Mitchnearlycriedwithrelief the week after his injury when the swelling on his back had gone down enough for him to regain feeling in his lower limbs.
“I need you to exercise caution, though,” Dr. Rogers said after a thorough examination of his latest X-rays and test results. “You can walk again, yes. But you need to take it easy. Your spine suffered some serious trauma, and coupled with your old injuries, it’s going to take time before you’re back to normal.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Rogers,” his mother said, squeezing Mitch’s hand, “I’ll make sure he goes slow.”
Mitch smiled up at her, thankful she had come out to LA to be with him.
“So what exactly are my next steps?” Mitch asked.
“Rehab, of course. We’ve got a couple options where that is concerned. We can transfer you to an in-patient facility here in the city where you’ll have round the clock care, or you can return to your own home here and we’ll have in-home care, plus transportation for appointments and such. It’s entirely up to you. I will say, in-patient care is what I would recommend simply because it’ll be a lot less stressful on you, both physically and mentally, to have everything you need be the press of a button away.”
His mother looked down at him, a gleam in her pale green eyes. As his mother, she would undoubtedly have strong opinions moving forward regarding his care. “What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Honestly, I’m not sure.” He looked at Dr. Rogers. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “Take your time. We’ll be keeping you here for a few more days for observation anyway, so you’ve got some time before you absolutely have to make a decision.”
“Thank you, Dr. Rogers,” he said, and the man nodded and left.
Mitch scrubbed a hand over his face. Being able to walk again was good news—the best news—but…his career was over.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His mom asked softly.
He shifted his body on the hospital bed so he could look at her and found tears welling in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he told her. “I’m only thirty-four years old. What the hell am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?”
Tears welled in his own eyes and slipped silently down his cheeks as his mother crawled up next to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Mitchell. I raised you to be strong and smart and resourceful and successful. This is a bump in the road. There is more to life than hockey.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” hetold her, his voice muffled against her neck. “My entire life for the last twenty some odd years has beenhockey.” He lifted his head to look at her. “And now it’s just all gone? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”
“Language,” his mother said absently, as she’d done a million times before. “But you’re honestly telling me you’ve never, not once, considered what you’d do if you were no longer playing hockey?”
“No,” he said stubbornly, and she gave him a look that said she knew he was lying, but she would let it slide anyway. “I don’t know, Mom. I just got this news. I need time to adjust. I need to get back on my feet. Rehab, all of that stuff, just like the doctor said.”
After giving him a long look, she crawled off the bed, gripping his hand tight in hers once she was on her feet. “I’m going to get some coffee,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
His mother had always known him better than anyone, and he knew for a fact the cafeteria coffee in this hospital was disgusting; she told him so herself. Her leaving now was her way of giving him a few moments to himself.
When she was gone, he reclined back onto the pillows, his lower back tight and throbbing. This bed was so damn uncomfortable, and no amount of adjusting his position alleviated his pain. It was incredible to him that a medical system touted as having state-of-the-arteverythingcouldn’t install some more comfortable beds for their spinal trauma patients.
He had half a mind to call a nurse and beg for a mountain of pillows, but distracting himself with such a menial task would only last for so long.
At some point, he would have to face the fact that he would never play competitive hockey again.
Thanks to this recent fracture, and trauma he had suffered earlier in his life, there was too much nerve damage and scar tissue in his lumbar region. It was concerning enough that Dr. Rogers didn’t feel comfortable clearing him to play, stating that the chances of suffering permanent loss of feeling in his lower limbs were much higher the longer his career continued. Professional athletes put their bodies through hell, and hockey was far more physically taxing than most sports. It wasn’t how he wanted to go out, but he had to trust his doctor on this one.
So what the fuck was he supposed to do now?
He supposed the only saving grace was that he didn’t have to figure it out right this second. What he really wanted was a nap.
And a drink.
And unfortunately, alcohol was currently out of the question.
Mitch’s mind spun, his chest grew tight, and the sight of his mother slipping back through the door was the only thing that saved him from a full-blown panic attack.
Something about her was different, as though she’d had an epiphany while on her walk to the cafeteria and back, and it reminded him of that gleam in her eyes while the doctor was speaking to them earlier.
