Renée knew that she was going to lose the staring contest, so she caved and huffed, “Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
“Because I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! I didn’t even know you were thinking about quitting, let alone that you would up and do it like this. And anyway, isn’t it customary to put in a two-weeks’ notice?”
Brandy had stopped at Renée’s house with a bottle of Chardonnay and hopes of finding out why she had yet to call Dave after last week’s surprise set up. Instead, she had walked in to find her best friend on the couch, her left leg stretched out with a heating pad over her knee and her MacBook Pro perched on her lap. She was in yoga pants and a matching, form-fitting top. It was a sad sight, even for a Tuesday evening. Renée was getting lamer and lamer in her old age—content to sit at home alone with nothing to do, and nothing Brandy could do could stop her transformation into a no-fun spinster.
“For normal jobs, yes. But this had special circumstances. Just trust me, it was for the best.” Renée stood and gathered up their empty wine glasses. She had to gingerly take baby steps because her knee was killing her. It always did when rain was coming. And in Vancouver, it seemed like it was always raining.
“Okay, fine, whatever. But no back up? Nothing waiting in the wings? Girl, you’re crazy. In this economy?”
“I’ll be fine, Brandy. I have some money saved, and I’ll find something.” She set the glasses in the sink without rinsing them, quiet for a moment as she thought. “Maybe it’s time for a change anyway, time to try something else. I’m feeling a little burnt out, I think.”
“Something else? Are you nuts? You get your Ph.D., and now you don’t want to be a therapist anymore?”
Renée shrugged, not feeling up to arguing. After a week of not having to get up early, dress uncomfortably, and listen to guys lie to her, she really enjoyed the break. She felt calmer and definitely more relaxed. “I liked all those classes I took in university, it was interesting, and... I just didn’t know what else to do and went with it. But I never really loved it.”
“Do you think I love marketing? No fucking way, but that doesn’t mean I just up and quit because I don’t like it.”
She sighed and closed her eyes as she debated on trying to explain. Renée didn’t really want to disclose the true reason why she quit, nor could she, but she also knew that Brandy wouldn’t stop bugging her about it until she got a better answer. As she weighed her options in her head, she was interrupted and didn’t have to make the decision: there was a knock on the door.
Renée limped from the kitchen and peeked through the peephole. It surprised her to see the man on her front porch. “What the....” She slid back the deadbolt and undid the chain. “Kevin, what are you doing here?”
“Hi, Dr. Carlyle. I did it.”
“Did what?”
He smiled, obviously proud of himself and kind of giddy. “Wrote my letter. I wanted to tell you.”
“Wrote your—you mean to tell me that you came here to tell me that? How did you even find my house?” She huffed and put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe this.”
“I know it’s kinda late, but you were right. Once I started writing it, things clicked. And—”
Brandy poked her head around the door and tried to figure out what was going on, and Kevin clammed up once he saw that they weren’t alone. He felt a little embarrassed that he was intruding on something. “Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay, I was just leaving,” Brandy replied, slinging her purse over her shoulder and giving Renée a quick squeeze. “Call me, okay?”
“Wait, Brandy, you don’t have to go—”
“It’s fine, John’s waiting for me. Good night.” She nodded at Kevin as she slipped by him and headed for her car.
He gave Renée an expectant look, like a little kid waiting for his parent’s move. She didn’t want to be burdened with talking to someone that late into the evening after sharing a bottle of wine, but a big enough part of her was curious about Kevin’s energy and excitement over completing his assignment. It had been a long time since she had doled out advice to someone that had been taken to heart like that.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked finally, taking a step back and gesturing toward her living room.
“Thanks. I do appreciate this, Dr. Carlyle. I just, I wanted to tell someone.” He walked into the room and took a seat on the coach, where Renée had been stretched out earlier. She turned off her heating pad, placed it on the coffee table, and then sat on the chair that faced him. Crossing her legs, she folded her hands in her lap in her therapist position.
Kevin reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he held out for Renée to take. She hesitated, knowing that whatever was written was going to be personal and heart wrenching; the gesture of sharing it, even with a therapist, was a big step forward in dealing with his grief.
She leaned forward and took the envelope, carefully opening it. There were three sheets of papers inside, both the front and back filled with tiny, printed chicken scratch. Renée didn’t read it, but she did scan the pages. Several words popped out at her. Friend. Wish. Sorry. Love. Miss. Brother. She folded the pages up and slid them back into the envelope. “This is great, Kevin.” She felt proud of him for taking her advice to heart—and it made her feel good, too.
