Page 57 of When We Were Young
And they were kissing, her tears salty on his lips, her arms and hands clinging to him like he might otherwise disappear. He took a step back first and then he got her a tissue. His whole body wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her again.
But he couldn’t. He shook his head. “What... what is this, Emily? You said it was over.”
“I know.” She dabbed the tissue against her face, her expression a mask of confliction. After a few seconds she caught her breath. “But I can’t do this. I miss you too much.”
Noah’s heart skipped a beat. A ray of hope! “Really?” The hurt in his soul started to let up. “Me, too. I was calling you tonight. At the same time you called me.”
“I have an idea.” Emily put her arms around his neck. With her blue eyes looking deep into his own, she told him her plan.
After graduation, she and Clara would take a trip to San Diego. A vacation. While they were there, Emily would look for an occupational center like the one in Bloomington. She and Clara would visit it and then they’d take trips to the beach and the San Diego Zoo and Balboa Island. On his day off Noah could even join them for an afternoon at Balboa Island.
“And maybe by the end of the week, Clara might love it.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall again. “I think it’s possible.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry how I acted before. Totally selfish. Not to even try. It was... it was crazy of me. Breaking up with you like that.” She caught a quick breath. “A love like ours is worth fighting for.” She spread her fingers over her heart and then moved her hand to his chest. “Us. Right here. This is love.” A quick shake of her head. “I’d be crazy to walk away from you and me without at least trying.”
Noah was thrilled. Emily’s declaration that night was the greatest answer to prayer Noah had ever experienced. The next few days would’ve been perfect except for one thing. His headache wouldn’t quit. The stress of the breakup must have triggered it.
He still had ten days before he had to report to training camp, but rather than think about finishing his classes or where he would live when he got to San Diego, Noah couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Roberts’s warning.Get a second opinion. Your life could depend on it.
Since he no longer had the neurosurgeon’s name and number, Noah got the information from the team physician. As soon as he called, Dr. Porter cleared his schedule. He met with Noah the next morning.
This time there were different tests, assessments that measured Noah’s ability to multitask and react to urgent situations. The process gave him a headache, but still he thought he’d done well. Right up until Dr. Porter called him back to his office.
“Your brain is compromised, Noah. The damage shows up everywhere we have the power to look.” He held up a few slides and photos. “The scan shows impairment across most of your brain, and your test results were middle of the road. Not where I’d like to see them.”
Noah couldn’t believe it. “What about the other tests? The NFL doctor cleared me.”
“Young man...” Dr. Porter narrowed his eyes. “My standards and those of the NFL are very different. Surely you can understand that.” He set his elbows on his desk. “I wouldn’t subject anyone’s brain to what happens in football. Let alone someone with your history.”
How could this be happening? God had told him it was okay to play football. He had good plans for Noah, right? Everything Noah had ever wanted was right in front of him. Emily was going to help Clara try to love San Diego and his football career stretched out in front of him like a golden road. The possibilities were endless. A few years in the NFL and he could retire to be an announcer or a coach.
He could stay with the game as long as he lived.
Noah shifted in his seat and leveled his gaze at the doctor. He felt as sharp-minded as he had before the concussions. “Bottom line, Doctor. What are the risks?”
Concern seemed permanently etched in the man’s face. He looked at the photos and scans and the folder of test results in front of him. Then he turned to Noah. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t based on absolutes. The truth is, there is no way to know how your brain will react to any single hit. You could take another six hits over the next few years and be fine.”
“That’s all I need to hear.” Noah was ready to walk out, ready to start living out the brilliant future in front of him. He moved to rise from his chair.
“I’m not finished.” Dr. Porter didn’t move. Just waited for Noah to sit back down. “The possibility that all things will be well after another hit is just that. A possibility. There’s also a very great chance that a lesser hit than the ones you’ve taken could disable you, Noah.”
“What?” Noah could feel the blood draining from his face. He settled back in his seat. “Why?”
“I told you. Because your brain cells are compromised.” The man sighed. “A minor hit could leave you unable to walk and talk and feed yourself.” He paused. “A major hit, like one of your previous two, could put you in a vegetative state. For the rest of your life.” He hesitated again. “A devastating blow—the kind that typically ends careers—could kill you, Noah. On the spot. Right there on the field.”
The words were coming at Noah like so many ruthless tacklers, pushing him back, stopping him from ever getting to the line of scrimmage, keeping him from all he longed to do. The game he had worked for all his life. He fought for clarity. “What are the odds? You said it was possible I could bounce up after a hit and be no worse for it.” He crossed his arms and stared at the doctor. “Give me the percentages.”
Dr. Porter shook his head. “There’s no way to know, one hit to the next. Every time a football player takes a blow to his head, brain cells are damaged. Most of the time that damage doesn’t make a long-term impact. Or if it does, it takes a while to show up. It’s something a guy can live with.” He shrugged. “But when the brain’s already suffered a great deal, things are different. Sometimes the consequences become apparent in later years. When players in their fifties don’t remember their names. They lose their memory, sometimes years at a time go missing.” The information in front of Dr. Porter drew his attention again. “I’d say... you’re ten times more likely to have devastating consequences from the wrong kind of hit. Ten times more likely than the other guys on the field.”
Noah felt the fight leave him. His efforts to gain clearance before the draft had been all-consuming. But he had done it. Now, here, all he could do was sit back and let the numbers have their way with him. Ten times more likely.Ten times. He thanked Dr. Porter, collected his copy of the report and headed for the door.
“Ultimately it’s up to you,” the doctor said before he left. “A lot of guys play with these kinds of odds. They love the game that much.” He gave Noah a sad look. “Only you can make that decision.”
That weekend Noah kept mostly to himself. He went to the Indiana stadium and sat at the top of the bleachers, staring at the field. The place where he’d had so much success. And so much pain. He lifted his eyes to the cloudy sky overhead. Thunderstorms were forecast for today. Fitting, Noah thought.
Lord, talk to me. What I am supposed to do? You opened the door for me to play in the NFL. You told me You had good plans for me... and now this?A thought came to him. He had clearance already. All he had to do was get on the plane, collect his new uniform and his signing bonus and he would be a pro football player. The money sat in an account, ready for him to use as soon as he reported for camp.
“God, was that from You? The fact that I passed those tests?” His whisper hung on the warm afternoon breeze. “Won’t You tell me what to do? Please?”
There were no words from heaven, no still, small voice playing inside his soul. But gradually bits of conversations came back to him. Everything said to him over the last month.
