-three.

  The occasions when it takes longer to heal, I dial back the workouts, do some physio, swim instead of run, and take the required herbs and supplements to get my body back in order. The possibility that my man unit might not work the way it’s supposed to thanks to a spider bite is some scary shit. I’ve just started using it again. I need to make sure I’m functional when I see Sunny, which I’m hoping is soon.

  I expel a heavy breath. “Okay. But let’s do what we can to make this better as quick as possible. I want to make tomorrow count. Plus I’m supposed to see my girlfriend, so the faster things are back to normal, the better.”

  “You’ll need the better part of a week to recover from that bite.”

  “Yeah. That’s way too long.”

  “We’ll discuss options after the blood tests.” She slips out through the gap in the curtain, leaving me alone.

  I take out my camera and snap a few pics of my swollen nut sac. From below it looks massive, and my dick looks average. It’s not flattering. I may not show this to anyone.

  I tap into the Wi-Fi and check my messages. I still haven’t heard from Sunny, which is a bit of a pisser considering dickfaced bearded wonder has been posting pictures, again.

  I send her a text. I can’t tell if autocorrect is screwing me or not, but I can’t listen to it because of the kid beyond the curtain. I mention the posts from Patchy Bushman. I’ve been dealing with this for less than a week, and I’m already frustrated with it. I hate this feelings crap. For the first time since fifth grade—when I got my stupid nickname—I’m insecure. Today can suck my gigantic balls.

  Next I search the Internet for images of fishing spiders. I shudder as countless pictures pop up on the tiny screen. Those things are huge. I’m almost positive that’s what bit me. Because I’m curious, and sometimes stupid, I add the word bite after fishing spider.

  “Holy fucking shit.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. That Michael kid is out there, and I shouldn’t swear in front of him. Then I start to hyperventilate. The bites featured are right out of a horror movie. I’ll be lucky if I still have my balls when this is over.

  Nurse Debbie comes back, and I hold the phone up. “You said the damage wouldn’t be lasting!”

  She takes the device from me. “That’s a brown recluse bite, not a fishing spider bite.” She clicks on another picture and hands me the phone. It’s bad, but not nearly as terrifying. Still, it’s my balls.

  Nurse Debbie takes some blood and offers me painkillers and a strong antihistamine.

  “How long do you think it will take for the swelling to go down?” I put my shorts back on. Tucking everything in is a feat.

  “It depends. It could take several hours or a few days.”

  “A few days? Is there any way to make that happen faster?”

  She taps her pen on the clipboard. “Antihistamine injections work faster than taking them orally.”

  “Do you have to inject it into my balls?” I can’t hold back the shudder.

  She laughs. “Oh, God no! The arm or the butt works best.”

  “Let’s do that, then.”

  She gets a syringe and stabs me in the arm. It doesn’t deflate my balls instantly, or relieve the burning itch. If this is anything like an STD, I never want one. “So I’m good to go?”

  “For now. I’d still like you to check in after the campfire, and then again in the morning. I should have the blood test results by then as well, although I expect they’ll come back clean.”

  “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

  “I’ll see you in a couple hours.” She opens the privacy curtain and heads over to see my buddy across the room. She checks the monitor and pats him on the shoulder. “Okay, Michael. It looks like you’re all set.”

  He looks tired and embarrassed as she sets about removing all the crap that keeps him tethered to the bed.

  “You coming to the campfire tonight?” I ask him.

  He throws his legs over the side of the cot, his eyes on the floor. “I don’t know if I’m allowed.”

  Nurse Debbie shoots me a look that tells me I’ve made her life difficult.

  “It’s the last night. We’re having banana boats. You gotta come.” I throw on my best panty-melting smile.

  Michael looks to Nurse Debbie. “Can I go?”

  She hesitates. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You should probably rest up tonight if you want to participate tomorrow.”

