Chapter 28 Evan
Evan
Sometime after the fall
New York, NY
If ever there was a moment for feeling sorry for myself, this is it. History is repeating itself, only worse. So much worse.
This time, I'm lying on a hospital bed and the career ender isn’t just a coach leaving me desolate. It’s a body that might never be able to skate again.
The doctors haven't told me as much, but they haven’t told me much at all. Not that I remember.
To add insult to injury, my only support system is Gabby. Who is great, but we’ve never been very close. I never let her in the way I should have, after the fiasco of Caro. Which leaves me in the sole custody of a coach I've never truly confided in while doctors talk around my future.
All of this is my own damned fault. I knew I was overwrought, knew I wasn’t focusing well. Why am I incapable of doing anything except screw up?
I should never have gotten on the ice so full of emotions.
I should have withdrawn from the competition, or let myself do an easier jump. Instead, I pushed so hard for it, even harder than Stefan has been training me to, frustration driving me to do something so stupid; common sense should have kicked in.
So many options existed that would have saved me from this, and I didn’t use any of them.
I'm in pain, I'm heartbroken, and I'm beyond pissed at myself. It's a crappy combination.
Gabby was next to me, holding my hand, the first few times I woke up, but this time she’s not sitting in the chair next to my bed.
According to the clock on the wall opposite me, it's 3:45; a.m., I assume.
Of course, in this pocket of the hospital with no glimpse of the outside, it could be afternoon.
I’m stifled by the small room, the wall of windows that leaves me in full view of the staff, the machines humming around me, the smell of bleach.
For the first time, I understand Stefan's claustrophobia. I want to go outside, to at least see the outside. Not lay in this sterile cave wondering whether I’ll ever skate again.
At least I'm too out of it to be bored, though it's not exactly entertaining to watch the overnight nurses round through the ICU every few minutes. I don’t seem to care enough to care.
How high am I?
One of the nurses notices me watching her and ducks into my room. "Hey there, kiddo. How're you feeling?" She's whispering for some reason, the beeping of the machines surrounding me far louder than her voice.
Painfully loud, when I focus on them. Why are they so loud?
The nurse touches my arm, and I refocus on her. What did she ask? Oh, right. "I'm ok." My voice comes out hoarse, and she moves over to the side table, picking up a cup of water for me and angling the straw into my mouth. "Thanks," I add, when the sip of water goes down like the nectar of the gods.
"No problem." She smiles, then perches herself on the bed beside me, carefully avoiding any tubes or lines. Still holding the water, giving me the chance to keep drinking. Maybe she's as bored as I should be. "Sounds like your speech is improving. That's a good sign."
I'm not sure I remember it being a problem, but I'll take her word for it. I don't remember much since waking up. That, or I’ve only been awake for short snippets of time.
"My parents?" They’re coming, right? Gabby told me; I can remember that much. It’s in one of those snippets.
"They're still a few hours out. On a plane as we speak." She smiles yet again, encouraging. "I'll keep you posted. As soon as I hear anything from them."
"Thanks."
"A few of the Skate Canada coaches are in the lobby, asking about you. And some of your teammates. I can't let them in, but they wanted me to let you know that they're thinking about you."
I try a smile. It's not quite right, but it’ll have to do. "Tell them I'm ok."
"I'll do that." She soothes a hand over my brow, probably checking my temperature, but it feels like comfort, so I take it that way. "I want you to relax for the rest of the night, all right? Don't worry about anything. I don't want to see those furrows again."
Furrows? Huh. I guess she was smoothing them out, not comforting me. Though it comes down to a similar motivation, I suppose. "I'm not worried." I’m too high to be worried.
"Good. You don't need to be. Dr. Helachi did a great job. When we move you out of the ICU in the morning, I’m sure you'll have a whole team of sports medicine doctors at your beck and call.
They tell me you're quite the athlete." What did Dr. Helachi do a good job with?
Were they one of the doctors I vaguely remember bustling around me, talking to Gabby?
I give the most minuscule shrug in history. "Maybe. Will I skate again?"
Her fingers brush my brow. "No furrows, kiddo. If it's possible to get you back out there, our team will manage it. We've got an excellent facility here. I've seen people come back from worse."
"Thanks."
A light pat on my shoulder, and then she's up, returning the cup to its place on the table. "Get some rest."
"Ok."
If I wake again before morning, I don't remember it. When I do wake next, it’s my mother’s hand holding mine, and for the first time since I fell, tears burn against the back of my eyes. "Mama."
My mother looks up from her tablet, on which she's undoubtedly reading a very steamy romance; her eyes fill with the tears I'm trying to hold back. "Mijo."
I want to hug her, so much it hurts almost as badly as my right side. Reading my mind, she leans down to kiss my forehead, below the bandage I don’t remember getting, her lips warm against my skin. It's not quite the same, but it still fills me with a wave of relief. "I'm so glad you're here."
"Of course I'm here." She playfully swats at my arm, so gently it barely registers, as tears continue to stream down her face. "My baby needs me. Where else would I be?"
"Is Papa here too?" Didn’t someone say they were both coming?
"He's here." Mama's hand squeezes mine and she leans down to kiss my forehead again. "They only allowed one of us to be in here with you, and I won. I'm the one who carried you in my womb for nine months."
Despite everything, it's enough to send a shot of laughter through me, though I do my best to quell it. I'm pretty sure laughing would hurt like hell. It's her way of winning any argument about us with Papa; how could he ever compete with it? "What about Sophie and Christian?"
She rolls her eyes. "Your hermanos have been texting every five minutes since we stepped out of the door. But they have school, so we left them at home. They may never forgive us."
"Tell them I love them."
"Of course, Mijo. They know that."
