Operation Snow Balls

By Ken Davis

I’m hot. The kind of hot where I smell really rancid from the time I get up until the time I collapse at night, regardless of showers, cologne, powder, Deep Woods Off (a Winnipeg necessity) or Banana-Pistachio-Limburger Cheese sunscreen. The kind of hot where I stick to my wheelchair cushion so badly that I make embarrassing noises when shifting my weight, usually at the absolute worst time. (“No, Father O’Malley, that wasn’t me. I think it was Sister Constance.”)

I used to actually love the heat, back when I was a rookie-quad and didn’t know any better. Now, I can’t handle it. Before my wife, Pam, and I go anywhere outside in the summertime we go through a mandatory checklist of hats, sunscreen, water and spray bottle.

Living in Winnipeg is a challenge for the average person, especially with our legendary winters that last from Thanksgiving until Easter. But most people don’t realize that Winnipeg summers are absolutely glorious (except for the raven-sized mosquitoes, anaconda-sized tent caterpillars, hummingbird-sized wasps and potholes the size of Lake Erie) and very hot.

A temperamental quadriplegic such as myself refuses to let Mother Nature win the weather battle. So I spend the winters trying to stay warm (lots of hot tea, microwaved catheters and heat lamps in every room) and the summers devising new methods of staying cool.

So far I have tried ice blocks under my baseball cap, two small fans on my chair aimed at my face, and a frozen towel placed around my neck. All I have got in return are six stitches from the fans and a frozen nipple from the towel, and with the ice under my hat, my glasses fogged up and I drove into the kitchen wall, breaking four toes.

I went into this summer with renewed hope. I broached this year’s plan with Pam late in May. Pam listened quietly, and then simply said, “You’ve snapped. You’ll freeze your marble pouch off.”

We dubbed this year’s plan, “Operation Snow Balls.” It works on the theory that the three hottest spots on the human body are the armpits and the groin. We filled five small metal cough-drop containers with water and put them in the freezer for 24 hours. The next day, we placed one metal container in a cloth bag and attached it under one arm, and repeated this with the second container. The last three containers were placed in a leak-proof, absorbent bag and arranged under my testicles. We then set off to watch a Winnipeg Goldeyes baseball game.

Everything was proceeding smoothly until the bottom of the third inning, when suddenly I began to sweat. For a quad, that’s usually a bad sign, but I thought it was just my hyperactive bladder and tried to ignore it. Suddenly, just as a Goldeye player launched a monster home run and the fans went crazy, my legs started to do the hokey-pokey, without any encouragement from me. Pam looked at me, I nodded and we were off to the little boy’s room, me looking like a puppet on a string with my legs flailing wildly.

We danced into the washroom, locked ourselves in the big stall and looked down my pants. At first there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary, but upon closer inspection the problem became evident. The bag holding the ice containers was not as securely closed as we had thought, and over a period of time (three innings) my silky-smooth skin had become stuck to the metal, much like a youngster’s tongue on a flagpole in the winter.

As we discussed how to unstick my kiwis, we realized the third inning was over and the bathroom was filling up with men. Just as Pam was trying to convince me to just pull the skin really quickly, like removing a band-aid, a guy outside our stall knocked and yelled, “Hey, buddy, you been in there awhile. Is everything okay?”

Before I could say a word, Pam responded, “Would you mind giving us a few minutes in here, please? My husband’s testicles are stuck to a Sucrets can full of ice.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence. Finally, someone outside the stall mumbled, while stifling laughter, “Take all the time you need. I got mine stuck last week, and it’s not something you want to rush.”

When we left the washroom 10 minutes later, it was deserted. But as we headed for the ramp to leave the ball park, several hundred pairs of eyes turned to watch us go, smiling all the while.

Needless to say, Operation Snow Balls was a failure, so it’s back to spray bottles and Gatorade. But I’m already working on next year’s plan for keeping cool and I think I have it: Popsicle suppositories.

(Freelance writer Ken Davis tries to keep his cool in Winnipeg, Manitoba.)

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