“When I sat down to write it, it was hard at first. I didn’t know where to even begin. There was so much for me to say,” he gushed out, taking the letter back and pushing it back into his pocket. “Once I got started, it all came out. And you were right. It felt good to get it out. And I know what I’m going to do with it.”
Renée smiled. It really touched her that Kevin was being so positive. She had recommended the controlled purging of his emotions because she had hoped that he’d have just this reaction. “I’m happy to hear that. How do you feel now that you have your thoughts and feelings on paper?”
“Better, I think. I’m still... saddened by the whole thing, but having something in my hands, something tangible that I can hold, it makes me feel, see, there’s not even a word to describe it.”
She understood what he meant without him having to say it. When she told him to write a letter, she gave him an opportunity to lend a voice to a facet of his personality that didn’t expressed often. He was able to see it, which made it more real—and once it felt real, then it had to be reckoned with. Once it felt real, then it wasn’t silly or stupid or weak to do something to deal with it.
Kevin continued, “And really, I just wanted to thank you. I’m not over it, I know that, but it’s a start. A good start. This is gonna be a tough season without Ryp, since it’s the first one without him, but it doesn’t feel so daunting anymore.”
“It’s good to hear that. What I’d like to hear also,” she segued, “is that you’ll continue counseling by seeing the team therapist. You’re right in that it’s going to be a difficult experience throughout the entirety of the season, so you’re going to need steady support—”
“Oh, yeah, that’s why I have this,” he answered, reaching into his other pocket. He produced a single sheet of paper, which he handed over to Renée.
“A waiver,” she sighed, glancing down at it. She recognized it easily, having seen it before. She had hated to see it because it used to mean that she was losing a patient. Whenever a player brought one to her, it meant that they were pursuing outside options and excluding the Canucks’ resources in their treatment. Now, it meant she was gaining a patient. Kevin had already signed it. There was a blank left for her signature, if she was willing to do it. She set it down on the coffee table between them and resumed her position.
“I don’t like the new guy. He comes off so pretentious, and he doesn’t listen. And when I talked about Ryp, it felt wrong. I mean, he didn’t know him, never met him, and I don’t want him to think of him like some statistic or something. He was my friend.”
Renée tilted her head to the side and tried to be sympathetic. “I can tell you, as a professional, that—”
“I know what you’re gonna say, that he’ll understand or whatever because he’s trained to, but it’s different with you.” Kevin inched forward on the coach. “You were there for the team, so you get it.” He paused and cleared his throat before he slowly added, “And I Googled you. So I know you get it. Really get it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as she unfolded her hands and grabbed the arms of the chair. Her nails dug into the fabric tensely. She was offended slightly but mostly unnerved. “You Googled me?”
Kevin nodded. “Yeah. I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know who I was going to be talking to.” He was very matter-of-fact about his reply.
“And what, pray tell, did you find?” she asked sarcastically.
“A lot. I was surprised by what I found out about you, Dr. Renée Carlyle. Not only did you graduate from McGill, undergraduate and Ph.D., but you played hockey there for the Martlets.” She cringed, but that didn’t stop Kevin from laying it all out. “You didn’t play a lot of games and only played for parts of two seasons, but your stats were good. So then I checked YouTube, and saw a couple videos uploaded. You were good. You had moves I’d expect to see in the pros. I’m not gonna lie, it was a surprise. I never would’ve expected that from you. But see, I can respect that—you know the game, the demands, the expectations, the stress, because you’ve been there. Now I’m not just talking to a shrink, but a hockey player.
“But there is one thing I don’t get. Dr. Carlyle, there were talks about you making the Olympic roster for 2002. The Olympics.”
Renée shook her head. “Okay, that’s enough. End of conversation.”
“That’s something that everyone dreams of, but not everyone gets to do it. You have to be selected, make the cut. You were so close, and you just walked away.”
“No, I did not walk away,” she corrected, riled into responding to him. Once the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. “This is inappropriate. If I’m supposed to be your therapist, Kevin, then my life is off limits. It’s irrelevant.”
“How is it irrelevant? It’s perfectly relevant. And besides, you’re not my doctor yet. Please, I want to know. I have to know.”
“This has nothing to do with my ability to help you. You just have to trust me and trust the process.”
“If you want me to trust you, honestly, I have to know how you left it all behind. How you could do it, give up the dream. You’re a hockey player. Hockey players don’t just give up.”
