Page 20 of Iowa Intellect
He runs his tongue along the front of his teeth before saying in a mocking tone, “Aww––no trips to the dentist today. I almost have my ‘Buy 10 teeth, get 1 free’ punch card complete.”
Shayna and I share an exasperated look before I say, “I guess you’ll have to wait a while longer to get that freebie dental implant.”
To anyone else, it would probably seem strange to be joking about losing teeth. But to an ice hockey medical professional, it’s simply part of the job. We have the team’s preferred DDS on speed dial, and she always manages to work the players into her schedule on extremely short notice.
Brock hisses when I stick the needle through his skin to make the next stitch. Hating it that I’m the one hurting him, I offer, “We have the bleeding under control, so I can give you something for the pain and wait for it to take effect before I finish stitching you up.”
“Nah, go ahead and finish, Doc. My noggin is surprisingly tough.” He gives me a lopsided smile, even though he must be in a tremendous amount of pain.
I do my best not to be completely charmed by his sweet, brave demeanor by focusing on making even, small stitches in order to minimize the visible scarring on his forehead.
The man doesn’t even flinch as I continue stitching him up.
Deciding distraction is key, I say, “You know you’re much braver than several of your teammates. Some of them are big babies about needles.”
His gaze darts to mine, making it obvious that I’ve gotten his attention with this tidbit of gossip. His eyes are alight with pleasure when he asks, “Who? Please tell me Stoner is one of the weenies.”
I can’t help but laugh at his exuberance. Shaking my head, I say, “Only you could be so delighted by someone else’s fears when I’m poking a needle through your skin.”
“Aww, don’t kid yourself. Any of the guys would be thrilled to hear that I cried like a baby while you stitched me back together.”
“But I would never tell them that,” I remind him in a firm tone.
“And that’s part of what makes you such an amazing doctor. And human.”
The last two words are murmured so quietly, I lock gazes with him to assess if I actually heard them or simply imagined them. From the addictive way he is gazing up at me like I am his favorite person in the world, it’s fairly obvious that he actually said the words.
Forcing myself to focus on the task at hand, I tie off the last of his sutures, snip the surgical thread and say, “You’re a pretty amazing human yourself.”
I intend for the tweak of his nose to be a playful gesture to indicate that I am done stitching him up, but I fear that it comes off as flirtatious.
Needing to shift the tone of our interaction out of this dangerous territory, I stand to leave the arena with Shayna and tell him in a no-nonsense tone. “It’s time for you to go see a neurologist. We’ll get you scheduled with one right away. I’m sure they’ll want to do a CT scan and possibly an MRI to assess how badly you’ve harmed your brain this time around.”
“Will you come with me?” The uncharacteristic, terrified look in his eyes lets me know that he believes this injury to be worse than all of his previous ones. We can only hope the damage isn’t permanent.
My job is to refer him to a specialist. There is no reason for me to go with him to the appointment. Our offices can communicate via phone or email to share any relevant information and treatment plans with each other.
I open my mouth to give him the standard party line about professional distance, but the unmistakable, vulnerable fear in his gaze as he looks up at me has me responding, “Of course, I’ll go with you.”
21
BROCK
It doesn’t make sense for me to want Caroline by my side for what is sure to be one of the worst moments of my life. I want to appear tough, strong, and capable in front of her. But if the neurologist tells me that I have to give up ice hockey, I’ll likely break down like a weak pansy.
I’m no stranger to every kind of injury imaginable, and head injuries are one of my personal specialties. That’s why I know, without being told, that this time is different. This time is worse. It’s almost like something loosened in my brain, and I have very little hope that it can be unscrambled.
I’m probably lucky to still have the capacity to walk and talk, but the very real prospect of having to give up the game I love makes me feel rather unlucky––especially since that game also happens to be my livelihood.
Caroline’s legs jiggle as we sit together in the chairs opposite the neurologist’s empty, oversized cherry desk.
Although I’m feeling jittery too, I do my best to hide any outward signs of my nervousness. “If she makes us wait much longer, I’m going to be late for practice. Coach won’t be happy about that.”
The strained expression on Caroline’s face as she gives me a half-hearted smile makes it obvious that she knows as well as I do that even in the best-case scenario, I’m not going back to practice any time soon.
When the neurologist finally breezes into her office, she brings with her a definite, crispy chill in the air. The professional woman plasters on a smile and makes direct eye contact with both of us before speaking.
Caroline reaches over to take my hand within her clammy one, and I instantly know that this is going to be even worse than I imagined. I’m not sure if they have some kind of secret doctor code language, but it’s obvious that Caroline senses that the news we are about to receive is not good.
