BALLS

by Chris Edwards

  “They told me you were awake,” he said, holding my hand.

  “Can you grab me that basin?” Time for round two.

  While I hurled, he glanced around nervously and then managed to get Nurse Bonnie’s attention.

  “Do you have anything bigger he can use . . . a bucket maybe?”

  “No,” she snapped. “That’s what we use.”

  Dad narrowed his eyes at her, then looked back at me. “What’s her problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were in there for over ten hours.”

  “That’s probably why I’m so sick. The longer you’re under anesthesia, the worse it is.”

  “Doc said he’d be by soon and told me I could sit with you for a bit.” Dad looked around the tiny room. No guest chairs. Just my bed and a bunch of monitors, one of which was connected directly to my penis.

  That was the real reason I was in ICU. My penis was on suicide watch. It needed continuous blood circulation for twenty-four hours after surgery for the tissue to survive, so it was hooked up to a Doppler machine that had to be checked every hour for a regular pulse. I looked through the glass partition at Bonnie, who was now chitchatting with a coworker.

  At least the machine was doing its job.

  Dad opened the glass door and politely asked Bonnie if there was a chair she could bring in so he could sit with me. She told him he wasn’t allowed and that he’d already stayed too long and needed to leave. I thought Dad was going to explode but he calmly informed her that my doctor had given him permission. She told him doctors don’t have that authority and that he had to leave. That did it.

  “I’m going to sit with my son!” he shouted.

  “Heeey, what’s going on in here?” Doc had arrived right on cue.

  Bonnie jumped in. “He asked for a chair and I was just telling him that no one is allowed to sit with a patient in ICU.”

  “I think you know that this patient is a special case,” Doc said. “He’s not at risk of dying, his penis is. I told his father he could sit with him.”

  She continued arguing with Doc until he finally just left the room. Seconds later he came back carrying a small plastic chair and plunked it next to my bed. Bonnie glared at him and stomped back behind the glass. Doc smiled at us.

  “I have two other patients to check on. I’ll be back in an hour. Try not to kill her.”

  When he returned I was mid-puke. He turned his back until I was done. “I can’t stand the sight of throw up,” he explained to Dad.

  “You’re a doctor,” Dad said, laughing.

  “I know, I know.”

  As Doc began giving Bonnie instructions for my care, Dad said his goodbyes and promised to be back in the morning. After he left, I tuned into the conversation going on at the foot of my bed. Bonnie was arguing with Doc, refusing to follow his instructions. He raised his voice, which I’d never heard him do, and she stomped back behind the partition. I looked at him fearfully.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll do what I told her. You’ll be fine. I’ll come back after my first surgery in the morning.”

  “Okay. But before you go can you leave a basin on my bed in case I have to throw up again? I keep asking her and she won’t bring me one.”

  He opened the glass door. “Bonnie, we need a puke basin in here.” He then came back over to my bedside. “If you need her during the night, just press the call button.”

  “What call button?”

  Just then Bonnie appeared wearing her familiar scowl.

  “You didn’t show him the call button?” Doc said in disbelief.

  “Yes, I did. He was probably out of it and just doesn’t remember.”

  I glared at her.

  “It’s right behind your head,” she said and finally handed me the basin. I fell asleep clutching it. But when I woke up at 3:00 a.m. with another wave of nausea, it was gone. I raised my head and shoulders as much as I could and scanned the bedside cart. It wasn’t there. I peered through the glass partition. Bonnie’s back was to me. Again she was chatting with two other nurses at the desk. I felt the bile rising and knew it was only a matter of seconds. I reached for the call button and pushed it. No reaction. I pushed it again and again. Still nothing.

  I threw up all over myself.

  I lay there in my own vomit, screaming for help, but to no avail. I tried adding arm-waving to my attention-getting repertoire, hoping one of the other nurses might notice me, but my left arm was largely immobile due to the Jared-ectomy, and the range of motion in my right arm was limited by my hand’s attachment to the IV. In a last-ditch effort, I was able to reach the plastic cup by my bed and throw it at the partition. It didn’t get close. I gave up and after a few minutes eventually drifted back to sleep.