"I know, but..." Everything is a lot clearer after the fall. After the moment that, cliché or no, my life flashed before my eyes. As soon as I lifted off the ice, I knew what was going to happen, but it was too late to stop it.
"I just..." I don't have the words. Not the right ones. So I settle with a repeat. "I'm really glad you're here."
"I know, Mijo."
We go silent for a while, me floating in half-consciousness, she back to her reading, until a nurse comes in. She is different from the one last night. "Are you ready for more tests?" She sounds far too chipper.
"Nope." I smile at her, though, not wanting her to think I’m being difficult. "You're going to do them anyway."
"We sure are." She smiles back, sympathetic, but not giving an inch. "We need another CT of your head, and then we're going to put you through another round of x-rays on that pelvis. The doctor wants to make sure it's still stable."
I don't remember much about the x-rays yesterday, but what I do remember was painful. They'd tried to avoid shifting me, but the transitions to the hard table and back weren't perfect. "Goody."
Her laugh is... appeasing? I'm not as funny as I think I am, it says, but she's letting me get away with it. Fine; I'm not at my best at the moment. Mama squeezes my hand one last time, then watches as they wheel me out of the room.
The scans aren't quite as agonizing as I remember, thank God. When the doctor comes to give us the diagnosis a couple hours later, I'm finally given the full report.
The bandages on my head exist because I cut it when I fell. I also hit hard enough they’ve been watching to make sure there’s no internal bleeding. So far, so good, but there's still a small risk.
It’s the rest of his news that's terrifying, even if he’s less concerned about it. He shows Mama and me scans as he explains. The white line running through my pelvic bone. The two breaks in my tibia. The torn ligaments in my knee.
“So.” He’s settled back into his chair, eyes bouncing between the two of us. “It’s good news and bad news. The pelvic fracture is stable, and as long as it stays that way, there’s nothing life-threatening about it.” Life threatening? From a broken bone? Mama’s indrawn breath matches mine.
Seeing our reactions, he smiles consolingly. “I didn’t mean to concern you; apologies. Pelvic fractures get a bad rap, and for good reason. But you got lucky. Not even surgery. As long as it doesn't get worse, it’ll heal on its own.”
Mama squeezes my hand, hard. “And the other injuries?”
“I’ll go in and stabilize the tibia, and we’ll also have to do some work on your knee, Evan. Maybe more than once. I’m not the guy for that conversation, though; we’ll have you talk with a specialist later. Nothing will happen for a few days. We need to wait for the swelling to go down.”
Oh God. “So at least two surgeries. Maybe more,” I clarify, wanting to be sure I’ve gotten it right.
“Yep.” His smile is consoling again. “And you’re looking at a lot of rehab afterward.”
I don’t want to ask. I so don’t want to ask. I can’t ask.
Mama glances over at me and meets my eyes. Hers soften more, new tears welling up. “How long before he can get back on the ice? Will he be back?” she asks, saving me.
I haven't talked to her about this, my greatest fear, but she knows me. Knows what I don't want to think about because it's too terrifying to contemplate.
The doctor hesitates. "There's no way to be certain, of course."
"We understand," Mama interrupts, her voice suddenly crisp. "But you will tell us your best guess. The odds. Whatever."
God, I love her.
A nod from the doctor. "All right. I can't make any guarantees, considering the level Evan skates at, but I can say that, bone-wise, if he does everything right, I am reasonably confident he'll be able to get back to where he was. But, and I can't stress this enough, that will require a great deal of time and effort, and assumes there are no complications with his pelvis. If the fracture does shift, the chances of a full recovery will go down substantially. And as I said, I’m not the soft tissue guy, so I can’t speak for the knee.”
He didn’t give me a when. What does that mean? I'm maybe hyperventilating, a bit, by the time he's finished, and Mama's hand squeezes mine again. "What can we do to ensure that it remains where it needs to be?"
"Rest," the doctor answers, bluntly. "I want you to keep it as immobilized as possible for the first week or so, and once I see indication the bones are knitting, I'll put you on very limited movement.
No weight bearing, but since it's the same leg as your tibia and knee, that shouldn't be an issue.
If it were just the bone injuries, we'd get you on crutches or a walker, where you'd stay for about ten weeks.
The pelvis will take more time than your leg to heal up, so we'll do some juggling with the physical therapy. "
Mama and I nod solemnly, but my heart is in my throat. Ten weeks of non-weight-bearing. That's so long. Too long. "When can I be on skates again?" I croak out, needing the whole story.
He gives me a tight smile. He can’t talk around it this time.
"Again, I can't be certain. We'll see how physical therapy goes.
But with pelvic injuries, the recovery does take a great deal of time, I'm afraid.
Even after your fracture is healed, the muscles around it can take up to a year to heal fully. "
A year? My heart stops. "The Olympics."
"Aren't going to happen this year.” It’s blunt, unequivocal. “I don't foresee any circumstance where you'll be jumping on that leg again within the next few months. Not if you don't want to cripple yourself for life."
I can't breathe, and the tears I've managed to push back so far force their way out.
Deep, gut-wrenching sobs, every one of which shoots pain through my body.
The doctor is holding me down, isolating my pelvis, and Mama's arms are around me as best she can manage.
It doesn't matter. Everything I've spent my life working towards, everything I've ever wanted, wrenched away from me because of one stupid, stupid moment.
I've lost everything.
"There's always another cycle, Mijo." Mama's voice is soft, soothing, but all I can do is shake my head, still crying. She knows as well as I do that it was one thing to comfort myself with those words at twenty. It's another entirely at twenty-four.
No way I can keep up the intensity for another four years on the off chance I'll still be among the top skaters in the world by then. Twenty-eight isn't unprecedented for an Olympic single's skater, but it's not common. Our bodies break down.
Mine broke about four months too early.