Page 3 of Family First
We were never apart.
From raising our family to playing hockey, we did everything side by side. Yet, today, I had to watch from the sidelines.
People talked about Ten, about how he was the face of the team, but Stan—my Stan—had been their backstop, the defensive wall, the final no to so many shots on goal. He’d won games for us, way before Ten was drafted. Bryan was talented, but he wasn’t Stan. Not yet. Would he rise to the challenge of being the starting goalie, hell, would he survive an entire post-season if the Railers went the whole way? I groaned and rubbed my eyes, the insistent thought that maybe I didn’t want the Railers to go the whole way when what I really wanted was to be by Stan’s side?
Traitor. Stan would kill me.
Hockey was more than just a game for him—it was part of his makeup. But that deep-seated passion came at a cost, and now here he was, post-operation, looking at an apparently endless recovery period. A whole year? How could he handle being away from the game for so long?
Anxiety and regret gnawed at me. Had I pushed too hard for this surgery? Had I been too insistent this was the journey he should be taking right now? I wanted nothing more than for Stan to live without pain, but had an operation been the right solution?
“Please don’t resent me!” I blurted, but he didn’t stir. Shit, I was talking to an empty room; but he needed to hear. “I did this for you, I want you to heal, I want to walk along a beach, hand in hand in our seventies, with our grandkids…” I stopped, because the visceral need for Stan to be by my side in all of these things was overwhelming.
The thought of him resenting me was unbearable.
I thought of our family, how our lives revolved around hockey. Noah, our twelve-year-old, was already carving a path for himself in the sport, attending hockey camp in the break, not a defenseman like me, nor a goalie like Stan, but a fast and spiky center man with potential. It wasn’t just me who could sense the generational handover of our family’s hockey legacy—Stan had said the same thing, but then… when he said it, he’d been sad, regretful.
He wasn’t ready to let go.
Taking a deep breath, I leaned in, whispering to my still sleeping husband, “Wake up, baby.”
A nurse came in, startling me from watching him. She checked his vitals, nodding and smiling at me, “Not long now, Mr. Gunnerson-Lyamin, and he’ll be awake.”
“Call me Erik, please, and you’re sure? Yes?”
“Erik, then.” She patted my arm as she passed me. “This is Stan we’re talking about.” As if that made a difference. Everyone imagined him as this indestructible man, but I’d seen him crumble, and cry, and have pain no one else saw.
Iknewhim.
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t long after she’d poked at him that a slight movement from the bed caught my attention. Stan’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes initially glazed and unfocused. I went to his side, searching for pain in his beautiful gray eyes, and at first he smiled, and then as clarity returned, a touch of uncharacteristic grumpiness surfaced as he growled for water. I darted out for ice chips and to tell the nurse he was awake, and then hurried back in, pressed a kiss to his forehead—he was hot, so I helped him with ice chips. The nurse came back, carried out a few more perfunctory checks and then she left after suggesting he’d be disoriented and that I should delay the entire family visiting for at least another hour or so. I sent a quick message to Eva, who was down in the hospital restaurant corralling Margo, Noah, and Stan’s momma, saying all was okay, and received a heart emoji in return.
I offered a hesitant smile to Stan who turned his head to look at me, whispering, “Hey.”
Stan tried to reply, but it was a soft“hey.” I knew him so well that as he oriented himself, I saw the weight of the surgery’s reality settle in.
“Everything’s okay,” I began, leaning over the bed to cradle his face, pressing another kiss to his forehead, seeing the confusion in him, and reassuring him as best I could. “Surgery went well, baby, it’s all good. Okay?”
He closed his eyes, nodded, winced, and reached for my hand.
And all I could do was hold it and reassure him in gentle words that I was here, and that he’d be okay, and that he’d heal quickly and be back on the ice in no time.
I lied about the last part.
He closed his eyes, I think he even slept, but after an hour, when I could hold it off no longer, Momma brought the kids up with her. They flocked to Stan’s side, careful not to disturb him too much. Noah was in full Railers kit, same as Eva who was leaving for college in the fall. Margo was sunshine, beautiful in a long, flowing summer dress. All of them had brought small gifts they’d made while waiting in the family room. And while Stan wrapped his arms around them, wincing when they knocked him, I noticed a somberness, a deep loss in his gaze. It was the look of someone grappling with a life-altering shift, and I hoped the kids didn’t pick up on it.
Given there were no complications during or, thank goodness, after the surgery, there was no need for an extended hospital stay, and on day three, just when we’d reached peak grumpy-Stan, he was allowed to go home with a whole list of warnings, and after lengthy discussions with the Railers rehab team. Movement would be limited for a while, and twisting and pivoting was out of the realms of possibility.
For the first time since that meeting in the doctor’s office, Stan showed his humorous side. “My hip-shaking hunka-hunka move is off the limits for a little bits.”
I was so relieved, I could have cried, which was freaking ridiculous.
So, today was the great escape day, and as the hospital doors slid open, I found myself preparing for the challenge that lay ahead. Stan, ever the stubborn one, had a frown that could rival a thunderstorm, and I couldn’t blame him.
“Stupid not walking,” he grumbled, “I’m bigly walking fine.”
“Yeah? No,” was all I said, and I sighed, doing my best to keep my tone patient. “It’s just hospital protocol, Stan. Plus, we don’t want to risk any complications. It’s only for a short while, okay?”