She closed her eyes. Everything inside of her screamed to stop; not only were her therapeutic instincts telling her that she needed to maintain the air of professionalism, but she also didn’t want to relive that particular portion of her past. But when she opened her eyes and looked back at Kevin, she knew she couldn’t completely dismiss it. He already knew much more than any of the other Canucks had—because none of them had bothered to look up what was considered public knowledge. If he really wanted to know the whole story, she was sure that he could find it somewhere on the Internet.
“I didn’t give up. I didn’t leave it behind. You can’t say it like that. I wanted to play in the Olympics, of course I did. It’s just that I got hurt, and....” Her voice faded out as she fought the surge of emotions welling up inside her. While she had moved on from those years and got on with her life, it still hurt to think about. After all, it had been her dream for the first nineteen years of her life; it had been a part of her for so long that she thought she’d never be able to reflect back without being sad.
“What’d you hurt?”
“My knee.”
Kevin looked at her expectantly, waiting for a more thorough explanation. “Well, what happened?”
Taking one long, deep breath, she began. “My first year at McGill, I hurt my knee. There was a divot in the ice by the net, and I tripped and slid feet-first into the boards. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but my knee popped. My ACL. They told me I didn’t need surgery, but I missed the rest of the season. Which sucked, but I focused on making it back for my sophomore year.
“We were playing Concordia when I got hurt again. They were our rivals. I know everyone thinks girls’ sports aren’t as competitive and physical, but we got up for this game. I went for the puck along the boards, and I got pinned. My knee got pinned. Tore my ACL again. This time, I needed to get it surgically repaired. The doctor assumed that it didn’t heal properly the first time, which was why it tore again and was worse that time around.”
Renée sighed. “Needless to say, I missed the Olympic camp. That was it.”
Kevin was quiet for a few moments, absorbing the information. “Man. That sucks.”
“Yeah, it did. It sucked.”
He pushed for more. “So, what happened after that? Why didn’t you play again?”
Renée looked down at her hands. “The time between when it tore the first time and getting the surgery did some damage, the meniscus wore down. Even after my ACL was repaired, after rehab, it didn’t feel the same. I didn’t have the same range of motion. Playing wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same player, I couldn’t do the same things on the ice. The doctor was worried about what would happen if I injured it again, so playing on less than one hundred percent wasn’t really an option for me because the chances of reinjury were so high.”
“Oh,” he murmured apologetically. As an athlete, he knew the severity of that news; a hockey player always wanted to play, but there were circumstances in which he or she would need to walk away. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Too bad that isn’t on Wikipedia. It would save me the grief and aggravation of retelling it.” Once she realized how rude and unprofessional her comment was, she went on to finish her story. “Obviously, it was a tough adjustment to make. I, too, had to seek counseling to help with the transition. Well, I was forced into it my by parents. I refocused my energy on school, and pursued sports psychology to help people like I had needed.” Renée left out how unhealthy it was to switch from one obsession to another. With nothing else to occupy her time, she delved into her schoolwork. It wasn’t until after she had graduated with her doctorate that she had discovered that she didn’t love psychology like she had loved hockey. However, she hadn’t known what else to do, and she was such a dedicated individual that she couldn’t stand to not have a purpose or a goal in mind.
He nodded and glanced down at the coffee table. Kevin reached for the form and looked down at it. “So, will you sign it?”
She held out her hand, not wanting to let all that have been in vain. How could she send him away after all that? “Yeah, I’ll sign.”
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Going Mental: Part Three
“Katie. Katie.” He sighed, unable to get a word in as his wife spoke to him on the phone. “Honey, I know. I’ve gotta go. No, I don’t know how long it’ll take. Love you, too. Bye.”
He hung up the phone as he took the last few strides to cross the distance to the door. It was open, so he knocked on the doorframe and poked his head through the threshold. The scene inside surprised him: the room was even more bare than usual, as everything was in the process of being boxed up. “Dr. Carlyle?”
Renée took a break from packing, wiped her hands on her jeans, and turned to look at her visitor. She recognized him immediately, but she had no idea why he would be in her office. “Hey, Kevin. Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah,” he answered tentatively, still unsure about what was going on. He had never seen Dr. Carlyle in anything other than conservative pantsuits in neutral earth tones. She was almost unrecognizable in a red tee shirt with her hair down and framing her face. “I came up here to see if you had some time to talk?”
She frowned. Her pursed lips and disappointed look were more familiar to him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Oh, uh, can I make an appointment, I guess? I promised my wife I would see you.”
“Sorry. Really, I can’t. I don’t work here anymore.”
“Huh? What? Why?” It came as kind of a shock to him, because Dr. Carlyle had been around for the past couple of years; she was just one of those constant presences around the front offices. And while he had never personally made it a point to come up and see her—until that moment, that is—he had become familiar with her because of Rypien. In that respect, they were allies.
