Spiders – Oh My!

I remember third grade well. Hanging upside down from the playground monkey bars, walking to and from school every day, planting two-thousand Christmas trees by hand at the farm on the weekends, then the move and the stress that came along with it.

However, fourth grade holds only one memory for me. A memory I try hard to forget, but all these years later still hold onto. The mere typing of these words brings the dreaded creepy crawlies pricking up my arms and legs.

One crisp morning during the fall, my father came to wake me up. I was groggy and not entirely ready to start my day, but obeyed him so he wouldn’t tickle me out of bed. With a grunt I sat on the edge of my twin-sized mattress, checked my shoes for scorpions, put said shoes on so any mischievous scorpions hiding in the brown carpet didn’t sting me, then mumbled and grumbled my way to the bathroom.

Right away I knew something was off, but couldn’t figure out what. Exhaustion is to be expected, but I felt somewhat sick. Shaking the feeling off, I continued my morning rituals. While brushing my teeth I realized my right leg felt a tad itchy, so I reached down to scratch it.

Probably a tic bite or something. That’s what I thought, but what I felt scared the Wonder Woman panties right off me.

“Mom,” I called at the top of my lungs. My upper-thigh was hot, itchy and red. Swelling about the size of a baseball consumed my scrawny leg; once I noticed the hideous new body part, overreaction and a touch of hypochondria told me I was going to die.

My parents couldn’t get to me fast enough.

“Mommy,” I screamed again for fear the first echoing wave of panic hadn’t met her ears.

The floor rumbled from the weight of my parents running through the trailer. If I screamed it usually involved creatures, but if I screamed twice it usually involved . . . well there was no usual for this.

Mom arrived first, pink rollers falling out of her hair, sweating, make-up smeared on her face. “What is it?”

By this time I was crying and hysterical. All I could do was point at my leg, which I swear had grown in size in the time it took for help to arrive.

I’m sure she saw my leg, but I couldn’t see her face to gauge her expression on how bad it was. All she said was, “Oh. Don’t touch it. Ken, take a look at this.”

Dad walked in, and in his usual way, touched the-thing-that-was-going-to-kill-me too hard, bringing the tears to rushing river mode. “Looks like a spider bite,” he said, receiving a smack from me to get his fingers off it.

A quick debate took place, then a trip to the doctor confirmed the bite. I received an injection of steroids and antibiotics, a black pen to mark the growth progress—hey, it really was growing—and a recommendation for ice-treatments. Doctor said some mumbo-jumbo to Mom and sent us on our way.

You’d think this would have gotten me out of school for the day, right? Nope. Mom and Dad were struggling to make ends meet; they had to go to work, so I had to go to school.

Midway through the day my leg hurt so bad walking became near impossible. There was no one to call, no way to get home, I was stuck. Miserable. Still believing I was going to die, I spent most of the afternoon in the nurse’s office. I cannot remember what her name was, what she looked like or really what she did other than provide a plastic bag full of ice.

The end of the day bell rang. Nurse Whatsername helped me to the bus and there I sat, feeling so insanely sorry for myself, holding the bag of ice to my bite. Of course when the other kids boarded the bus, I became interesting. Everyone vied for a chance to see my leg. Oohs and aahs came from the spectators, further fueling my hypochondria.

One kid offered me his colored pencil and helped me tie the bag with it so I didn’t have to keep holding the cold ice. The gesture was sweet, really, but about a block from home he wanted his pencil back and I couldn’t give it to him fast enough. He yanked on the bag, and I screamed. Shrill and ear piercing.

My older brother knocked the kid back in his seat, helped me get the pencil—which was now holding the bag on so tight it squeezed and made the bite throb—out, handed it back to the kid, then when the bus arrived at our stop, Kris scooped me up and carried me home.

He still harasses me about that day. How he had to carry me to the house. How I was always finding ways to get in trouble. How I was a pain in the ass. BUT really I won that day. My big brother proved how much he loved me, and he proved it in front of a bunch of our peers. Awesome!

The bite took a couple weeks to heal. There are no permanent scars, but I now live in fear of the little eight-legged creatures. And while there may not be any other memories from that year, I can imagine nothing better than learning about how much you’re loved in such an unusual way.