Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Christian picks me up at the airport, and he looks
tired. Like more tired than I’ve ever seen him. I didn’t notice it when I got
into the car because it was dark out, but once we step into our apartment and I
really take a good look at him, I know something’s wrong.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my hands gently caressing his face,
my heart filled with concern.
“What? Yeah. I’m good. I’ve just got a headache.”
Two days ago, he played a game in Philly, and as he was
sliding into second base, the second baseman’s knee accidentally smashed him in
the head, hitting him hard on the right temple. I didn’t see the game, but he
told me about it when we spoke that night.
“Do you think it’s from the game the other night? Have you
gone to the doctor?”
He waves me off. “It’s fine. Nothing a good night’s sleep
with my beautiful wife next to me can’t cure. You know I sleep better when
you’re here with me.”
He’s a sweet-talker, but I know a distraction when I hear
one.
Probably because I’ve been doing the same thing for a while.
Still, this is serious. A head injury shouldn’t be taken
lightly.
“Christian, I really think you need to see a doctor. Or at
least talk to the trainers.”
He gives me a patient smile. “Ella Rose, I know my body, and
I’m fine. Trust me.” He kisses me softly before carrying my suitcase into the
bedroom. Naturally, I follow, but I’m watching him like a hawk.
And not just because I find him incredibly attractive and we
haven’t seen each other in a few weeks.
It’s late, and we’re both ready to crawl into bed and watch
some TV. I want to do nothing but relax, I’m not sure I can. If this is a
concussion, he shouldn’t be sleeping, right? I think I need to wake him up
every few hours. But he hit his head two days ago, and he’s obviously slept
through the night since then. So, maybe he is okay.
Ugh…I really wish I knew more about sports injuries.
As if reading my mind, he gently murmurs, “Relax, beautiful
girl. I’m fine.” He holds me a little closer, kissing me all over as he talks.
I love it when he does that. Love how safe, secure, and
loved I feel in his powerful arms. It’s the best place in the world to be.
“I missed you. Missed this,” he murmurs gruffly, and that
voice…it makes everything better.
“Me, too.”
We settle in with the TV on, and after a few minutes, we
shift a little to get more comfortable. His arm curves around me until my back
fits perfectly against his chest, and I love how easily our bodies find each
other now, how my legs slip between his and stay there, warm and certain. I
breathe him in and close my eyes, grateful for this moment, for the way he
holds me without thinking, for the quiet intimacy of being here together after
so much time apart. No words—only the comfort of his body against mine and the
simple, overwhelming relief of having him close.
I find his hand and hold it close to my heart, and that’s
how we fall asleep.
The next morning, Christian leaves for the field, but
he’s back a lot sooner than usual.
“I have a concussion,” he says miserably, tossing his hat
onto the sofa, his frustration palpable. “I’m off for the next three days.”
“You need to see a doctor,” I say firmly, almost hating that
I was right.
“I saw the team doctor. He’s the one who diagnosed me.” He
collapses next to his hat, raking a hand through his hair, leaving it all
askew.
“Okay, but maybe you should see a specialist.” I sit beside
him, smoothing his hair back into place. I can’t help myself. I want to comfort
him, soothe him.
“No, I’m okay.”
It’s his standard response, but I’m not buying it.
Unfortunately, he is beyond stubborn, and as soon as those three days are over,
he goes right back to the stadium and plays.
I am beyond frustrated because I can see that he still isn’t
feeling well, but the man will not listen to anyone. He is determined to play,
and that is all there is to it.
And as if that weren’t enough, the night before we’re set to
leave and fly out for the All-Star Game, Christian’s dad collapses. He is
literally only a month away from the transplant, but a complication with his
kidney dialysis caused his lungs to fill with fluid.
“Do we need to fly to Florida?” I ask. Because this seems
like something we should all be there for.
“No. My dad would hate it if I missed the All-Star Game.” He
keeps in constant contact with his siblings until we get on the plane and is
back on the phone with them as soon as we land. Fortunately, the doctors got
him stabilized, but it is still terrifying how close the poor man is to death.
My husband is like a rock, however. He is as cool and calm
as can be, and I honestly don’t know how he does it. If it was my dad, I would
be an absolute mess and flying home, no matter what.
But I have to remind myself how this is just part of life
when you live with chronic kidney disease. The Lucases
have learned to become very matter-of-fact about it. And it’s not a bad thing;
it’s just different for me.
