Page 24 of Wild Blades

Which meant she’d been there since the Saturday night. The same night I called to tell her what time I would be arriving for dinner the next day.

All fucking night she lay there.

And I wasn’t there to save her.

She died in the house I bought for her a month after I was drafted to the NHL. The house she insisted I have a room in.Our homeis what she called it. “We’re a unit, you and me,” she would always tell me. “You’re the son I never had.”

I am who I am because of her.

Recently I've not been that man and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m ashamed of the person I’ve become. Thomas explained that by not confronting Gretchen’s death, I have a mix of delayed and distorted grief. I’m struggling to process the shock of losing her and unable to deal with my feelings, which I’ve been holding in for twelve months. I listened to him as we rode horses, which was oddly calming and therapeutic… yup,that’s what I said… rode a fucking horse rather than sit in a stuffy office like I had imagined we would.

When I relived the memory of finding her on the floor, he said I’m experiencing guilt from not being there to save her which I’m storing up like my own hydropower water dam, and when it bursts, I lash out, become violent, and aggressive to whoever is standing in my path. Then I turn to alcohol to numb the pain.

I know I’m not addicted to alcohol because I can go without it for weeks at a time, but when my emotions are spiraling, when someone says something triggering, then the liquor helps me control my memories of that day.

Add in a huge dollop of pain from finding Amelia in bed with another man just before Gretchen died, which I only shared with Thomas at this week’s session. Everything, he said, would feel like being hit full force by a cannonball to the gut. Or a rock-solid hockey player. And I know exactly what that feels like. It’s enough to smack all the wind out of your lungs and have you feel like you’re dying.

So, it’s no wonder I have been slowly drowning and throwing away my career.

I didn’t have the skills to cope with any of it.

Talking about it has helped.

Which has shocked me.

Over the four sessions we’ve had, I’ve begun to open up, and if I’m being honest, I am starting to feel better. Maybe. I don’t know how true that is. Saying it and thinking it sort of makes me feel better, so maybe I am. We’ll see.

Can’t get past the angsty anxiety feeling though, that’s still there, but it’s more of a simmer than rolling at full boil at present.

Thomas has been pulling at my happy times memory bank like a yarn of wool, unraveling them to reveal the joy-filled memories I have of Gretchen.

And all her greatness is slowly threading its way back into my brain, replacing the morbid thoughts I would like to forget.

I’ve released a few memories that make my heart pinch with sadness. I miss her. So much. But remembering how awesome her double chocolate, gooey cookies tasted, has helped. Regardless of what mood my mom was in when I was younger, Gretchen’s cookies always made me feel better. I recalled how her scrapbooks, stuffed full of newspaper cuttings of my career, made me feel loved. And I laughed with Thomas when I recalled the car rides we would go on to the mall and her terrible choice of country music she would always make me listen to as we drove.

After that session, I found myself searching my music app for Kenny Rogers’ songs. When I hit play as I drove back into the city, it brought me some comfort and made me feel like Gretchen was with me for the first time since I lost her. I won’t lie. It was hard to see through the tears that misted my eyes.

All in all, I feel better. Not old Wade better, but better.

Getting there.

Still a long way to go.

Mount Everest might be easier to climb.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wade

Wild Wade is hoping for a supermodel glow up on his tarnished rep

Edmonton Eagles defenseman, Wade Collins hires new sports agent, Leon Hill

Wade Collins caught cuddling up with publicist Kali Roth outside hospital

“It’s only been six weeks, but I hear you’re making good progress.” Marcus stares at the monitor on his desk.

“Yes, sir.”

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