There wasn’t an easy answer to that question, and she had had to evade it when the higher-ups asked her the same thing. She explained to them that there was a conflict of interest and left out how she had blown up at Mason outside of the office. There was no way she could treat him after that because she had sabotaged the doctor-patient relationship that she had always worked so hard to maintain. And if it got out, what she did and what she said, then it would only have been a matter of time before the Canucks canned her. All Mason had to do was tell them how unprofessional she had been, and they would have kicked her out the door. She was being proactive by leaving. It was easier to explain quitting to future potential recruiters than being fired.
But there was no reason why Renée had to tell Kevin Bieksa anything. He was just another player, and not one who she had counseled extensively or had formed a professional bond with. She had seen him around a lot when Rypien had come in for his sessions, before he had taken his leave of absence. That felt like forever ago. She looked around at the faded walls, blocks of darker paint revealing where her diplomas and certifications had been displayed and then grabbed a photograph from her desk. She glanced down at the picture of such a happy moment from her past life. It felt weird to her that she could hold a moment of happiness in her hands. Tucking the frame deep into the already stuffed box, she merely told Kevin, “I quit.”
It had been a tough decision for her to make, and she had been awake for most of the night until she had come to that conclusion. Renée had tossed and turned in bed as she replayed her encounter with Mason at the bar in her mind’s eye. In the morning, she was so tired that she dressed in her most comfortable clothes. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway, because she wasn’t going into work to work; she was heading in to resign.
Renée picked up the box and rested it against her hip, adding, “I’m sure the organization will have someone in here in the next few days. They’ll be able to help you.”
Kevin stayed in the doorway, not moving to let her walk out. “But, can’t you, I don’t know, take me on?”
“It’s complicated. You’d have to sign papers, waivers,” she explained. The Canucks had never discouraged a player from seeking second opinions or professional help, but they did have legal obligations that they needed to see to. “It’ll be much easier to just wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m finished here.”
“But...” he whined, stepping into the hallway and following her as she headed for the elevator. “You already know everything. I don’t want to have to tell someone new all about this team and what we’ve gone through. This is easier.”
“Well, you will have to talk to your therapist, whoever that may be. You will have to be open with your personal experiences, not about what the team went through. And you can’t be in it just because your wife wants you to—because you can’t help a person who doesn’t want to honestly want to be helped,” she lectured. Renée didn’t want to go through another ordeal like she did with Mason; it was tough to want to help but be fought the entire way. She didn’t even know what it was he wanted to talk about or work through. “So if you want to talk to someone, Kevin, make sure that you truly want to do it before you waste everyone’s time—including your own. Because you can’t fool a therapist. Trust me, ’cause were trained to see straight through whatever bull you try to feed us.”
Renée pushed the down button and waited for the doors to open, feeling awkward around him as he remained quiet. She fought the urge to look at him so she could check out his expression. The guys all wore masks when she saw them, trying their best to disguise any true emotions in case she would advise Head Coach Vigneault to bench them.
Kevin waited until the elevator doors opened, and then he stepped inside with the psychologist. Initially, he had been surprised by her forceful language and attitude because she had never talked to him like that before, but it let him know what he needed to do and what was to be expected from him. Once they were alone, ensconced in the tiny, moving room, he quietly spoke. “I don’t know. Thing is, for the most part, I’m fine. I’ll go days without a problem, and everything’ll be like it always is. It’s like I think he’s still on his leave of absence or that I know he’s not around because he’s signed in the ’Peg and I just haven’t heard from him in a while. But then sometimes, it just kind of hits me all over again, that he’s gone. Gone gone. Then I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s.... It gets bad. And I just want to know when it’ll stop.”
The door of the elevator opened on level of the underground parkade, but neither of them moved. Renée decided to pass on some free wisdom. “Grief is a process. And the closer you were to someone, then usually the longer it takes to deal with the fact that they’re gone. It’s impossible to give you a time frame for when acceptance really kicks in, because it all depends on how you work through it, what you do. You have to be active in confronting your feelings, because when you suppress them, they just bubble over and become unmanageable.”
When the door began to slide closed, Renée stuck her foot out and activated the sensors, which made the door retract again. She exited the elevator and headed for her car, which was parked along the wall. It was a privilege to have her very own parking spot, and it was a shame to let such a perk go.
Kevin followed, feeling lost and in search of direction. “Then what do I do?”
