Chapter 3 #2
I did this exercise with my physical therapist in Michigan.
I don’t know if it’s Chase’s skill or the fact that I’m further on the road to recovery, but I can feel the muscles extend inside of my body as his hand slides slowly against my joggers, pressing deftly against my thigh.
It’s a strange sensation. Sort of like the inverse of getting a charley horse.
Instead of my muscles cramping up, I can feel them extending.
It’s like he’s gluing me back together one piece of muscle at a time, as I start to feel more connected to my body.
“This exercise is meant to improve movement and relieve pain.” He stills his hands, and I can feel his fingertips run in a cutting motion across my hamstring.
“Even though we’re working a little lower, the anterior hip capsule is the main target.
We want to mobilize it by stretching your iliopsoas, TFL, and adductors.
This, like everything we’ll do, is part of the long game. ”
“I know what one of those words means,” I answer at the same time he uses his palm to apply pressure, just below my ass. Besides grunting, it’s the most I’ve said since we started working out, except to confirm that I’m not in pain.
He laughs, and his hand stills. I miss the warmth that it’s pushing through my body, though I don’t say it. I’m also not going to tell him that whether he has a stick in his hands or not, he’s incredibly good at his job.
I can feel him shift from behind me. “You bring up a great point. It’s hard to appreciate why all of this matters in your recovery when you don’t know what it’s actually doing.
” He pats a spot on the table a few feet above where my head is resting.
“Why don’t you slide up on the table, on your back.
I’ll walk you through the muscle groups. ”
I nod. I’ve always liked learning. As a serious athlete, I know the fundamentals of the human body, but this is more advanced. And maybe it will help speed up my recovery so that I can get back on the ice and throw myself into hockey again.
Gingerly, I brace my forearms on the padding and push myself into a standing position.
I walk slowly around to the side of the table, near the middle, and slide my ass onto it.
Chase’s hand supports my left leg as we elevate me off of the floor.
Once I’m seated, he places his hand on my shoulder and eases me into a flat position.
He comes back with a foam pillow. Before I can ask him what it’s for, he lifts my head and slides it underneath so that it’s easier to look up at him while he’s talking.
I shift my head slightly so the inset cradles my skull. “I didn’t realize I’d get to nap as a part of this. Definitely better than a normal practice.”
He stares down at me. “You look like you could use it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, even though I know that I look like shit. But it’s still rude for him to comment on it.
I’m surprised when he taps my temple. “The brain is the most important organ in the body.”
“I thought we were working out my muscles,” I argue for no reason.
“The cool thing about the brain is that it acts like muscle, even though it’s not one.
It uses neuroplasticity to operate at its best levels, and that requires exercise.
And any good exercise regimen also requires adequate sleep.
The same is true for all of your muscles.
If you aren’t resting, you aren’t recovering.
And if you aren’t recovering, you’re just slowly chipping away every night at the progress that you make here. ”
“I have nothing to do but sleep.” I don’t tell him that I can’t sleep. That every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the worst moment of my life. Eventually, I pass out for a short stretch–anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour–when my body shuts down because it can’t function any longer.
Even worse than the insomnia are the nightmares. In them, we’re trapped in the car together, the twisted metal wrapped around us like a vine. I can hear my sister crying, pleading with me to help her. I honestly don’t know if it’s real or imagined.
Maybe I’ll never know.
After their investigation, the cops told me that she died on impact. But it’s all so vivid. It feels so real.
He gives me a sympathetic look. I’m not sure how many details of the accident have made their way around the team.
“I can recommend some herbal remedies to help with relaxation. Or we can do some meditation during our sessions which you can continue on your own. It’s important that you treat rest with the same seriousness that you treat the other parts of your recovery process. ”
“So now you’re a healer, too?”
He crosses his arms across his chest, still looking down at me. “No, I’m just a guy that can’t prescribe medication and wouldn’t give it to you, even if I could.”
I scoff. “That’s rude.”
“Medicating to escape is not the same thing as medicating to recover. I can recommend a therapist as part of your recovery plan.”
