“We’re gonna get a CT of your noggin, got it?” Doc asks.
I almost nod, but the jolt surging through my head halts the movement. “Yeah,” I rasp.
“Don’t worry. It’ll probably show nothing or a slight concussion, but since you blacked out for a few seconds, we need to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, I don’t like the look in his eyes,” Liam adds.
You mean the fact I see two of him? Yeah, I’ll keep that factoid to myself. “Understood.”
“All right. Hang in there, Crank,” Liam says. “We’ll get you squared away.”
“Thanks.”
The medical staff will do everything in their power to get me feeling as good as new, but being nauseous and seeing double has me worried. I’m not a doctor, but the fact the world went silent and my vision is off screams concussion.
One of the assistants brings a wheelchair to me. My attempt at a glare is countered by an arch of the brow. Obviously, I’m not fooling anybody, and they know I’m hurt. I grumble under my breath but slowly sink into the chair. As they push me forward, I close my eyes hoping to keep my stomach contents secure. Only they churn faster than an ice cream maker.
“I’m going to be sick,” I grit through my teeth.
“Here.”
A barf bag’s shoved under my chin just in time. Humiliation hits me wave after wave as I empty my stomach contents.Great.I hold my head as we enter the CT room. The tech helps me onto the table, and relief finds me. I’m thankful they won’t have to stick me in an MRI machine. No way I can handle that level of noise right now. Even their talking is too loud. As if realizing this, the techs lower their voices as they inform me to lie still.
“Crank,” someone whispers.
I open my eyes to see Doc and his double peering at me, a look of concern creasing his forehead wrinkles. Slowly, I move my head left, then right to get a sense of my bearings. It’s dark, except for a soft lamp lighting the back of the room.
“What happened?” I croak, mouth dry.
Doc hands me a cup. “You fell asleep while being wheeled into the room. We brought you in here and have been monitoring your vitals.” He points to a machine.
I peer down at my body and notice a blood pressure cuff on my left arm. “What’s the verdict? How long will you recommend they bench me?”
Doc’s mouth turns downward. “It’s not good, Crank.”
Justwhat I’m afraid of.“Give it to me straight.”
“All right. You’ve got a bad concussion, son. There’s some swelling and some kind of lesion on the occipital lobe. We’re waiting for an ambulance to transport you to the hospital for observation and further testing.”
What in the world?Half of that sounds like gibberish and the other half, well, I’m afraid to ask clarifying questions. “No,” I groan.
“Sorry, Crank. That swelling needs to be monitored in a hospital setting.”
“And then what?”
“We take it one day at a time. You need to let your brain heal.”
Yeah, but for how long? “Best guess, how long will I be out?”Hockey is everything to me. I don’t often get injured, and this is my first serious concussion.
“At least a month.”
No.What will I do for a whole month? How will the team fare without me? Yet I keep my questions internal. “After a month, I’ll be back on the ice, right?”
“We gotta monitor your noggin. It’s the only one you have. We don’t want to mess around with TBIs.”
My body goes cold. Traumatic brain injuries? I’ve heard the term before but usually related to football players and military members who’ve been in traumatic accidents. Those words aren’t often spoken in the hockey world. Not that we don’t get concussions. We’re known for our fights and obviously wear helmets for a reason. But the jokes are always about our lack of teeth, not brain injuries.
“We’ll fix ya up, Crank. Promise.”