She stopped suddenly in the parking lot and turned around to face him. She thought to herself that she had already told him what to do—and that involved waiting for another professional to be installed in the Canucks organization.
He had an expression across his face that was very different from the hardened one he usually wore. Then again, with his low, protruding brow, those small, squinty blue eyes, and crooked nose, he had always looked rather intimidating. Renée had never really seen him smile before but wasn’t around him often enough to know anything about his personality. He didn’t want to give up. “There’s a Starbucks nearby. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? So we can talk?”
No one would have blamed Renée for saying no. She was no longer under any obligation to the Canucks, so she didn’t have to do them any favors; however, Kevin’s honest and earnest attempt to seek clarity and resolution called out to her. She popped the hatchback door and placed her box in the trunk. “Okay. Let’s go.”
As they walked side-by-side down Abbott Street, Dr. Carlyle asked Kevin about his friendship with Rick. She was surprised to learn that they weren’t just friends but really good friends. They had played together in the AHL and had been called up at the same time to the big league, which had been a great bonding experience for them. It hadn’t taken much for them to become fast friends. When the going had gotten rough, Rick had stayed with the Bieksas when he had needed the constant presence and reassurance from people who cared about him. His kids had called him Uncle Ryp. And when Kevin had last spoken to him over the summer, after Rick had signed a one-year contract with the new Winnipeg Jets, he had thought that his friend was doing well and ready to start over on a new team.
It was good for him to get their backstory out because it was a change from the past few weeks, when every time he had talked about Rick, it had been about his death. Now he was talking about his life. That gave him the chance to remember all the positive reasons why they had become friends in the first place, like he was reliving their entire relationship as teammates and then consequently as friends. That in itself was a mood booster.
Then it came to the sad part. “It was just such a shock,” he explained, slowing slightly as they reached the corner. He didn’t want to walk in the café if there was going to be a crowd and if he was going to be worked up. “I thought things were fine. And if they weren’t, then I would have hoped that he would have come to me, said something, let me know somehow.... So I could have helped him. I had been there for him before, and I thought he would have known that I would have been there for him no matter what.”
Renée placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed, hoping that the touch would be soothing and therapeutic. “I’m sure he knew. I know that I shouldn’t say this, but he always spoke so highly of you. He relied on you, trusted you. But that’s just the nature of the disease. It blinds a person to all the good things in their life as well as to all the caring, concerned people surrounding them. They can know it but not feel it.”
“But....” He stopped completely before they crossed Keefer Place. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders were slumped. “I don’t want to sound insensitive about this stuff, because I know that he had problems. He didn’t always like to talk about it, and for the most part he didn’t. I mean, I knew, the coaches knew, his family, we all knew that he struggled with so much but that he tried to keep it from his teammates and everyone else. But once the incident in Minnesota happened, well, everyone knew something was going on and they all thought he was crazy.”
“There’s no such thing as crazy anymore,” Dr. Carlyle interrupted, wanting to stop that line of thinking. “We don’t use that word. We don’t like the connotation of it.”
He nodded. “I get that, and I don’t think he was crazy anyway. But I just wish....”
“What, Kevin? What do you wish?”
“That he could’ve been normal. That he could’ve overcome it. He was such a good guy, he should have been able to enjoy his life. I mean, he was a pro hockey player, he should’ve been living it up.”
“Even professional athletes have problems. They’re—you’re—no different than any of these people,” Renée told him, gesturing toward the passers-by going about their busy Thursday schedules. “I know that society tends to glorify and romanticize your career choice. To be talented and skilled enough to play in the National Hockey League is quite a feat, sure, but that doesn’t make you different from anyone else. You’ve all got struggles of your own, which includes mental health. I wouldn’t have my job, er, have had my job if that weren’t the case.”
She took a step off the curb to encourage him to keep moving, and they crossed Keefer Place and entered Starbucks. They put their conversation on hold as they stood in line and then ordered their drinks. Kevin paid as he had said he would, which Renée appreciated especially since she was newly unemployed. Once they had their coffees, they headed back outside to sit at the tables. Renée wasn’t sure where his mind was at or what his thoughts were, so she didn’t know how to direct their discussion or restart the conversation.
So she waited patiently for him to pick the topic, whether he wanted to continue right where they left off or somewhere new. She carefully peeled off the plastic lid and let the steam rise from her grande half-caff non-fat latte.