“I don’t need a therapist.” No amount of rationalization is going to make what happened make sense.
He nods. I think that’s the end of it, but then he picks up an iPad resting on a wheeled stand a few feet away from us.
“I’m not going to make it mandatory as part of your program yet, since I want to give you the opportunity to work through things at your own pace.
But, if I see that your inability to rest is impacting your recovery plan, I will need to add it into your notes and get an outside therapist’s perspective. ”
I don’t like hearing that. At all. Back home, I showed up as required and did my exercises, and that was that. Wyatt Chase seems to have a lot of opinions about holistic well-being that I didn’t sign up for.
Now, it’s my turn to fold my arms across my chest. “Did you see a therapist?”
I’m expecting him to brush me off, except that’s not what happens.
“I did. After about six months of wallowing, especially when I got the official diagnosis that my full range of vision was never going to return. It’s not exactly an easy muscle to exercise, and no amount of wanting it badly enough was going to change that. ”
I’m surprised at how forthcoming he’s being, and I feel like an ass.
But still, I can’t make myself agree with his recommendation.
The thing is… I don’t want to feel better.
I don’t want some out where I find a way to move through my grief and come out on the other side accepting the unfairness of the situation.
Because that would mean accepting that my sister is really gone.
And I’m not ready to do that.
I refocus my thoughts on Chase. They still include his injury on top ten lists, especially because it happened in a play-off game during his rookie season. He was robbed in the semi-finals of a chance to win the cup, along with the rest of his career.
I look at him closely. Like all hockey players, it looks like his nose has been broken at least a few times, but it’s healed nicely.
Top medical care post-injury helps a lot with that.
I shift my stare from the left to the right side of his face, to see if I can spot any differences.
But… nope. His jaw is perfectly aligned.
His high cheekbones are both exactly where they should be.
I don’t even see any scarring. Honestly, it’s pretty fucking impressive. “You can’t even tell.”
I was watching the game when it happened.
It was a brutal hit at the worst possible angle.
I still remember the sound that his face made when it crunched against the boards.
He’d lengthened his stick out to maintain control of the puck, hoping to score the game winning goal with thirty seconds left when BAM.
The hit was entirely legal, but it will go down in hockey history as one of the worst freak accidents of the game.
His head collided with the boards, taking all the impact.
I’d never actually seen that much blood on the ice before. I haven’t since, either.
“Three surgeries can do that,” he finally answers, looking down at the iPad again. “I still have enough vision to live day-to-day life normally, but about thirty percent of my vision in my left eye is completely shot.”
“That sucks,” I answer simply. There’s not really anything else to say, even if I had the energy for sympathy.
I was eighteen when Chase was injured, getting ready for my first season in the junior leagues.
I’d felt invincible then, and though I can remember that game clearly, like any teenager, I never thought that something like that could happen to me.
Chase makes eye contact with me again, his dark eyes focused intently. “I honestly feel like Tremblay got the worst of it.”
“The guy who hit you? He didn’t have a scrape on him.” Marc Tremblay was the defender who initiated the check. He was in his fourth season with the New England Nauticals and already stacking up as one of the top defensemen in the league.
I sort through all of my hockey knowledge, thinking about the rest of Tremblay’s career. He never had a season as strong as that one again. He was traded to another team a year later and then spent two years with a different NHL team before retiring.
“Feeling responsible for someone else’s pain is a lot to bear. And feeling like you’re the one who caused that pain can wrap people up like a pretzel. No one got out of that hit unscathed.”
I run my hands down my joggers, refusing to make this conversation about me, which it’s clear that Chase wants to do. “We all know that hockey is a dangerous sport. It’s half the fun. But I am sorry that you were on the wrong side of it,” I lament. I’m not a complete asshole.
Chase nods, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Let’s walk through the muscle groups for the next few minutes and then we can wrap up for the day so that you can catch the rest of practice.”
For once, I don’t argue with him. This isn’t a conversation that I want to continue, either.