My Life in Shambles(7)

“Happy New Year, Nana.”

I hang up the phone and take in a deep breath, trying to steady my heart that’s racing out of control. If I stop and think about what she said, it’ll only get worse. I have an appointment to get to, and I need to stay focused on that.

Not on my father.

Not on the things that happen between us every time I set foot in my hometown of Shambles.

Not what might happen the day after tomorrow, when I have to face his disappointment and at the same time face the fact that I might lose him.

I get in my car and drive out to the hospital, the traffic thick even at noon. With it being December thirty-first, everyone is getting ready for the night. That, coupled with the threat of snow, and Dublin is like a madhouse.

I guess I should be grateful that I’m even allowed to drive. For the first two weeks following the injury, my license was taken away and I had to take a cab everywhere. It wasn’t that big of a deal considering I often take cabs if I don’t have to drive, especially if I’m just going to places within the city, but it felt like my freedom had been taken away.

It didn’t help that it was such a stupid injury to begin with. One minute I had the ball and was running to get across the advantage line, my eagle eyes scanning for my best option, the next I started to get double vision, my gait faltering. I took a giant hit from the side and I think my opponent expected me to sidestep but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t even see him coming, which is very unlike me. Part of the reason why I’m such a good fly-half is because it’s like I have eyes in the back of my fucking head.

My neurologist, Dr. Byrne, has been seeing me since my first MRI. Normally the team always sees the same doctors for sprains and lacerations, but this was the first time I’d been sent to a neurologist.

“Padraig,” Dr. Byrne addresses me as he steps into his office where I’ve been waiting for the last five minutes. “Sorry about the wait. I know you probably want to get to your New Year’s Eve festivities pretty soon.”

Even though I have no plans, I don’t have to tell him that because there’s something in his eyes that tells me my plans would be spoiled anyway.

“It’s not a problem,” I tell him, feeling slightly more anxious now, my eyes going to the charts in his hand.

“And how is your father?” the doctor asks, sitting down at his desk.

I cough as I do when I get nervous. “I don’t think he’s doing too well. I have to go and see him on the second.”

“I see. Well, the offer still stands if he’d like to come to Dublin for treatment. Prostate cancer doesn’t have to be as hopeless as it’s made out to be. There are doctors that might be able to help him, new treatments that are still experimental but might work.”

“I’ll let him know,” I tell him. When I first started seeing the doctor, I’d mentioned my father had been recently diagnosed with prostate cancer. Since my father used to play rugby for the Munster team, a lot of people know who he is and still take an interest in him. I’d then mentioned what the doctor had offered to my nan but I have a feeling my father turned it down. Until today, it seems, neither of them had thought it warranted it.

“But we’re not here to talk about your father,” the doctor says, putting the files to the side and folding his hands on the desk. “Can you tell me again about what happened on the day of the concussion? You had mentioned something about your vision and that’s why you didn’t see the guy coming.”

I hate being reminded of how I fucked everything up, but I soldier on. “Yeah. I was looking to pass and then everything went blurry and fuzzy for a moment, like I was seeing double, like I was drunk but a little, I don’t know, rougher than that. And then suddenly I was hit, was driven straight down, and my head hit the ground.”

“And had you had any problems with your vision before that?” he asked.

I shake my head. “With my eyes? No. Never. I’ve always had better than twenty-twenty vision. My role depends on it.”

“And now, how is it?”

“Fine. I had those problems a few days after the concussion, the same sort of thing, but it went away. In fact, aside from still feeling dizzy when I get up some mornings, perhaps a little shaky too, I feel pretty much one hundred percent. I mean, I think I could get back on the pitch and play.”

“That’s good,” he says, lips pressed together in a tight smile. “And with some luck on our side, I think you’ll be able to return to the game in some form, though I can’t say when at this time.”

I sigh, feeling defeated. I don’t know why I was expecting him to just give me a clean bill of health and let me get back to it, but I was. Motherfucking hope got me by the neck again.

“I know you’re disappointed, Padraig,” the doctor goes on. “But concussions are serious. To put you back in the game before you’re ready could be a big mistake.”

“But don’t the MRI results say that everything is fine?” I gesture to the files. “Isn’t that why you took them, to see the swelling, to give me an idea of what’s next?”

The doctor gives me that thin smile again and momentarily taps his fingers against the desk. “The thing is, Padraig, your concussion is gone.”

“Oh,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Well, why didn’t ye tell me that?”