  ••

  “Christopher, wake up.”

  There was a split second when I forgot where I was. Then I opened my eyes and saw my nemesis. “You threw up all over yourself again.”

  “You took away my basin,” I said icily.

  “I didn’t think you still needed it. You should’ve pressed the call button.”

  “I did. It doesn’t work.”

  “What are you talking about?” She reached over and pushed the button a few times. “Huh, you’re right. It’s not plugged in.”

  “I was yelling ‘help’ at the top of my lungs and trying to get your attention. You left me lying here in my own puke for”—I looked up at the clock on the wall—“forty-five minutes.”

  “Well, you’re fine now,” she said apathetically and left the room with my stained linens under her arm. She returned with fresh bedding, a clean jonnie, and, to my relief, a puke basin. There was not one ounce of tenderness in her actions as she changed me and while I didn’t want to believe it, I wondered if she was treating me differently because I was transgender. There’s no way a nurse with such a callous and demeaning bedside manner would be allowed to care for ICU patients, right? I mean, she couldn’t possibly treat everybody like this. I fell asleep seething.

  I was moved out of the ICU late in the afternoon and was relieved to find the nurses on the sixth floor to be the complete opposite of Bonnie. They took outstanding care of me over the next six days, checking my penis’s pulse every two to three hours and constantly making sure I was comfortable and had everything I needed. Doc also came by regularly with DVDs and Dairy Queen.

  Devouring my DQ combo meal, I reminded myself that Bonnie was an outlier. Everyone from Doc and all the other nurses to the entire staff at the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel had treated me with nothing but sensitivity and kindness, often going above and beyond to make my medical stays as painless as possible. How many doctors do you know who chauffeur their patients around, let alone take them out to dinner? When was the last time a hotel manager offered to pick up groceries for you, or room service added a special dessert to your tray because they thought you could use some cheering up? I vowed not to let Bonnie’s appalling behavior overshadow that of all the amazing people I’d come to know over the last few years. When it came to my Nashville family, she was the redheaded stepchild.

  That said, I didn’t want any other patient to be treated the way Bonnie treated me. So while recovering at the hotel, I crafted a detailed letter to the head of ICU. Apparently, there must have been other complaints filed against her, because shortly after I got home to Boston, Doc called to tell me that Bonnie had been suspended. Rumor had it she was last seen carrying out her belongings in a pink kidney-shaped puke basin.

  Sweet justice: another reason to get my drink on.

  ••

  The “big” surgery was over and done with and I was headed to Meek’s house with a bottle of Grey Goose to celebrate with my crew. As usual, the girls drank their wine upstairs and the guys brought their drinks down to “Lou’s basement,” Meek’s husband’s domain. It was cold and damp and had a sump pump jutting up from the middle of the concrete floor, but it also had a dartboard and refrigerator filled with Coors Light. I can’t remember ho
w the topic came up—nor could anyone else (we’d been boozing it up pretty good)—but from what I can recall, one of the guys asked me how the surgery went, and from there the group wanted to know if I thought “it” looked real. I said something like, “You guys would know better than I would. Wanna see it?” They were all like yeah yeah, let’s see it, so I whipped it out—something I never thought I’d do no matter how much vodka I’d consumed.

  I only had it out for a few seconds and in that time I remember wide eyes, a few gasps, and maybe a “holy shit!” or two, all of which I took to be a good sign. They agreed Doc had done a great job—it looked incredibly real. I didn’t get that they also thought it was big until Straubs’ husband thanked me for making him feel inadequate and Meek’s brother-in-law shouted, “Damn my Irish DNA!”

  I won’t lie: It felt good to know my buddies were envious of the size of my penis. The fact that it was still swollen from surgery? Yeah, I kept that to myself.

