“I know, but I’ve had concussions before. All part of the game, you know?” I offered lightly. My mom was a worrier, sure, but this seemed like an overreaction even for her. I had played hockey my entire life, and a crash into the boards or a cross-check gone wrong happened more often than not. My mother looked up at me, dumbfounded, confusion painting her face.
A forced smile flitted across the crook of her lips as she said, “It’s nothing to worry about—we’ll discuss everything later when you’ve had some food in your belly, okay?”
I was confused, thrown off by the way she phrased her response. A piece of the puzzle was missing from my thoughts, and trying to make sense of it all was proving difficult.
My head hurt…but not in the way it did after a concussion. No, this was different. This was confusion laced with dread. The calm before the storm. At least, that was the vibe my mom was giving off.
The doctor walked into the room just as my mother finished wiping her tears. She offered me a half-hearted smile—the kind that told me she had bad news to deliver.
Fuck.
Did this mean I couldn’t play hockey anymore?
I looked between my mother and the doctor, realizingthis was it. They were about to tell me.
“Hello, Asher. My name is Dr. Azad. How are you feeling?” she asked gently, her eyes scanning the clipboard in her hand. Her dark hair was pulled back in a clipped bun, and her eyes seemed kind—like she genuinely hated being the bearer of bad news. I’d met doctors over the years with terrible bedside manner, but she didn’t seem like one of them.
“I’m feeling okay. Head’s a little confused, I guess,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “Is everything okay with me?”
She made eye contact and smiled softly—the kind of smile that always came before a blow.
“Well, Asher, the good news is that you’re okay now. Your heart was working too hard to keep up with the game. After running some scans, we identified the problem.”
The doctor glanced at my mom, silently asking if now was the time. My mother gave her a slight, subtle nod.
“Asher,” she began carefully, “you’ve been diagnosed with cardiac angiosarcoma. It’s a rare malignant tumour that has developed in the blood vessels—and, unfortunately, it’s taken up space in your heart muscle…”
She kept speaking, but I couldn’t hear her. Her mouth was moving, forming words I knew were meant to devastate me—but none of them were connecting.
My eardrums filled with pressure. Water. Drowning. I couldn’t breathe.
My hand shot up to grab at my chest as panic surged through me. People flooded the room—five, six, seven strangers surrounding my bed, none of them I knew.
Why are they crowding me? Didn’t they know I couldn’t fucking breathe?
I tried to shout, but no sound came out. My throat clenched shut, cutting off my airway.
I tossed my head to the side and caught sight of my mother, her hands covering her face, sobbing hysterically.
Am I dying?
Is that what they’re telling me? I’m about to fucking die?
I couldn’tdie. I had signed up for that marathon in a few weeks—before winter hit. I was just starting my hockey season. I wasso fucking closeto making it big.
Did I even make that goal before I blacked out?
I wanted to have kids. Marry a beautiful wife who would travel the world with me when I made it to the NHL.
I was supposed to go on that bachelor trip for Nate.
Fuck.
Glancing up at the room, I saw everyone standing around, watching me carefully.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” I asked the doctor, now standing at my side while the rest surrounded me, ready in case I went ballistic again.
“Asher,” she said gently, “you will most likely die from this tumour. There are things we can do to make you more comfortable, to extend your lifespan…but I’m so sorry to have to tell you—yes, you will eventually die. The tumour is located where we cannot operate, and it’s too far along to remove safely, even if we could.”
