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13
zeke
“Watch my finger.”
The doctor at the emergency clinic in Houston moves his finger in exactly the same way as every other doctor who’s ever assessed me for a concussion. I follow his finger but judging by the way the corner of his mouth tics into a frown, he sees something he doesn’t like.
Meanwhile, my phone is buzzing away in my pocket. It has been since I changed out of my pads in the ridiculous pink locker room at Houston stadium. Personally, I like pink. It’s a fine color. Why professional sports players think it demoralizes the away team is beyond me.
“I need you to touch your finger to mine and then—”
I preempt him by moving my left finger between his and my nose and back again.
“I see you’ve done this before,” he says with an unamused laugh.
“Once or twice.”
“Have you been concussed before?”
“Yes,” I say.
He nods to my other hand and I take the hint. But when I bring my finger back to my face, I just miss my nose.Damnit.
He purses his lips. “Do you have ADHD?”
I frown. This question always comes up and it always makes the doctors want to take extra steps in their eval. Just then the door opens and my special teams coach, Jim Krazowski, pokes in his big, bearded head.
“How much longer do you think this’ll take? He has a team meeting to get to…” Krazowski says. The doctor looks irritated as he picks up his chart and jots something down.
“I’m going to order a CT scan, just to be sure.”
“Want me to stream you in?” Krazowski says, but the doctor raises a palm.
“No screens,” he says.
Krazowski flinches but doesn’t put up a fight as he motions to the hall. Seems I won’t be making it to that meeting. I’m also not convinced there actually is a meeting. We won the game, it’s late, and we’re on the road. But I also know that when the doctors start ordering CT scans, I’m likely to get nailed by the league concussion protocol and have to sit out for a game or more.
“Do you have ADHD?” the doctor asks again.
I scratch the back of my head. “Yeah.”
“Do you take medication for it?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He scans my chart and nods. “How many concussions have you had?”
“Since when?”
He looks up at me, his gaze holding mine. “In your lifetime.”
“I’ve been playing organized hockey since I was five. And I’ve been taking hard hits for at least ten years. Five or six? Maybe?”
“Five or six?” he repeats. “Total?”
“Four diagnosed in the past six years.”
“And this season?”