  A PAIN IN THE BALLS

  November 2003

  One thing everybody knows about Straubs’ husband, Lars, is that he’s proud of his Scandinavian roots; the clogs are a dead giveaway. But what only a select few know is that one week a year he has access to a villa on St. Barts. This year, he and Straubs invited a group of us to join them during “their week” in November. We all jumped on it, as we’d heard about their previous trips and seen photos of pool parties, tropical drinks, and sunsets on the beach. When the time came, however, I was more stressed than excited.

  Six months earlier my job situation had changed drastically. The anti-tobacco industry account I’d been working on cut their budget in half and my other main account, Monster.com, had been bought by a holding company that left Arnold for an agency on Madison Avenue. A few days later, I got a call from Alan, one of my favorite group creative directors, asking me to come see him in his office. Dead man walking, I thought as I headed down the hall to his corner of the floor. He was wearing khaki shorts and an old Boy Scout uniform shirt boasting a wide array of merit badges, pretty much the norm for him. I’d worked in Alan’s group for three years and loved his quirky personality, genuineness, and sensitivity. He cared about every person on his team and their careers. So when I saw his pained smile, I braced myself for bad news.

  I nervously eyeballed his Shriner’s Club vintage fez collection while he closed his office door—something he rarely did. Before he could say anything I asked him if I was getting canned. He said no, but that finance was all over the creative department like “yaks in heat” and that there were going to be layoffs and then a reorg. They had two roles in mind for me, both in his group, and I could take my pick.

  Option 1: Retain my title as Associate Creative Director and work on Citizens Bank.

  Option 2: Get promoted to Creative Director and co-run the McDonald’s account.

  While I was relieved to still have a job, I wasn’t excited for either option. First, I’d no longer be with my partner, Mike, with whom I had great creative chemistry and an even better friendship. Second, both accounts offered less of a creative opportunity than what I’d been previously working on. The bank was an up-and-comer, but it was still a bank. How far was I really going be able to move the needle creatively? McDonald’s was a great national brand with an amazing creative track record, but the work Arnold did was regional, retail, and low budget. It was the second largest account at the agency and hadn’t won a creative award in years. I asked Alan if I could have the weekend to think about it.

  Of course I took the promotion and went with McDonald’s. I’m not an idiot. I just needed time for the shock to wear off. A promotion meant a raise, and also that I’d have control over the work. Plus, I loved their fries.

  In keeping with my Type A+ personality, I outlined a five-year plan for myself, during which I would complete the following steps: elevate the level of creativity; get spots featured on the agency reel; make it a fun account that creatives wanted to work on; and win awards. A tall order but I knew I could do it. That summer the national “I’m lovin’ it” campaign was introduced, and I was responsible for Arnold’s first national McDonald’s assignment: to develop a library of promotional TV spots in the new campaign direction for agencies throughout the country to use with their own local retail messaging.

  No pressure.

  In the middle of all this, I’d undergone another surgery: Balls—Stage 1. Tissue expanders (smaller versions of the one in my arm) had been inserted you know where, and filled with twenty ccs on each side. I was walking like I’d just come back from a three-day trail ride, and instead of subsiding, the pain was getting worse. Soon the expander in my right “ball” eroded through the skin, necessitating another trip to Nashville to have it removed. Now, with just two days to go before my flight to St. Barts, I sat in the middle of a never-ending production meeting with my left “ball” killing me. I shifted in my seat and felt a strange wet sensation between my legs.

  This can’t be good.

  I gave the producer the “wrap it up” signal and she cut off the director’s long-winded speech recapping his vision for our spots that he’d obviously come up with five minutes before the call. I bolted for the men’s room. Once safely inside a stall, I unzipped and gasped. It looked like the Wonder Bread factory had blown up in my pants. After using a whole roll of toilet paper to mop myself up, I snuck back to my office, grabbed my stuff, and ran for the elevator. As soon as I got home I called Doc and described what I saw. He told me it sounded like I had a major yeast infection from the remaining tissue expander and that it would need to be removed as well.

