Page 77 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“How am I doing, doc?” I finally ask Dr. Tuney when he puts my chart down.
“The pacemaker was necessary due to the extreme a-fib you had and the procedure was very successful. Its state of the art technology is much improved since we first diagnosed your condition and the potential problems. It allows us to monitor you in real time. You’ll also need several medications. Starting now.”
“Shit, doc. Am I going to need one of those pill dispensers like the old geezers?” The uneasy laughs do nothing to dispel the sinking dread and feeling that I’m living someone else’s life right now.
But at least you’re not dead. My mind goes to my dad and appreciation for how precious and fleeting life can be floods me, drowning out the worst of the dread though a measure of unease remains.
“You will be tracking pills.” He glances at Harper and she tenses. “Or someone well organized will need to do it for you.” I grin at the idea and the suggestion comforts me. He continues, “Your long-term prognosis with treatment is good and you should be able to lead a normal life.” I exhale a breath. The whole room exhales. But before I can think about what that means, Dr. Alvarez, the team doctor, speaks up.
“One last thing about your prognosis,” he says. “No way to sugarcoat it.” He looks straight at me, serious as fuck and unblinking and says the words I’m dreading.
“No more hockey. It could kill you.” The room goes dead silent. My heart thuds hard, stuttering as I take in the news like another shock to my already shocked system. I knew it was coming, but the words make it real like shoveling dirt over a casket in a grave.
My career is dead.
Harper takes my hand and squeezes it and that’s what I concentrate so I don’t lose it, not with my family looking on, not with my Mom in tears and my sister Katy weepy, though she’s been weepy anyway with her pregnancy induced hormonal state. There’s a couple of swears and groans in the room and I let it all go past me, holding onto Harper, her hand and her soul-deep hopefulness and energy.
“I’m sorry, Maddox,” Dr. Alvarez says.
“We’ll process your discharge now so you can leave as soon as you’re dressed and ready,” Dr. Manning says. “Instructions will be left at the nurse’s station and since you’re in Boston, Dr. Tuney has agreed to coordinate and my office will schedule your follow up appointment in a week.”
The doctors file out and my family circles close, a mixture of relief, disappointment, sadness and resignation on their faces and in their voices. Picking up my phone, I find myself leaning into resignation, the end I’ve always imagined far in my future suddenly crashing down on my head now. Part of me is shell shocked, but I push myself to get past that, to accept my reality even though it still seems so unreal.
“I need to call coach,” I say to the room. Everyone nods and murmurs, retreating back to the bank of chairs on the other side of the room. Harper doesn’t move.
“You don’t need to call him right now. It’s so new, so shocking,” she says, expressing perfectly how I feel.
“I’m a fan of the band-aid approach, sugar buns. I’m a tough hockey player, aren’t I?” She gives a strangled laugh, emotion welling, as she holds my shoulder. I pull her to sit down on the bed next to me and she does.
I dial the coach and keep my eyes on hers, drawing strength, holding onto reality, holding onto whatever piece of my identity she keeps in her heart. Coach answers the phone on the first ring. My pulse jumps.
“Knight. What’s the word?”
“No more hockey, coach. I’m done.” Dizziness and nausea creep in and Harper’s face blurs in front of my eyes. She leans forward and touches my face. Her energy or spirit or whatever it is that she has that affects me like magic, snaps me back from the brink of losing my shit.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Knight. You’ve been stand up and I was starting to rely on having you around for a while. You sure there’s no chance—”
“None at all.”
“I understand.”
We exchange promises to check back with each other, to tie up loose ends. Then we end the call.
The room lets out a collective breath. I keep my eyes on Harper’s even as I watch them tear up.
“That was the bravest thing I ever saw a hockey player do,” she says quietly. “I know the rug has been pulled out from under you and your life is like a giant black hole right now, but I promise to be there, to help you deal.” I reach a hand up and touch her cheek.
But mom and the others return to my bedside and I drop my hand, the moment gone. There’s talk about all the free time I’ll have, the vacations I can take and the general spread of false cheer. In a good way. There’s real hopefulness and a lot of love and I let it roll over me, surround me and shore me up.
* * *
Once my discharge is official, Harper takes over, taking the discharge papers, medications and prescriptions and does the honors of pushing my wheel chair towards the exit.
“I feel like I came into this place young and carefree and I’m leaving like an old man with hardware and medication keeping me alive.”
“At least you still have your hair,” Katy says. I snort. Everyone else laughs except Harper. Dad had his hair when he passed, though that could have been because he was too young yet to go bald.
“Give it a few minutes and we’ll see,” I say.
