But I went, timing my visits before or after classes, and saw some improvement. The anti-swelling medication for the brain was stopped, the painkillers decreased, and his vision improved—or so he said. He still, however, could not stand without dizziness.
On the sixth day, Mutti decided that Carl Sr. should come and drive her back to Davenport.
“You in charge, you better than me with doctors,” she instructed, even leaving a signed authorization from Carl and herself at the nursing station that gave Sonja Danychuk decision-making and access to information from any tests and specialists.
This new power frightened me, and I was shocked that Mutti would leave Carl, abandoning him to me. I kept visiting, not wanting to disappoint this recovering wounded warrior who I now felt was my responsibility. I even watched the hockey games at the residence at Carl’s request and read the sports section out loud to him. Watching the games I recoiled against the unrestrained roughness, the high-sticking, slashing, and cross-checking.
“It’s a horrible game,” I informed him late one afternoon, after a defeat for the Bruins I’d watched the night before. “They’re worse than Roman gladiators. And Le Blanc only got a two-game suspension for your hit. What a bunch of bastards.”
He smiled at me, obviously delighted by my knowledge and recent interest. “Don’t knock it, I’m going back soon. No one else is gonna pay me the big bucks to get my head bashed in. I’m just waiting for clearance . . . they had a guy in here this afternoon asking me a battery of questions, and the Bruins have paid for a top guy from Boston, a specialist in head injuries, to come tomorrow. Then as soon as he gives his okay, I’m back. But I’m not letting you go again.”
He grinned at me, those square white teeth of his glistening, but I saw only the brown crab now fraying about the edges, still sitting on his right temple—waiting.
I smiled back but felt uneasy and scared. Why the questions and the “top guy” from Boston? And of course he was letting me go; he’d never had me anyway. He’d made that choice at Christmas, flaunting his tanned and toned masseuse, while I made myself ridiculous in my revealing black dress. Once he was cleared, I would be gone, back to my studies and worries about my last term and second-year expenses. He would be all right. I was sure there were more Tulas in the wings, although no other birds had surfaced.
A nurse informed me, “Dr. Folkes sent a message. He wants to see Carl Helbig’s next of kin at four tomorrow afternoon. He’s been emailed the questionnaire results and he’s coming for more tests in the morning. Looks like you’re elected.”
Pamela Scott, who gave me the information, and who showed a special concern for Carl, was an attractive blonde located at the nursing station. She would be a better choice than Tula by far.
I would miss my special tutorial class on Chaucer at four, but I would explain my absence: a sick relative and I was the family spokesperson. Or why not tell a partial truth: my boyfriend, Carl Helbig of the Boston Bruins, had a head injury, and I had been asked to speak with a specialist who had come from Boston. It would give me some sympathy, even prestige, this being Canada.
“You tell doctor how much hockey mean to Carl,” ordered Mutti when I phoned her that night to tell her of the meeting. It was odd she wasn’t here. I felt the same annoyance and powerlessness I had felt when ordered to fix the dyslexia and ensure Carl’s high school graduation. The woman was an irrational fool with much too much power, who, however, cooked great dinners.
“I’ll be the one receiving the information, Mrs. Helbig, not giving it, but I’ll tell him anything I feel is important.”
A normal person would respond to the irritation in my voice, but not Mutti, who said, “I count on you,” which made the situation so much worse.
AT FOUR O’CLOCK I was sitting in a small office off the trauma unit facing Dr. Dennis Folkes, who, as I saw from the card he gave me, was not only an MD but also a neurologist and surgeon. He lacked the cadaverous, almost emaciated look of the surgeons I’d seen since I’d visited the hospital, and was a man of considerable heft—an ex-athlete, I guessed, just before he told me he’d been a professional football player many years before.
“And you, Ms. Danychuk?”
“I’m a student at the University of Toronto.”
“Pre-med?”
“No, English.”
“Then I’ll try to make it as simple as possible. What do you know about concussions?”
“Very little.”
