“Well, I can’t fast forward time, but I can come back here after work, if you want that.”
“I want,” I say immediately. “I don’t know what’s going to happen today, but what I do know for sure is I want you here at the end of it, no matter what it is.”
“Then I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” I lift her hand, kissing her palm before standing to check the stove.
“Ash,” she says, before I can turn all the way around.
I lean back down against the counter, and she takes my hand in hers. “Whatever happens, I’m here, okay?”
I wonder if she can see the hearts shooting out of my eyes. “Juliette, I love you madly.”
“I love you too,” she says, reaching over and stealing one of my gummy worms.
“I love you so much I won’t even be salty that you took my last red one.”
She smirks at me. “It was right there and it’s the best flavor; what do you expect?”
“Baby, you can eat all my red gummy worms from now until eternity.”
“You really do love me.”
I lift her hand, kissing her knuckles this time. “You honestly have no idea.”
This time I do turn back to the stove with a lightness in my chest that wasn’t there five minutes ago, and I owe every ounce of it to her.
“Sorry it took so long, Asher.”
I’m sitting in Doc’s office, my knee bouncing up and down. My palms are sweating, and my heart is beating so fast I’m legitimately afraid it might break a rib. I’m sure my blood pressure is high enough that there’s a non-zero chance I’ll stroke out right here on the floor and then it won’t matter whether my shoulder is fucked or not.
“No problem. I appreciate you coming in today,” I say, amazed at how calm my voice sounds when I am freaking the fuck out on the inside.
“It’s no problem at all,” he says, his face giving nothing away as he sits down, waking up his computer and typing in his password. He clicks around, pulling up an image and spinning the monitor around to face me. I’ve been around the league long enough to sort of know what I’m looking at. It’s an MRI of my shoulder, but that’s the extent of my understanding. I suddenly wish fervently that radiology had been a part of pre-med.
“Okay, so this is the MRI we did of yourshoulder this morning.” He uses his pen to point to a spot on the image. “This is your joint. Now, in a healthy joint, we typically see what looks almost like a cushion between the bones. That’s cartilage, and it helps the parts of your bone move easily against each other. What we see on your MRI here is that the cushion is completely gone, which means your bones are essentially grinding against each other every time you move your shoulder, causing substantial inflammation and, likely, a lot of your pain.”
He points to another part of the image. “And here you have a number of bone spurs, leading to joint swelling. What we are looking at here is extremely advanced arthritis. You mentioned earlier that you have been in pain since the hit you took in the last playoff game, but what I’m seeing on this MRI, and the results of the range-of-motion tests you did earlier, leads me to believe that you have been in pain for a great deal longer than that. Am I correct?”
His eyes are kind, and I don’t have it in me to lie, so I nod. “Yes,” I say, my voice gravelly.
He nods in understanding and doesn’t ask me exactly how long I’ve been in pain. I can see he already knows, based on the MRI, and my stomach sinks.
He turns the screen back around and leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Asher, I have been working with professional athletes for a very long time and rarely, in all my years, have I seen a player with a greater love for the game than you. You are one of the most dedicated athletes I have ever had the privilege to know, and I wish more than anything I could tell you that you have a long career ahead of you. But based on these scan results and the results of your physical…”
“Just tell me,” I interrupt him, not able to sit still much longer without knowing the full truth of it. Then I take a deep breath, scrubbing my shaking hands over my face. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, Doc. I didn’t mean to snap. I just need to know.”
“Asher, your playing days are over.”
I feel the force of his words like a full body impact. My breath wheezes out of my lungs, and I struggle to take in oxygen. Dropping my head forward between my shoulders, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get my body under control, forcing myself to stay seated when my ears ring and my fight or flight instinct screams at me to get up and flee. To outrun this bombshell until it ceases to exist. I wish fervently that I was still in my kitchen laughing while Julie tries to steal my gummy worms instead of sitting in this office while the death knell of the career that has been the driving force for most of my life reverberates off the walls.
I take a jagged breath and force words up my throat. “There’s no chance I can play again?”
“Asher I’m honestly surprised you’re not in agonizing, debilitating pain all day every day. Your shoulder is a mess, and your range-of-motion is limited enough that I’m shocked you threw as well as you did in your final game.”
Final game. I have played my final football game. I can’t grasp the enormity of that fact.
“Without the repetitive motion of constantly throwing a football, and with physical therapy, you should get your range of motion back and limit your pain. But it’s likely that at some point in the future you are going to need surgery on your shoulder. Potentially a full joint replacement. I can’t clear you to play in this condition. No doctor would. And unfortunately, arthritis, while manageable, is irreversible. I’m so sorry, son. I wish I had better news.”
