Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
I left for Boston five days ago to play games three and four of the second round of the playoffs. We swept them easily, and while it was an excellent respite to be lost in the thrill of playoff competition, I felt like I was missing something big back here in Raleigh.
Sure enough, when I returned late last night, I found that my father had taken a nosedive. I knew this could happen.
Would happen at some point.
Calliope and her medical expertise have been invaluable to me. I’m one of those people who always does better if I know the full, cold, hard painful truth of things. I can deal as long as I know what I’m dealing with, and she hasn’t held back on how bad it can be.
And yet, when I saw my father lying in that hospital bed in the living room, looking a million times frailer than when I left less than a week before, I knew everything had changed.
I knew my dad wouldn’t be able to make it to any more games, and we’d be lucky if he could take meals at the kitchen table with us. I knew that my time with him was limited, and my hands were tied on game days and with travel. I realized there’s a very real chance that I might be gone when he takes his last breath, and I’m still trying to figure out how to reconcile that.
I snap myself back to the present. I have no clue who is calling, but I could use a break. My dad’s been sleeping deeply, aided by a few drops of morphine that I put under his tongue a bit ago. He refuses to ask for it, but I can tell by his shifting and grimacing that he’s in pain, so I strongly encourage him to take it. It felt both weird and right to put my hand behind his head and gently lift it from the pillow so I could give him the medicine.
I snag my phone from my pocket, needing a break from the heavy feelings that seem to be pressing down on me at all times lately. The only respite from them is when I’m deep inside Calliope, but those times are limited by my travel and spending time with my dad.
Not even glancing at the screen to see who it is—because, at this point, it could be a telemarketer, and I’d welcome the break from my thoughts—I answer. “Hello?”
“Just checking in, dude.” It’s Aaron Wylde. He’s been in contact with me nearly every day since I left Phoenix, either by call, text, or email.
“How are you doing?” he asks lightly. I appreciate the tone because he knows how bad it can get, and he doesn’t want to bring me down right off the bat.
“I’m hanging in there, man,” I murmur in a low tone, pushing up from the chair next to my dad’s bed. I doubt he’ll wake up, but I decide to move away in the off chance I might disturb his sleep. I think it’s the only time he’s genuinely comfortable right now.
I head into the kitchen and pull open the sliding door that leads out to the deck. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and in the mid-seventies.
“You’re looking really good in Cold Fury skates,” he remarks, a pointed statement that indicates he’s been watching, as I’m sure many of my teammates have. I got traded from a team that’s heavily favored to make it to the championship round, to a team that won the last two Cups and is heavily favored to make a run at a third. It was a huge risk for the team to let me go, and while I know it was one man’s decision—team owner, Dominik Carlson—I also know he asked some of the team to weigh in on the decision. He specifically asked the first-line players…the big guns, whether or not he should let me go so I could tend to my dying dad. They all unanimously agreed that it was the right thing, even though it could hurt them going forward in the playoffs.
Those are the truest types of friends, and I miss them greatly.
We chat for a bit about the playoffs. The Vengeance is heading into game five of their playoff round against the Vancouver Flash tomorrow night. They’re playing hot, and there are small moments when I regret not being there. All I have to do is look back through the kitchen into the living room and see my father lying in that hospital bed to know that I’d give up a million Cup championships to be here with him right now.
“How’s he doing?” Wylde finally gets around to asking.
“He’s slipping a bit more every day,” I tell him, rubbing my hand over my face. “He sleeps a lot. Taking more of the pain meds. I think he’s done eating.”