Dr. Folkes sighed and started. “Well, the brain does not fit snugly in the skull; it’s set off by intracranial space, so that the skull and brain don’t move together. If, for some reason, the head in motion stops suddenly—a blow or fall could cause it—the brain compresses into the skull and is jolted again as it rebounds. This causes swelling and damage, leading to classic concussion symptoms: headache, vomiting, dizziness, balance problems, sensitivity to light and noise, confusion, even amnesia.
“A player with these problems may be benched for a period of time. A player whose brain has been jolted at a sub-concussive level is more likely to stay on or return to the ice. The damage can then become deadly. Kids who began playing at a young age, and Carl tells me he played hockey at seven, can receive cumulative damage to young brain tissue, but not enough to cause immediate symptoms. It’s what we call a ‘dose response’ and eventually, after a certain number of hits, the damage starts to show.”
I felt sick. “Could it cause learning problems like dyslexia? Carl is dyslexic.”
“It could,” replied Folkes. “Learning requires considerable metabolic activity. If the brain’s impaired, that metabolic activity will be reduced.
“Then there’s the CTE factor, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, that appears to occur varying years into the play. This phenomenon was known to occur with boxers but is now being studied on the brains of other athletes during autopsies. The brain becomes flecked with tau proteins, which are linked to brain damage. Tau protein is one of the main materials of brain tissue. Shake the brain too hard, the nerve fibres are torn, and the tau gets out. The brain tries to clean it up and given time it could, but if the hits keep coming, the tau simply accumulates like flecks of porridge. This sludge, this porridge, has been recently found in the brains of some players, mostly football players, who have committed suicide or have died violent deaths.
“The disease starts at a young age and progresses. Players who return to the field or the ice too soon may suffer malignant brain swell or second impact syndrome, where another blow could lead to a second episode of brain bleeding.
“From the information given to me by your Carl, I suspect that two days before he sustained his latest concussion—and that’s what he has: a complex, grade-three concussion of which he has no memory—he experienced a first concussion, or sub-concussion. During the first concussion I suspect he was unconscious, if only briefly, at which time he retired to the bench, assured everyone he was fine, and returned to the play. He was still suffering from its effects when he experienced his second hit and this time he succumbed. Had he admitted to his first concussion, his coach hopefully would not have permitted his return to the ice.”
“Before Christmas I was told there’d been a hit, and he’d followed the same pattern. He’d appeared to be unconscious, retired to the bench, and then returned to the play,” I said.
Dr. Folkes sighed again, this time more heavily. “I suspect Carl Helbig has experienced a series of concussions throughout his playing career but out of some misguided—I could say stupid—sense of being macho or invincible has refused to admit to them and has played through them.”
“He felt he had no alternative,” I interjected, but Dr. Folkes ignored me and continued.
“He’s been given an MRS: magnetic resonance spectroscopy. His brain’s metabolism denotes brain injury, as does the resting MRI, which shows damage to its underlying activity. In other words, Ms. Danychuk, Carl suffered a second concussion during his critical recovery period from the first and his symptoms could
last for months. He’s lucky. He could have died.
“Now I suspect he may be suffering from post-concussion syndrome. He has the usual problems with headache, balance, vision, sensitivity to light, although he only admits to those that are obvious to third parties, the dizziness, blurred vision, and his wish for darkness.
“He may become depressed, even angry. I suspect he is already both. He became upset with me this morning. If he’s not exhibiting these symptoms now, be assured they’ll reappear if he attempts to return to the Bruins and resume strenuous activity.
“Remember, the more concussions an individual experiences, the more likely he is to have more and the longer it takes to recover. And at some point the symptoms become irreversible and permanent. Carl Helbig should never skate again.”
“This will be an awful tragedy for him,” I murmured. “It’s been his whole life and because of his dyslexia other choices are limited.”
Dr. Folkes ignored me and continued, his voice softer and less professorial. “I had my first football concussion in high school. I kept playing and experienced another at university, where I was attending on a football scholarship. Unlike Carl, I had recovery time. My third was during my first season with the NFL. I stopped and became a doctor. I quit. You can’t continue with something that’ll result in brain damage or frontal lobe dementia—unless you’re a suicidal idiot.”
