Relief sparks, warm and fast. Then it dies when he exhales, moving to the screen on the wall while tapping a few buttons on his tablet. Finally, an MRI image flares to life.
“But it was masking a more significant problem,” Doctor Lowell explains, his voice too calm to be delivering that line.
He points to a shadowed area along the hip joint. The point where the ball and socket meet. “What we’re seeing here is early degenerative change in the hip, as well as articular cartilage thinning here in the joint, along with an identifiable breakdown of the labrum.”
My brain is trying to understand what I’m being told, what I’m seeing on the screen. Suddenly, the picture of my hip is replaced by three others. The only one I can truly identify anything in is the one of my pelvis, from the top of my hips to the middle of my thighs. He taps the left-most picture. “Do you see the thickness of this tendon?”
I squint at the black-and-white image. “Maybe?”
He taps his tablet again, pulling up another image below the one I’m currently looking at. “This is your left hip. Do you see the tendon there?”
“It’s less bulky,” I say, looking at the variance between the two, feeling like I’ve been assigned to spot the differences in aHighlightsmagazine. “And whiter?”
“Good catch. Yes. The bottom is a normal hockey player’s. Yours? Well, that lighter signal is chronic tendinopathy.”
I blink hard. “What?”
“Tendons should look dark and more uniform. The fact that yours has those white streaks suggests there is a degeneration of collagen fibers. So, it’s wear. Not tear.”
“What does it mean?” I ask, my heart braced for impact.
Doctor Lowell meets my gaze. “It means you can play next season.”
Wait. I… Fuck. Yes.
“I can play?!” I want to celebrate. To jump up and dance. To find Finley and—tell her the good news that we can continue to be colleagues who never see each other.
The doctor nods. “There is no current medical reason to stop you. But the amount of pain you’re in on a daily basis now? It’s going to get worse. Likely a lot worse. And even once you’re done playing, it’s not going to get much better. This is chronic. It’s not something that snaps. It’s something that day by day stops tolerating load.”
“But Icanplay?”
Lowell nods, turning to lean against the exam table so he’s looking right at me. “At this point, I think the pain will be manageable with a concerted effort on the training and recovery side of things. And I don’t believe it will have a big enough impact on your explosiveness or lateral movement to decrease your overall performance, particularly based on your position and how you play.”
I can’t believe what he’s saying. After the buildup, the pictures and words like “chronic” being thrown around, there was a part of me that thought it was over. I might’ve even started coming to grips with it.
Wanting to make sure I’m understanding correctly, I ask again, “So I can play?”
“You can play, Kane. But as someone who sees a lot of retired athletes in my private practice, I have to warn you: you will feel the decision every moment for the rest of your life, moving forward.” He says the last part slowly, like he wants to make sure I’ve heard it.
And I did.
I just can’t seem to make myself care about future me with a bad hip trying to… I don’t even know. What am I going to be doing five or ten years from now that’s so important that I need to protect my hip? I’m financially stable. I’ve made a lot of money and have invested it well. Maybe I’ll just buy a big, one-story house and sit around all day, watching hockey.
A small part of me wants to dig into how fucking depressing that sounds, but I push on through it. I’ll find meaningful ways to live a fulfilling life after retirement another day.
“I understand,” I say, knowing it’s what he wants to hear.
We wrap up my visit, covering the basics of my new routine. He’s already filled in the other members of the training staff on the findings. After I leave his office, I meet a rotating group of medical professionals to cover my new workout routine, the additional warm-up, stretching, and cooldown protocols to follow, and the pain management process.
Everyone has a plan. They also have a concerned look in their eyes.
Finally, I’ve met with everyone but Glenn to discuss my PT schedule. I have to wait for him to finish with another player before we can talk.
When Glenn’s done with Volkov, we go through my updated plan, starting with the detailed breakdown of my recovery over the next four weeks and moving on to long-term care and a general overview of what the season will look like. When we reach the bottom of his checklist, Glenn sets down his tablet and meets my gaze. “You know we’re all going to do our best to keep you healthy,” he starts.
“I know,” I reply quickly. “I appreciate you all for it.”
And I do. The medical team is behind me. They’ve put in the work to make sure I can still play the game that means so much to me.