The silence didn’t particularly bug Kevin; with a couple of young kids at home and a bunch of rowdy teammates at the rink, he relished in a little quiet time every now and again. Whenever he had been forced into appointments with the team psychologist, he always felt pressure to talk and to say the right thing—but he didn’t feel that way now. Maybe it was because he was voluntarily talking this time around. Or maybe it was because she didn’t look so menacing in casual clothes and outside of her office. Whatever the reason was, he took a breath and spoke again.
“It’s just, you know, so hard for me to fathom what was going through his head. Ryp had everything going for him. Two weeks before, we talked and he sounded so good. And then next thing you know. Gone.” Kevin looked up toward the sun, not quite hanging overhead. “I can’t get over the suddenness of it. If I’d’ve even known something was wrong. That’s the hardest....” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Dr. Carlyle sipped her latte and then replaced the lid. “One of the most difficult things to grapple with is the lack of closure that comes with a sudden death, no matter the cause, for two reasons. First, a person is likely to have a lot unanswered questions—which you do. Unfortunately, you will probably never know for certain what happened during those two weeks. It’s tough, but you can’t speculate. Eventually, it’ll become easier to accept the fact that you just don’t know.”
She paused again to let that much sink in. “And the second reason is that there will be things that you will have wished that you could have said to him, had you known the circumstances. I’m sure that, if you could go back in time, there would be so much you would have liked to tell him.”
He agreed. “Mmhmm.” Kevin didn’t bother to inform her that he thought he would have been able to say something magical, something perfect—something that would have convinced him that suicide was not the solution to whatever it was that he had been going through.
“Have you ever thought about it?” she coaxed. “What you would have said to him or maybe liked to have said to him if he had called you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, want me to tell you?”
“No, not necessarily. Not unless you wanted to,” she clarified, taking another sip. “But I think a very good thing for you to do to help you get at least some closure would be to write a letter to him and say everything that you’d like to get off your chest. And write it just like you would if you knew he’d read it.”
“Seriously?” Kevin asked, a little uncertain about the idea. It sounded silly and pointless—like a waste of time. He’d never be able to read it.
“Yes. I know it might sound a little weird, but it gives you an outlet to express yourself in a way that you feel you can’t. You might feel like since you can’t talk to him, that you can’t say these things. But you can, and I think you should. I want you to write down everything you’d like to say to him. Rewrite it if necessary. But make sure you’re honest and thorough.”
“And then what?”
Renée shrugged. “That depends on how you feel after. You’ll know by how you feel.” Then she stood. “Thanks for the coffee, Kevin. Good luck.”
“Wait,” he said, standing too. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. Don’t be afraid to feel your emotions, and you’ll sort through it. I’ve got to get going,” she told him, walking back toward the arena and her car. She had a lot to do, most of which included updating her résumé and printing it on cream-colored cardstock.
He hung up the phone as he took the last few strides to cross the distance to the door. It was open, so he knocked on the doorframe and poked his head through the threshold. The scene inside surprised him: the room was even more bare than usual, as everything was in the process of being boxed up. “Dr. Carlyle?”
Renée took a break from packing, wiped her hands on her jeans, and turned to look at her visitor. She recognized him immediately, but she had no idea why he would be in her office. “Hey, Kevin. Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah,” he answered tentatively, still unsure about what was going on. He had never seen Dr. Carlyle in anything other than conservative pantsuits in neutral earth tones. She was almost unrecognizable in a red tee shirt with her hair down and framing her face. “I came up here to see if you had some time to talk?”
She frowned. Her pursed lips and disappointed look were more familiar to him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Oh, uh, can I make an appointment, I guess? I promised my wife I would see you.”
“Sorry. Really, I can’t. I don’t work here anymore.”
“Huh? What? Why?” It came as kind of a shock to him, because Dr. Carlyle had been around for the past couple of years; she was just one of those constant presences around the front offices. And while he had never personally made it a point to come up and see her—until that moment, that is—he had become familiar with her because of Rypien. In that respect, they were allies.
There wasn’t an easy answer to that question, and she had had to evade it when the higher-ups asked her the same thing. She explained to them that there was a conflict of interest and left out how she had blown up at Mason outside of the office. There was no way she could treat him after that because she had sabotaged the doctor-patient relationship that she had always worked so hard to maintain. And if it got out, what she did and what she said, then it would only have been a matter of time before the Canucks canned her. All Mason had to do was tell them how unprofessional she had been, and they would have kicked her out the door. She was being proactive by leaving. It was easier to explain quitting to future potential recruiters than being fired.