“It’s so ironic,” I mused, “Carl probably became dyslexic because of hockey injuries and then continued to play because he believed his dyslexia gave him no alternative. As well he loves the game, and the money and adulation that goes with it. Now, if he can’t continue, he’ll feel he’s got nothing else.”
“No doubt,” said Dr. Folkes, his voice becoming almost gentle. “He’ll be depressed, but remember, Ms. Danychuk, he has you.”
I did not acknowledge the compliment. Carl did not even have me.
IT WAS AFTER five when I went into room six. Carl’s nurse Pamela was spooning a pasta dish into his obediently opening mouth. His upper body was now elevated, indicating some improvement. Pamela appeared flustered at my entrance, as if she owed me an explanation.
“This is usually left to the nursing assistants, not an RN, but I wanted to be able to tell my son that I helped Carl Helbig of the Boston Bruins eat his dinner.”
“Too bad she’s married,” I said after she left.
“Single mom,” he mumbled.
“You asked?”
“She told me . . . it doesn’t matter.”
We sat silently together in the darkened room.
“I’m gonna try to take a piss.”
Before I could stop him, he was on his feet but then just as abruptly staggered back on the elevated bed.
“I’m so fuckin’ dizzy. You spoke to Folkes?”
“Yes. He’s not going to give you clearance. He believes you’ve had a complex concussion and may be suffering from post-concussion syndrome. You have the symptoms and they could last for some time. Even if they disappear they may come back if you start strenuous activity again. He suspects you’ve had a long history of brain injuries. They could have caused your dyslexia.”
But he was no longer listening and in the dim light I saw that his eyes glistened as he looked straight ahead.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do? Get a job drivin’ hack? Or maybe I could teach Shakespeare—I’m an expert on King Lear. I can’t read or spell and only made it through high school with your help. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Try not to think about it; perhaps he’s wrong. Doctors aren’t always right. You’re getting yourself all upset. I was too frank.”
“Fuckin’ right he’s wrong. And since when haven’t you been frank? ‘Say it like it is, Sonja,’ the Davenport diplomat, who didn’t have a decent meal until she started tutoring Carl Helbig but who was always too good for a dyslexic hockey player. Well, I’m goin’ back, absolutely goin’ back. I signed a three-million, three-year contract, with a half-mil signing bonus up front an’ I’m goin’ to give ’em their money’s worth. Christ, they’re not going to make me rookie of the year if I cave with a concussion in the second half.”
I left the room and went to the nursing station where Pamela Scott was making notations on charts. “Can you give Carl some sedation?”
Pamela gave me a hard look. Strange, I thought, how some women take instant dislikes to others, like Candace Stewart to Tula, and Pamela to me—an instinctive emotional recoil. I used to view most people as types or even specimens to be seen and analyzed under glass. It all came from not being a thread of humanity’s fabric. Not only being undiplomatic but isolated. But since then there’d been Magda and Zoly. And now Carl. Of course, looking back there’d always been Carl, ever since the tutoring.
“He shouldn’t be stressed in his condition,” lectured Pamela. “His test results were concerning and he had an outburst at Dr. Folkes. You’ve obviously made things worse. Only light topics should be discussed.”
“I understand. I’m sorry. I answered his questions. He tried to get up and couldn’t and that upset him as well.”
“He has to be kept quiet,” she offered over her shoulder.
I followed her as she entered the room. “Some medication for you, Carl,” she carolled. “We have to keep you nice and quiet so you’ll be better soon. Open wide.”
She placed two capsules on his tongue and he gulped them down with water.
“Why not bring ’em all? I may need more later.”
“You know better than that, Carl. Would you like to empty your bladder? Ms. Danychuk can wait outside until you urinate and I’ll make you comfortable for the night.”