In Pittsburgh, we barely have time to check into our hotel
before we need to head out for the red-carpet event to kick off the weekend.
We’re all smiles and excitement—even more so when Christian’s brother, sister,
and brother-in-law show up. It’s like a mini family reunion. No one would ever
guess we’d just dealt with a life-or-death family crisis.
Again.
The American League beats the National League in the
All-Star Game the next day, but we still have a great time. Plus, I love having
family in the stands with me, so I don’t feel so alone. It isn’t like a regular
game. The two teams are comprised of the top players from all the different
teams, so I barely know any of the other WAGs. Still, everyone I met is super
nice.
We head back to St. Louis, and with all the excitement of
the weekend over, I notice that Christian’s still not quite himself. I don’t
know how much longer I can let him pretend that he’s fine.
The reality is that he’s not playing like he used to. He’s
making mistakes and missing plays that should be easy for him. I try not to
harp on it, but I’m not quiet, either. His game is changing. His thoughts and
reactions are slow, and he’s striking out constantly. Christian never strikes
out. He has excellent vision and can make contact with the baseball no matter
where the pitcher throws it—it’s what he’s known for. Now, the balls are flying
past him, and his bat isn’t even coming close. But the scariest part is that
his memory isn’t the same. Christian has always had a photographic memory. He
can recount each game, pitch by pitch, with exact detail. But now, his memories
aren’t as sharp. They’re even fuzzy at times.
“Christian, this has to do with the concussion,” I state,
hating that things have gotten to this point. “We need to get you to a
specialist. You can’t keep going like this. All of these symptoms have to do
with that injury.”
With his ever-patient smile, he replies, “I’m fine. Every
day, I feel a little better.”
But it’s a lie. He’s getting worse each day, and he’s
completely in denial about it. I understand being passionate about the game and
your career, but to what end? Is it worth dying for? Because that’s all I can
think about. That something more traumatic than anyone realizes has happened to
his brain.
Needless to say, I’m terrified, and I can’t understand why
no one is doing anything about it. Like…how can his coaches and trainers keep
letting him play? How can I make them listen?
As luck would have it, someone finally—finally!—realizes
it isn’t going away.
Christian comes home from a Sunday-afternoon game looking
incredibly defeated. I was at the game, and it was impossible to overlook how
poorly he played. I would never say that to him. I always try to be positive,
but it was getting harder and harder to find the right words.
“Hey,” I begin cautiously. “Is everything okay?”
"The trainers brought me into the office after the
game,” he begins miserably, tossing his hat onto the sofa again. “They said
they think I have post-concussion syndrome."
I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “And what did
you say?”
“What could I say? I told them, I don’t think, I know.”
Raking a hand through his short hair, he lets out a ragged breath. “You’ve been
saying it for weeks, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He collapses onto the
couch, his head thrown back.
I’m immediately beside him. “So, what happens now?”
He looks tortured, his blue eyes dull and without their
usual sparkle. “Now, I don’t get to leave with the team for Cincinnati for our
next game. I have to stay here and see our team’s eye specialist tomorrow. Take
some sort of an exam.” Another sigh. “I hate this. I can’t believe this is
happening.”
It would be wrong not to point out that injuries are common
in sports, and that he’s had them before—and will, more than likely, have them
again.
Or the fact that this was inevitable, considering how long
it has been going on.
Instead, I take one of his hands in mine and place a soft
kiss on his palm. “Now that we know this is something, we’ll get you the help
you need. Head injuries really need to be taken seriously, Christian.”
He glances at me only briefly before carefully pulling his
hand from mine. “Is that your way of saying I told you so?”
“What? No! That’s not what I’m saying at all. All I’ve
wanted all this time is for you to be okay and to give yourself time to heal. I
worry about you. Don’t you get that?”
“What you don’t get is how bad it is to be on the injured
list. The Archers are having a great season, and I don’t want to miss out on
any of it.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him, again, that if
he had taken the time off right after he hit his head, he might not have to be
on the injured list again.
But I keep that commentary to myself.
Hopefully, we’ll get
proof tomorrow that he needs to take this seriously, and he’ll stop playing
until he’s fully healed.
I can tell he’s upset and that talking about this won’t
help, so I do the only thing I can. “Are you hungry? I made your favorite—fried