22. Caroline
22
CAROLINE
A lthough the neurologist’s assessment doesn’t truly surprise either one of us, Brock and I sit for a long moment in stunned silence after she leaves us alone in her elegant office.
At a loss for what to say to help ease the devastating news, I offer, “I could refer you for a second opinion.”
Brock stares at the abstract painting on the wall opposite us as he asks in a flat tone, “Would it make any difference? Is any reputable brain doctor going to let me go back to playing hockey? Would you release me to get back on the ice?”
As much as I’d like to offer him some hope to cling to, I can’t mislead him, so I answer all three of his questions with one word. “No.”
His eyelids are at half-mast and his head nods slowly as if he expected as much.
Deciding that letting him stare blankly at the wall isn’t doing any good, I say, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
The solemn, obedient way he gets up and follows me out to my car is completely devoid of emotion. I almost wish he would scream and throw things in a rage, rather than forcing himself to be strong and mature with this quiet acceptance.
Our car ride to his house is spent in complete silence. After I pull to a stop in his driveway, I offer to help get him settled inside, but he responds, “I’ll be fine.”
Although I sense that ‘fine’ is the last thing he’ll be, I opt not to fight him on it. The man likely needs some time alone to process this life-altering news and attempt to come to some form of true acceptance.
After waiting to make sure he gets safely inside, I slowly back out of his driveway and try to figure out what to do next. It doesn’t feel right to simply return to work as if nothing is wrong, but I won’t know what to do with myself if I go home.
I want to be with Brock to comfort him in his time of need, but he made it clear that he doesn’t want me around right now.
Unsure what else to do, I angle my car towards the arena. When all else fails, I like to busy my mind with work. It has always been my escape.
Brock’s teammates and coaches all look to me for answers about his condition. It’s a tricky situation. Doctor-patient confidentiality dictates that I am not able to share any details about Brock’s prognosis.
I work for the team, though, not Brock as an individual. Each of these men have a vested interest in Brock’s health and future ability to play hockey.
It’s also likely that it will be very difficult for Brock to share the news himself. If I can ease some of that burden for him, I’d be happy to do that. I just don’t want to overstep.
In the end, I merely shake my head in answer to their questioning gazes and say, “It’s not good news.”
Although I had been fully expecting a barrage of questions to clarify the meaning of that cryptic statement, the men are respectful enough to quietly accept that answer.
It’s difficult to concentrate on treating anyone else when my mind keeps wandering back to Brock. I’m desperate to know how he’s doing, but I have a tightrope walk to balance between being his competent doctor and his concerned lover.
Am I even his lover or was our tryst simply a one-night stand? As much as I’d like to believe that our time together meant as much to him as it does to me, I have significant doubts about that.
Besides, the horrific news he just received will likely send him into a tailspin that involves lots of booze, partying, and women. The last thing he probably wants or needs right now is a clingy, wannabe girlfriend.
As I drive home from work, it’s all I can do to keep from turning toward Brock’s house. Despite how much my mind wants to justify the house call, I know deep down that if it was any other player, I would simply check in by phone.
Instead of going to him, I force myself to head home. Knowing that one of my favorite people in the world is suffering through some devastating news makes me want to wallow in sadness for a bit.
When I get home, I put on my comfiest sweats and plop down on the couch to watch a sad movie while I sob and devour a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. If Brock isn’t going to outwardly mourn the loss of his career, my empathetic heart apparently needs to take over that chore for him.
When I wake up in the morning, I feel even worse. It turns out that sulking and rotting on the sofa is not the answer to my problems.
Although I’ve never called in sick to work before, I simply cannot summon the energy to deal with it today. After asking Shayna to promise to call me with anything urgent, I quickly sign off from the call with the surprised woman.
Deciding that a long drive might help clear my head, I climb into my car, turn up the radio, and head out on the highway. Perhaps some speed and distance are precisely what I need for some clarity around the proper way to proceed with Brock.
After forty-five minutes of driving, I pull into the gravel parking lot of a gardening shop to turn around. That’s when I discover the perfect solution that will allow me to let Brock know I care without being too pushy.