Page 1 of The Game Changer

Johnathan

I flip through a magazine that is in a rack on the wall of this small exam room. I’ve spent way too many hours inside the four walls of one of these rooms in the past year. I’m used to the bad news the doctors usually have to share with me each time I’m here, and I don’t expect today to be any different.

“Mr. Camps, nice to see you again,” my neurologist, Dr. David Price, states as he enters the room.

“What do you have for me today, doc?” I ask as he takes a seat on the rolling stool.

“Johnathan, I’m going to be straight with you, the scans show no improvement. It is still my professional opinion that you retire. Your brain has irreversible damage. Any further damage could cause permanent paralysis or even death.”

I take in what he’s just dumped in my lap. I knew coming in here today that he was most likely going to give me this news. I’ve known now for over a year that the lasting effects from multiple concussions over the years were taking their toll on my body and, most importantly, my brain.

“If I quit now, what kind of symptoms can I expect to have?” I ask. I’ve done the research. I’ve read the papers, so whatever he tells me won’t be a huge shock.

“The sensitivity to light and sound may come and go for a while, as can the dizzy spells. We’ll watch you closely to make sure you don’t develop any new symptoms such as depression, memory loss, or slurring of your speech. If you stop now and don’t suffer any further damage, I truly believe that you’ll go on to live a full life, just one not playing hockey for a living,” he tells me straight up.

“And if I push it and play for another season?”

“I can’t guarantee that you’ll live to see the end of it.”

Fuck.

“Okay,” I tell him as I blow out a huge breath.

“I know this wasn’t the news you wanted to hear, but I think it is in your best interest to retire. Do it now when you still have a life to live. The risks aren’t worth it, in my professional opinion.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I say as I toss the magazine back in the rack on the wall before opening the exam room door.

“Johnathan,” Dr. Price says my name from the doorway of the exam room I just left, “I’m sure it feels like the carpet has been pulled out from under your feet right now, but you’ll find a new normal.”

I turn back around and head out of the office. I step outside, the bright sun hitting my face, and I can feel the sensitivity to light hit me like a Mack truck. I quickly slide my sunglasses on and close my eyes as I swallow down the bile that burns the back of my throat. It never fails when I walk outside into the bright light; my body reminds me of the damage I’ve subjected it to over the last twenty-plus years of playing hockey. The nauseating feeling always hits me within seconds. I can sometimes ward it off if I’m quick enough on the reflexes getting my sunglasses on. I stagger the few steps until I can sink against the brick wall of the building where Dr. Price’s office is located. With my ass against the wall, I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, which allows my head to fall towards my chest. I focus on taking deep, controlled breaths as I do my best to breathe through the symptoms that plague me. I can only hope that the breathing works, and I don’t lose my lunch as has happened countless times. This is my new normal. What I’ve been dealing with for months—years, if I’m honest with myself.

“Johnathan, is that you?” I realize someone is talking to me, and I look up to find Jill, one of my teammates' wife’s best friends, a few feet away as she closes the distance between the two of us. “I thought that was you, are you okay?” she asks, now standing in front of me, concern written all over her face. I stand, still leaning against the building, allowing my head to rest against the brick.

“Yeah, just feeling a little queasy,” I tell her. I probably look green as can be, so there's no reason to lie to her about it.

“Anything I can do to help?” she offers.

“I should be fine, just need to make it to my truck and down some water,” I tell her, trying to brush off what I’m feeling and the seriousness of it.

“You don’t look great, how about I help you get to your truck,” she says, turning to look out in the parking lot for it.

“You don’t have to,” I tell her as another wave of nausea hits me. I suck in a breath, my mouth filling with saliva in that tell-tale sign that I’m not going to win the battle today.

“I know I don’t have to,” she starts to tell me, but the sound of blood rushing in my ears drowns out all outside noise. My eyes fly open as I look around for a trash can, or somewhere not right here in front of the main doors of this medical building for me to let loose the contents of my stomach. I take a few wobbly steps to the trash can, ripping the cover off just in time to empty the contents of my lunch into it. Once satisfied I’ve completely emptied my stomach, I stand back up, feeling surprisingly much better than I was just moments before.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I hear Jill ask once more. “Here, have this,” she says, tapping my arm with a bottle of water. I don’t have to be told twice, so I take the bottle from her hands, quickly twisting the cap off and chugging it down in three gulps. I can feel the water hit my stomach, and I am thankful when the cool liquid doesn’t cause it to flop.

“Thanks,” I tell her once I’ve finished the water off and chucked the empty container into the trash. I replace the cover I ripped off and step away from the container.

“Concussion issues?” she asks a moment later.

“Yeah,” I tell her—no reason to try and hide it. The hit I took a few months ago during the last game I played isn’t a secret. It was the talk of the NHL for a while after it happened. Everyone that follows the sport knows that I was placed on the long-term injured reserve list, and by the looks of it, I’ll never come off of that list. “Just left another appointment with my neurologist.”

“I take it that the appointment didn’t go well?”

“Nope. Told me that if I want to live longer than the end of the next season that I need to hang up the skates. Any further damage to my brain could be fatal.”

“Oh, Johnathan. I’m so sorry,” Jill gushes, her hand coming to land on my forearm as she rubs it up and down. The brush of her skin against mine has my dick perking up, even if it is the wrong fucking moment.

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