Page 21 of Iowa Intellect
Proving our hunch correct, the no-nonsense woman says, “I wish I had better news for you.”
The air clogs in my throat, but I manage to say around it, “Don’t sugarcoat it. Just give me the bottom line, please.”
“Very well,” she answers in an unemotional tone. “We all know that you are no stranger to concussions and their long-term repercussions, but I’m afraid this particular traumatic brain injury is too severe to ignore. After reviewing your scans, I would say it’s nothing short of a miracle that you are up and coherent. One more blow to your brain will likely be your last.”
She says the ominous words in a neutral voice as if she is telling us that it might rain later this afternoon.
The room is completely silent as I wait for her to deliver the life-ruining news that every nerve in my body senses is coming.
For the first time, the doctor shows a tiny bit of emotion when she says in a sincere tone, “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Brock…”
Caroline squeezes my hand as I brace myself for the incoming assault.
The neurologist’s all-business voice is back when she continues. “But I can’t in good conscience let you get back on the ice.”
The words swirl and jumble in my foggy brain. My voice comes out as barely more than a croak when I finally manage to ask her, “For how long?”
Finality sinks in and threatens to overwhelm me with doom when the woman says the single ominous word, “Forever.”
22
CAROLINE
Although the neurologist’s assessment doesn’t truly surprise either one of us, Brock and I sit for a long moment in stunned silence after she leaves us alone in her elegant office.
At a loss for what to say to help ease the devastating news, I offer, “I could refer you for a second opinion.”
Brock stares at the abstract painting on the wall opposite us as he asks in a flat tone, “Would it make any difference? Is any reputable brain doctor going to let me go back to playing hockey? Wouldyourelease me to get back on the ice?”
As much as I’d like to offer him some hope to cling to, I can’t mislead him, so I answer all three of his questions with one word. “No.”
His eyelids are at half-mast and his head nods slowly as if he expected as much.
Deciding that letting him stare blankly at the wall isn’t doing any good, I say, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
The solemn, obedient way he gets up and follows me out to my car is completely devoid of emotion. I almost wish he would scream and throw things in a rage, rather than forcing himself to be strong and mature with this quiet acceptance.
Our car ride to his house is spent in complete silence. After I pull to a stop in his driveway, I offer to help get him settled inside, but he responds, “I’ll be fine.”
Although I sense that ‘fine’ is the last thing he’ll be, I opt not to fight him on it. The man likely needs some time alone to process this life-altering news and attempt to come to some form of true acceptance.
After waiting to make sure he gets safely inside, I slowly back out of his driveway and try to figure out what to do next. It doesn’t feel right to simply return to work as if nothing is wrong, but I won’t know what to do with myself if I go home.
I want to be with Brock to comfort him in his time of need, but he made it clear that he doesn’t want me around right now.
Unsure what else to do, I angle my car towards the arena. When all else fails, I like to busy my mind with work. It has always been my escape.
Brock’s teammates and coaches all look to me for answers about his condition. It’s a tricky situation. Doctor-patient confidentiality dictates that I am not able to share any details about Brock’s prognosis.
I work for the team, though, not Brock as an individual. Each of these men have a vested interest in Brock’s health and future ability to play hockey.
It’s also likely that it will be very difficult for Brock to share the news himself. If I can ease some of that burden for him, I’d be happy to do that. I just don’t want to overstep.
In the end, I merely shake my head in answer to their questioning gazes and say, “It’s not good news.”
Although I had been fully expecting a barrage of questions to clarify the meaning of that cryptic statement, the men are respectful enough to quietly accept that answer.
It’s difficult to concentrate on treating anyone else when my mind keeps wandering back to Brock. I’m desperate to know how he’s doing, but I have a tightrope walk to balance between being his competent doctor and his concerned lover.