But there was no reason why Renée had to tell Kevin Bieksa anything. He was just another player, and not one who she had counseled extensively or had formed a professional bond with. She had seen him around a lot when Rypien had come in for his sessions, before he had taken his leave of absence. That felt like forever ago. She looked around at the faded walls, blocks of darker paint revealing where her diplomas and certifications had been displayed and then grabbed a photograph from her desk. She glanced down at the picture of such a happy moment from her past life. It felt weird to her that she could hold a moment of happiness in her hands. Tucking the frame deep into the already stuffed box, she merely told Kevin, “I quit.”
It had been a tough decision for her to make, and she had been awake for most of the night until she had come to that conclusion. Renée had tossed and turned in bed as she replayed her encounter with Mason at the bar in her mind’s eye. In the morning, she was so tired that she dressed in her most comfortable clothes. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway, because she wasn’t going into work to work; she was heading in to resign.
Renée picked up the box and rested it against her hip, adding, “I’m sure the organization will have someone in here in the next few days. They’ll be able to help you.”
Kevin stayed in the doorway, not moving to let her walk out. “But, can’t you, I don’t know, take me on?”
“It’s complicated. You’d have to sign papers, waivers,” she explained. The Canucks had never discouraged a player from seeking second opinions or professional help, but they did have legal obligations that they needed to see to. “It’ll be much easier to just wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m finished here.”
“But...” he whined, stepping into the hallway and following her as she headed for the elevator. “You already know everything. I don’t want to have to tell someone new all about this team and what we’ve gone through. This is easier.”
“Well, you will have to talk to your therapist, whoever that may be. You will have to be open with your personal experiences, not about what the team went through. And you can’t be in it just because your wife wants you to—because you can’t help a person who doesn’t want to honestly want to be helped,” she lectured. Renée didn’t want to go through another ordeal like she did with Mason; it was tough to want to help but be fought the entire way. She didn’t even know what it was he wanted to talk about or work through. “So if you want to talk to someone, Kevin, make sure that you truly want to do it before you waste everyone’s time—including your own. Because you can’t fool a therapist. Trust me, ’cause were trained to see straight through whatever bull you try to feed us.”
Renée pushed the down button and waited for the doors to open, feeling awkward around him as he remained quiet. She fought the urge to look at him so she could check out his expression. The guys all wore masks when she saw them, trying their best to disguise any true emotions in case she would advise Head Coach Vigneault to bench them.
Kevin waited until the elevator doors opened, and then he stepped inside with the psychologist. Initially, he had been surprised by her forceful language and attitude because she had never talked to him like that before, but it let him know what he needed to do and what was to be expected from him. Once they were alone, ensconced in the tiny, moving room, he quietly spoke. “I don’t know. Thing is, for the most part, I’m fine. I’ll go days without a problem, and everything’ll be like it always is. It’s like I think he’s still on his leave of absence or that I know he’s not around because he’s signed in the ’Peg and I just haven’t heard from him in a while. But then sometimes, it just kind of hits me all over again, that he’s gone. Gone gone. Then I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s.... It gets bad. And I just want to know when it’ll stop.”
The door of the elevator opened on level of the underground parkade, but neither of them moved. Renée decided to pass on some free wisdom. “Grief is a process. And the closer you were to someone, then usually the longer it takes to deal with the fact that they’re gone. It’s impossible to give you a time frame for when acceptance really kicks in, because it all depends on how you work through it, what you do. You have to be active in confronting your feelings, because when you suppress them, they just bubble over and become unmanageable.”
When the door began to slide closed, Renée stuck her foot out and activated the sensors, which made the door retract again. She exited the elevator and headed for her car, which was parked along the wall. It was a privilege to have her very own parking spot, and it was a shame to let such a perk go.
Kevin followed, feeling lost and in search of direction. “Then what do I do?”
She stopped suddenly in the parking lot and turned around to face him. She thought to herself that she had already told him what to do—and that involved waiting for another professional to be installed in the Canucks organization.
He had an expression across his face that was very different from the hardened one he usually wore. Then again, with his low, protruding brow, those small, squinty blue eyes, and crooked nose, he had always looked rather intimidating. Renée had never really seen him smile before but wasn’t around him often enough to know anything about his personality. He didn’t want to give up. “There’s a Starbucks nearby. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? So we can talk?”
No one would have blamed Renée for saying no. She was no longer under any obligation to the Canucks, so she didn’t have to do them any favors; however, Kevin’s honest and earnest attempt to seek clarity and resolution called out to her. She popped the hatchback door and placed her box in the trunk. “Okay. Let’s go.”