  “Can I still go to St. Barts?”

  “Yes, I’ll prescribe you some antibiotics, but you know what that means.”

  “What?”

  “No drinking for a week.”

  “But I’m on vaca—”

  “Okay, limit yourself to two drinks a day. No more than that.”

  “You’re such a pushover. Can I go swimming?”

  “Yes. Not in a pool though. Only the beach. The salt water will help you heal, so feel free to go skinny dipping.”

  “Not gonna happen, but thanks for the tip.”

  “Have a good vacation, hee hee.”

  Years later Doc would hee hee me again during another balls-related off-hours emergency call. I was going to Baltimore for the Preakness, and the night before my flight I’d developed an infection that was accompanied by a raging case of jock itch—my first. Doc again prescribed antibiotics and a two-drink maximum and suggested I pick up a can of Lotrimin anti-fungal spray to combat the itch. Of course there was only one size available at the twenty-four-hour CVS and it definitely did not meet the TSA’s carry-on requirements. I was on a tight schedule and didn’t want to check my bag, so I took a chance. Sure enough, it was pulled for a search. The young TSA agent with extra-long acrylic fingernails held up my duffle and asked for its owner. I raised my hand.

  “Do you have something liquid in here?

  “No . . . ”

  She unzipped my bag and pulled out the value-size can of Lotrimin AF.

  “You can’t take this on board,” she reprimanded.

  “But I need it,” I begged.

  It was then that she actually read the can, which was emblazoned with the words SUPER SIZE and CURES MOST JOCK ITCH in neon yellow. Trying to stifle her laughter, she took pity on me. “Okay . . . well, we’ll have to ask him. He’s my supervisor.” She pointed to an extremely large dude sitting at the wanding station, eyelids at half-mast. Judging from his thunder thighs, I was guessing he was no stranger to jock itch and might be inclined to help me out.

  “Can he take this through?” she asked.

  Moving only his eyes, Thunder looked at the can, then at me with an expression that said I feel for you, man and gave the nod. But before I could do my victory dance I was told I had to wait for the can to be dusted for explosive residue. My anti-fungal spray was displayed and scrutinized by three different members of security before it w
as deemed safe to carry aboard. Humiliating, yes. But in the scheme of things, a small price to pay for guydom.

  MY DOCTOR THE MATCHMAKER

  Martin Luther King Day, 2005

  From: Chris Edwards

  To: Sean Vernaglia

  Date: January 18th, 2005 2:40 PM EDT

  Re: OOO: AUTOMATED REPLY

  Thanks for your email. I will be out of the office Jan 17th–31st.

  For all things McDonald’s, please contact Bob Pye.

  He’ll be hiding under his desk.

  While my co-creative director was dreading it, I was looking forward to my “Martin Luther King Day surgery” for a few reasons:

  1. I was finally getting my balls.

  2. This was going to be my twelfth and final procedure.

  3. It would allow me some much-needed time off. (You know it’s bad when you’d take surgery over work.)

  The operation lasted roughly three hours. The tissue expanders were removed and a silicone testicular implant was inserted along with a pump that would enable the penile implant to become erect. I was back at the hotel for a week of recuperation—this time by myself. Doc had told me the recovery would be relatively easy—just limited movement for the first few days—so I decided to go solo. I needed to decompress anyway. Doc felt bad that I didn’t have anyone to keep me company, especially since this was a crazy busy time for him and he couldn’t hang out with me as much as usual. I assured him I would be fine by myself, that it was not his job to entertain me, and that I planned to enjoy my time relaxing with my two friends: On-Demand and Room Service. Later that evening he called to check on me and out of nowhere . . .

  “Soooo, Chris, do you remember Karen Marie from my office? You met her two times ago. She’s the aesthetician I had test out our new laser on your birth mark?”