The perfect touch, I thought. Treat your patient like a recalcitrant and backward child: be kind but firm. Carl needed a Pamela Scott so much more than a Tula, a Candace Stewart, or certainly a Sonja Danychuk.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded when I came back, “I’m sorry I said those things. I wouldn’t have passed high school without you.”
“It’s all right, no apologies necessary. I’m too outspoken and you’re right, I never did have a decent meal until Mutti’s dinners, and you forgot, my mother doesn’t even speak English. But you’re wrong about my thinking I’m too good for you. It’s just that we’re different, with different interests and tastes. You’re an athlete and I’m an egghead, a geek. But we can still be best friends.”
“Not enough,” he said slowly, “not nearly enough.”
We were silent for a moment.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“After class. I still have to pass my year.”
“But you’ll still come?”
“Of course.”
I sat by the bed holding his large, warm hand in the darkness until his breathing became even. Outside, cars sped along the wet surface of University Avenue and bitter chill clawed every face. Yet here I was, thinking of economizing by walking back to the residence rather than taking a taxi while holding the hand of a hockey player who, only six months before, had signed a contract with a $500,000 signing bonus.
IT WAS TEN more days before Carl would be released from the trauma unit and transported back to Davenport, where his routine of rest and medication were to continue. Before that time, there were visitors. Two members of the Bruins playing in Toronto came one afternoon and urged him to “get off his ass and get back to the team.” It was part of the Code that the Warriors, the tough guys, played through their injuries.
The only visitor I appreciated was Howard Keefe, who had stopped playing for Dallas after his eighth concussion. “You don’t understand ’til you’ve been there,” he said, sitting with Carl and me two days before discharge. “None of the guys understood. They thought it was some sort of cop-out—that I’d bailed, let the club down. And all the time I wanted to kill myself. Every day I thought about it. I’d be driving a car and there’d be a tractor-trailer on the other side, and I’d think, What if I turned the wheel and rammed right into that sucker? There’d be no
more headaches, no more depression, it’d all be over. But I didn’t do it. I told my wife and she got me a therapist. I went on antidepressants, and after a few months I stopped staying in my room where it was dark and safe, and I started seeing some light again. Now I’m coaching one of the Junior teams and taking business courses. There’s life after the NHL, yuh hear me, Helbig? You gotta believe that. Sonja here, she’ll help you. Won’t you, Sonja?”
“I hope you listened to Howard,” I said later, “instead of the Goon Squad.”
Carl looked straight ahead and didn’t reply.
During one of my visits I told him of the threatened expulsion and loss of the scholarship. He’d shaken his head but said nothing.
The day before he was scheduled to return to Davenport, he was sitting in a chair, finally with the blinds up, and looking at me. I felt a sense of sadness yet relief. There would be no more visits, and I would finally be able to concentrate on my studies again. Yet I knew I’d miss him: his joy at seeing me, holding his hand as he drifted into sleep, even giving the back of his hand small soft kisses before I left. We had developed a closeness, rich and undeniable, which neither of us could ignore.
When he spoke his voice was husky, and I knew he’d been going over what he’d say for several days:
“I want to marry you and I want you to think about marrying me. I know you don’t love me—not like I love you—and you think I’m a dummy and now it’s worse. Now I’m a fucked-up dummy. But I can give you a good life, make everything easier for you. I know you want a great education and I’ll see that you get it. I’ll see that you get everything you want. There’s a clause in my contract in case of injury, and I remember that, because I knew I’d had concussions before I signed the contract, that I’d be paid for the entire year, and there’d be no rebate on any signing bonus. We’re talking about a little less than one and a half mil, nothing like the three I was getting if I played for three years but enough for us to get a really nice house—sorry, but it’ll be in Davenport—a couple of cars, and for you to get an apartment here in Toronto and finish your courses. You can even help your mother. Maybe she can stop cleaning houses; that’s worse than getting your brains bashed in chasing a puck around the ice. There’s no one cheering after you clean a house. I’m going to try to go back, you know that, but if I can’t, at least I’ll have you.”
Sonja & Carl Page 12