21. Brock
21
brOCK
I t doesn’t make sense for me to want Caroline by my side for what is sure to be one of the worst moments of my life. I want to appear tough, strong, and capable in front of her. But if the neurologist tells me that I have to give up ice hockey, I’ll likely break down like a weak pansy.
I’m no stranger to every kind of injury imaginable, and head injuries are one of my personal specialties. That’s why I know, without being told, that this time is different. This time is worse. It’s almost like something loosened in my brain, and I have very little hope that it can be unscrambled.
I’m probably lucky to still have the capacity to walk and talk, but the very real prospect of having to give up the game I love makes me feel rather unlucky––especially since that game also happens to be my livelihood.
Caroline’s legs jiggle as we sit together in the chairs opposite the neurologist’s empty, oversized cherry desk.
Although I’m feeling jittery too, I do my best to hide any outward signs of my nervousness. “If she makes us wait much longer, I’m going to be late for practice. Coach won’t be happy about that.”
The strained expression on Caroline’s face as she gives me a half-hearted smile makes it obvious that she knows as well as I do that even in the best-case scenario, I’m not going back to practice any time soon.
When the neurologist finally breezes into her office, she brings with her a definite, crispy chill in the air. The professional woman plasters on a smile and makes direct eye contact with both of us before speaking.
Caroline reaches over to take my hand within her clammy one, and I instantly know that this is going to be even worse than I imagined. I’m not sure if they have some kind of secret doctor code language, but it’s obvious that Caroline senses that the news we are about to receive is not good.
Proving our hunch correct, the no-nonsense woman says, “I wish I had better news for you.”
The air clogs in my throat, but I manage to say around it, “Don’t sugarcoat it. Just give me the bottom line, please.”
“Very well,” she answers in an unemotional tone. “We all know that you are no stranger to concussions and their long-term repercussions, but I’m afraid this particular traumatic brain injury is too severe to ignore. After reviewing your scans, I would say it’s nothing short of a miracle that you are up and coherent. One more blow to your brain will likely be your last.”
She says the ominous words in a neutral voice as if she is telling us that it might rain later this afternoon.
The room is completely silent as I wait for her to deliver the life-ruining news that every nerve in my body senses is coming.
For the first time, the doctor shows a tiny bit of emotion when she says in a sincere tone, “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Brock…”
Caroline squeezes my hand as I brace myself for the incoming assault.
The neurologist’s all-business voice is back when she continues. “But I can’t in good conscience let you get back on the ice.”
The words swirl and jumble in my foggy brain. My voice comes out as barely more than a croak when I finally manage to ask her, “For how long?”
Finality sinks in and threatens to overwhelm me with doom when the woman says the single ominous word, “Forever.”