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zeke
My head is killing me.Has been for the past week—ever since the fight. Everything makes my head hurt, but the doctors keep reminding me I sustained a class three concussion in the fight and that’s the equivalent of a severe sprain. My brain needs time to heal. Be patient.
The problem is I’ve never been all that patient and right now my fuse is as short as it’s ever been. Case in point: my coach wants a status meeting and I can’t be on a screen for more than absolutely necessary, so I had to wait until someone could drive me to and from the stadium. Zach is currently waiting in the parking lot, ready to Zoom into a parent-teacher meeting for Rachel’s preschool. Apparently she led the girls in the class in a Beyoncé-inspired leadership retreat on the playground. Or at least, that’s how Sarah put it. Zach says the school’s version included the phrase ‘incited a riot.’
Meanwhile, I’m knocking on my coach’s door, waiting for my own come-to-Jesus moment.
“Coop? Come in!” Coach calls through the door.
When I open it, he’s not alone, and I pause. But it’s not just Cathleen, our trainer, Krazowski—our special teams coach—and my agent that gives me pause: it’s my myofascial surgeon and neurologist that throw me for a loop. And then there’s another guy in a suit. Doesn’t take long for him to pass me his card—he’s from the league.
“Your doctors were just filling us in on the different stages of concussions,” Coach says.
I frown and my agent looks like he’s ready to shit his pants.
“Isn’t there something about patient-doctor confidentiality?” I ask with what I hope is a wry grin. My jaw smarts, and I drop the expression.
“Oh, we’re not talking specifics. Mr. Henning here was telling us how seriously the league is taking concussion protocol and so we were simply discussing what the different stages of concussions might look like in players.”
“Sounds like our training staff could benefit from a refresher,” Coach says. Krazowski nods. Cathleen writes something down.
“Why does this feel like an ambush?” I ask. Everyone is quiet, deferring to Coach.
“It’s been brought to my attention,” he says, clearing his throat and shooting a quick glance at Krazowski. “That you suffered a class two concussion during the Houston game last season?”
I shrug one shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say, scratching at the three-day-old beard coming in on my cheek.
“You didn’t take any time off for that?” Coach says like it’s a question. But it’s not. Everyone in this room knows I didn’t.
“It’s the league policy that a concussed player should not return to play until completely recovered, and not until after a mandatory rest period of twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I see that you played in the Los Angeles game two days later—”
“Which is forty-eight hours, unless I’m mistaken?” Krazowski says with a sly grin. Except he’s not remembering that Houston was a night game and Los Angeles was an afternoon match-up. Which is exactly what the league rep says.
“I’ll take the rap for that one,” Krazowski says, quickly. “Clearly my math skills aren’t as sharp as they used to be.”
The rep looks like he has something more to say, but Coach raises a palm, quieting the room.
“I think the bigger question is what to do moving forward.”
The tone in the room goes somber and my stomach plummets.
“Look, I know I took a knock. And I’m not there yet. But I’m doing all the work, I’m putting in the time.” My jaw tightens at the sheer exertion it’s taken to speak as much as I have thus far.
“Dr. Brandenburg at the speech clinic says you’ve been doing very well, if I may say so,” Dr. Heatherton, the myofascial surgeon, says. I give her a small grin—probably more like a grimace.
“Mr. Cooper,” the neurologist, a small guy with a pointy nose and narrow eyes and just enough hair to really sell the Yale medical school vibe, interrupts. “There is no question that you are capable of doing the physical therapy asked of you. The question is this: how much more can your brain take?
“If you don’t mind my speaking plainly…” He looks to me for consent or approval or whatever the hell it is that will allow him to keep talking through his nose, to which I shrug and wave as if to saygo for it, bud. “When I compared the imaging of your brain from Houston Good Samaritan Hospital in April to the imaging we took just last week, there was clear degenerative patches that had developed in only the span of six months. It doesn’t take a great leap to infer that damage was done during this concussion event. Some of which may be permanent.”
I let out a heavy sigh as if I’ve heard this all before. I have. But the room is silent, except for the scratching of Cathleen’s pen on whatever sandpaper she’s scribbling on.
“For a twenty-two-year-old athlete in the physical condition you’re in, you should have years of playing time ahead of you. But your brain? It looks like it’s been in the league for ten years.”
“What’s your recommendation, Doctor?” Coach says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Everything is getting away from me, slipping through my fingers. I can feel it before Dr. Yale Med School even responds.