  His head drops in a curt nod, like he expected as much. Long hair falls forward to cover his face. He can’t be more than twelve, thirteen at best. He’s got the lanky build of a kid who’s going to be tall and broad in a few years. His sullen attitude is another sign the teen years are about to hit, although I feel like his might actually be justified.

  “We’ll be sitting the whole time. It’ll be low key.”

  I can tell she’s debating whether or not she’s going to let him go. I can also tell Michael is resigned to being told he can’t.

  I give it one last shot. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to run a marathon or anything.”

  “Give us a minute, okay, Michael?” She crooks her finger, and I limp behind her until we’re out of hearing range.

  I speak first. “It’s the last night. He shouldn’t miss this.”

  She rubs her forehead and closes her eyes. “This is the second time he’s been in the clinic this week. He’s tired, and he’s been pushing the limits. Last time he went to bed straight away. He won’t tell you if he’s feeling unwell. He’ll want to stay to the end, and he doesn’t want to be left out.”

  “He looks like a healthy kid. What’s he been in here for?”

  “He was diagnosed with cancer two months ago.”

  He’s one of the kids I sponsored. “He has a brain tumor.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Is he gonna be all right?”

  She purses her lips. “They rescheduled a radiation treatment so he could be here this week.”

  “But it’s working, right?” I focus on the present, not the few memories I have of my mom in a hospital bed, in too much pain to even hug me.

  “They’re hoping they can reduce the size enough to make it operable. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  Vague answers suck. “I won’t say anything.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and grimace when I rub up on my ’nads.

  Brain tumors are tricky. Even if they can take it out, it doesn’t mean he’ll be the same kid when they’re done, or that the cancer won’t come back.

  “Let him come to the campfire.” I glance at the kid. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head still hanging, looking like he hates his life. “I’ll keep him with me the entire time. I’d hate to be the kid who has to lie in bed, wi
shing he wasn’t so damn sick that he couldn’t even handle a campfire. It’s the best part of the day.”

  I can tell how hard this is for Nurse Debbie. The medical professional in her wants Michael to rest. The human being in her wants him to have this experience. If treatment doesn’t work, he might not be able to have it again.

  “I’ll take good care of him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t push himself.” I make a mental note to get more information on his family and their financial situation when I get back to Chicago and have access to the applications again.

  Nurse Debbie releases him with some trepidation. She fusses over him, much like he’s her own kid, and finally sends us on our way. The stipulation is that I take him in a wheelchair since he’s sloppy about walking. He doesn’t seem all that excited, but when Randy and the girls meet up with us, and they fight over who gets to push him, he eases up.

  The campfire is awesome. The counselors tell stories. We eat treats and talk about what’s planned for tomorrow. The kids share their favorite part about being here. A few of them say it makes them feel normal. Michael holds up through the entire thing, but at the end I can tell it’s taken everything he had to stay awake this long. One of the other counselors comes by to collect him—sleepy and happy and full of sugary treats.

  By the time the campfire is over, the pain in my balls has reduced to a slight ache. I’m still straining the front of my shorts, but Michael’s situation puts mine into perspective.

  As directed, I check in with Nurse Debbie on my way back to the cabin. She still seems concerned by the swelling, but happy about the lack of pain. In the cabin, a few of the senior counselors are playing cards and drinking contraband beers. Randy is nowhere to be seen.

  I check my phone, hoping Sunny’s called. She hasn’t. It’s already eleven. She’s probably out with Patch McBushman and the gang.

  The connection is in and out, but I manage to get on Instagram. While I wait for it to load, I stare at the wooden slats of the bunk above me. We decided it’d be best if I didn’t sleep on the top, in case I ended up being too heavy. Nothing says shitty camping experience like being crushed by a bunkmate in the middle of the night. It happened back in high school during one of my summer hockey camps. Carved into the wood are names. Some are tagged with “waz here” and other say “+ so-and-so” but there’s a name instead of so-and-so.