Page 74 of After We Fall

“I know you’re highly capable,” Dr. Ridding continues. “What I’m wondering is if we could give you some tools to help you recover more quickly.”

My eyes dart to his. This is the only part of his plan that I like. Let’s recover and move on with life. Quickly.

“You take two weeks to think it over,” he says. “You’re restricted from using computer screens for now, but I’ve got some printed material and articles about the neurofeedback process that you could read.” He leans in, planting his elbows on the desk, and talks over his folded hands. “But more importantly, for the next fourteen days, I need you to pay attention. Record causes of headaches, length, medications used. You’ll find a headache chart in the clinic information packet we’ll give you before you leave.”

I look away. That seems simple enough. Practically everything I’ve done in the last few days has caused some degree of a headache. When I rise from my bed, my pulse pounds through my temples. Leaning over to brush my teeth causes a searing pain to score through my skull. A noise I don’t expect sends a sonic boom pulsating through the membranes of my brain. Flashes of light make me wish the world would end.

I glance around the room, taking in his qualifications. Displayed in matching black frames, impressive degrees from Ivy League schools adorn his wall side by side with certificates of multiple board certifications. Squinting, I make out the words citing additional credentials.

I turn to him. “You’re a board-certified neurologist who is BCIA board-certified in neurofeedback, and you’re also a licensed professional counselor?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Most medical professionals are just that. Medical.”

“I wanted to make sure I understood the brain from the inside out.” He shrugs. “I find that physical healing and emotional healing can be tied together. And not everyone needs the same kinds of treatments.”

“I don’t need a shrink.”

“What do you need?”

“I need the pain to stop.”

Gentleness coats his deep voice when he says, “I believe you.”

On one side of his L-shaped desk sit five framed pictures laying out what I assume is his family history. A weathered black-and-white photo with a group of young people full of smiles in front of a wooden church. A family of six posed on the front steps of a conservative-sized home. A teenager in football pads posing with someone who, by the looks of the facial features, could very well be his father. Contemporary photos from beach vacations and a trip to Disney—he must have a family of his own now.

But the picture that catches my attention is one of Dr. Ridding not too long ago. He stands on a red carpet next to a smiling Will Smith. Both men are in suits. It’s their smiles that intrigue me. Whatever reason Dr. Ridding had to meet Mr. Smith at the opening of a movie doesn’t give them great joy. Rather, the smiles read more about something somber.

Behind the two men hangs a poster backdrop for the movie Concussion.

I look up to find Dr. Ridding studying me. He cocks his head. “Have you seen the movie? It’s about Dr. Bennet Omalu, a pathologist who discovered CTE, chronic traumatic—”

“—encephalopathy,” I finish for him. “He did research on brain-damaged football players who suffered repeated—”

“—concussions,” he finishes for me.

Concussions.

“Yes, I’ve seen it.” Scenes of old NFL footage flash through my mind—players packing hard hits, their helmets violently crashing. Scenes that I could barely watch, each clash reverberating through me, reminding me of an old wooden baseball bat that once met my face. Now scenes that remind me of a patch of unforgiving cement. “How did you come to be on the red carpet?”

“I was a consultant . . . of sorts . . . for the movie.”

I glance at the picture of the boy in the football pads, then the larger man behind him. Much larger. Say, the size of a professional football player. A large professional football player who isn’t in any of the other family photos. “Your father . . . ?” I whisper.

“Played for the Denver Broncos. Undiagnosed CTE. Suicide.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say through a clogged throat. The progressive degenerative disease involves the buildup of an abnormal protein that, depending on the stage, causes anything from loss of memory and impulse control to dementia. And sometimes suicide. “And so you decided to understand the brain from the inside out.”

He nods. “If there’s any way I can hit back at a brain injury, I will.”

It’s not that I’m in danger of CTE. I’ve only had two concussions. But everyone has made it clear to me that if I get a third, I’m at risk of irreversible long-term damage. Not CTE level, but significant all the same. If there are things I can do to help my brain heal, I need to make every effort possible.

This man isn’t patronizing me with a contrived treatment plan. This is his life’s work. If my TBI recovery turns out to be more extensive than I think it’s going to be, then I need to take Dr. Ridding’s recommendations seriously.

I square my shoulders to the boy who lost his daddy living in the body of a man who found his life’s mission. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“I think I can walk to the car just fine without your help, Luke.” To no avail, I try to pull my elbow from his grip. My appointment with Dr. Ridding showed me one important thing. I’m going to have to prove to everyone that I am well. I’ve got to be able to perform my duties for work.