“We’ll find the perfect lady,” Javier continues speaking, non-privy to my mental meltdown.
It’s time to derail their train of thought. “I don’t think a date while I’m concussed is such a good idea.” I feel off-balance and am still riding the seasick wave.
“Good point,” Javier states.
“But,” Raimo interjects, “that doesn’t mean we can’t have things in play by the time you’re feeling better.”
I think Raimo shrugs. I won’t express how nerve-wracking it is not to be sure that’s the movement I just saw. Maybe he was merely shifting on his feet. Though I don’t hear that particular sound, so perhaps I’m wrong.
“Hey, guys, I need to rest,” I say. I don’t want them to continue talking about my nonexistent dating life when every whispered word feels like a tiny little hammer adding to the bigger pounding in my head.
“Sorry, man. We’ll head out.” Javier moves closer.
His cologne gives me a heads-up that it’s him moving nearer to my bed. I blink, and the spots dissipate, letting me see Javier’s curly light-brown hair. He doesn’t have the stereotypical features most people think of Latinos. He has a boyish face with a hairstyle that seems more aligned with a boy-band singer than a twenty-four-year-old hockey player. The front of his hair flops forward, but he shoves it right back.
“Praying for you, man.” Javier is always saying things like that.
“Hmm.”
The very first time he did, I let him know his prayers were wasted. Religion isn’t something I believe in. Yet he simply smiledand said he’d be praying even more. Now I don’t bat an eye when he utters such things.
“Call Steff or me if you need anything. Got it?” Raimo claps me on the shoulder.
“Thanks, fellas.”
“See ya.”
Quiet descends with a click of the door. I let out a breath and close my eyes. If no one is here, I don’t need them open. Won’t have to wonder if the eyesight issues are due to the swelling in my brain, the lesions, or my obvious concussion. If I fall asleep, surely all of my worries will be different in tomorrow’s daylight.
If only.
The next morning doesnotoffer a different view. Each of my eyes has a grayish spot in my center vision. My peripherals appear to be just fine. The only question that remains is whether I should tell the team of doctors caring for me or hope this is a concussion symptom that’ll go away with rest.
On the one hand, if I do inform the docs, they might be able to do something about my wonky vision. Maybe the prognosis isn’t as dire as my mind is making it out to be. (Of course my mind is spiraling out of control since I have nothing but free time to think. I donotwant to continue following its rabbit trails.)
But on the other hand, the issue could be a lot worse than my mind has even imagined. Because as many scenarios as I’ve thought of, the one that is actual reality might not match my imaginings. Is that a good thing or bad thing?
The door clicks, and my nurse sticks her head in the room. “Hey, Mr. Hall,” she whispers. “Your doctor is making rounds and will be in to see you sometime soon.”
“Thanks.”
“Mm-hmm.” The door shuts quietly.
I have until he walks into my room to figure out what I’m going to say. I stare down at the tray to the left of me. The hospital already served breakfast, and it was the worst thing I’d ever eaten. I miss the meals that are waiting for me in my condo. This food screams artificial and processed. Not to mention my vision makes eating a bit of a chore. I dropped most of my eggs before I got the hang of looking at each bite on my spoon out of the corner of my eyes.
“Knock, knock,” a voice sounds.
Finally, the doctor’s here. I can’t see the clock on the wall—assuming there even is one—so I have no idea how much time has passed between the nurse informing me of his impending arrival until now, but it felt likefor-ev-er.
Great,now you’re thinking ofThe Sandlotwhen this isserious business.There has to be a medical movie I can reference that’ll prepare me for this moment, only my brain is drawing a blank. Thinking is much more difficult. Probably because the evil trolls pounding my skull haven’t let up once.
“How you feeling, Jabari?” Dr. Scott asks.
“Like I have a concussion.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, that’s definitely to be expected.”
“Speaking of expectations,” I begin, though maybe he hasn’t finished his complete thought, but it’s now or never before I lose my nerve. “What are the symptoms to expect? How do I know if something is abnormal or normal for a concussion?”