As they walked side-by-side down Abbott Street, Dr. Carlyle asked Kevin about his friendship with Rick. She was surprised to learn that they weren’t just friends but really good friends. They had played together in the AHL and had been called up at the same time to the big league, which had been a great bonding experience for them. It hadn’t taken much for them to become fast friends. When the going had gotten rough, Rick had stayed with the Bieksas when he had needed the constant presence and reassurance from people who cared about him. His kids had called him Uncle Ryp. And when Kevin had last spoken to him over the summer, after Rick had signed a one-year contract with the new Winnipeg Jets, he had thought that his friend was doing well and ready to start over on a new team.
It was good for him to get their backstory out because it was a change from the past few weeks, when every time he had talked about Rick, it had been about his death. Now he was talking about his life. That gave him the chance to remember all the positive reasons why they had become friends in the first place, like he was reliving their entire relationship as teammates and then consequently as friends. That in itself was a mood booster.
Then it came to the sad part. “It was just such a shock,” he explained, slowing slightly as they reached the corner. He didn’t want to walk in the café if there was going to be a crowd and if he was going to be worked up. “I thought things were fine. And if they weren’t, then I would have hoped that he would have come to me, said something, let me know somehow.... So I could have helped him. I had been there for him before, and I thought he would have known that I would have been there for him no matter what.”
Renée placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed, hoping that the touch would be soothing and therapeutic. “I’m sure he knew. I know that I shouldn’t say this, but he always spoke so highly of you. He relied on you, trusted you. But that’s just the nature of the disease. It blinds a person to all the good things in their life as well as to all the caring, concerned people surrounding them. They can know it but not feel it.”
“But....” He stopped completely before they crossed Keefer Place. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders were slumped. “I don’t want to sound insensitive about this stuff, because I know that he had problems. He didn’t always like to talk about it, and for the most part he didn’t. I mean, I knew, the coaches knew, his family, we all knew that he struggled with so much but that he tried to keep it from his teammates and everyone else. But once the incident in Minnesota happened, well, everyone knew something was going on and they all thought he was crazy.”
“There’s no such thing as crazy anymore,” Dr. Carlyle interrupted, wanting to stop that line of thinking. “We don’t use that word. We don’t like the connotation of it.”
He nodded. “I get that, and I don’t think he was crazy anyway. But I just wish....”
“What, Kevin? What do you wish?”
“That he could’ve been normal. That he could’ve overcome it. He was such a good guy, he should have been able to enjoy his life. I mean, he was a pro hockey player, he should’ve been living it up.”
“Even professional athletes have problems. They’re—you’re—no different than any of these people,” Renée told him, gesturing toward the passers-by going about their busy Thursday schedules. “I know that society tends to glorify and romanticize your career choice. To be talented and skilled enough to play in the National Hockey League is quite a feat, sure, but that doesn’t make you different from anyone else. You’ve all got struggles of your own, which includes mental health. I wouldn’t have my job, er, have had my job if that weren’t the case.”
She took a step off the curb to encourage him to keep moving, and they crossed Keefer Place and entered Starbucks. They put their conversation on hold as they stood in line and then ordered their drinks. Kevin paid as he had said he would, which Renée appreciated especially since she was newly unemployed. Once they had their coffees, they headed back outside to sit at the tables. Renée wasn’t sure where his mind was at or what his thoughts were, so she didn’t know how to direct their discussion or restart the conversation.
So she waited patiently for him to pick the topic, whether he wanted to continue right where they left off or somewhere new. She carefully peeled off the plastic lid and let the steam rise from her grande half-caff non-fat latte.
The silence didn’t particularly bug Kevin; with a couple of young kids at home and a bunch of rowdy teammates at the rink, he relished in a little quiet time every now and again. Whenever he had been forced into appointments with the team psychologist, he always felt pressure to talk and to say the right thing—but he didn’t feel that way now. Maybe it was because he was voluntarily talking this time around. Or maybe it was because she didn’t look so menacing in casual clothes and outside of her office. Whatever the reason was, he took a breath and spoke again.
“It’s just, you know, so hard for me to fathom what was going through his head. Ryp had everything going for him. Two weeks before, we talked and he sounded so good. And then next thing you know. Gone.” Kevin looked up toward the sun, not quite hanging overhead. “I can’t get over the suddenness of it. If I’d’ve even known something was wrong. That’s the hardest....” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Dr. Carlyle sipped her latte and then replaced the lid. “One of the most difficult things to grapple with is the lack of closure that comes with a sudden death, no matter the cause, for two reasons. First, a person is likely to have a lot unanswered questions—which you do. Unfortunately, you will probably never know for certain what happened during those two weeks. It’s tough, but you can’t speculate. Eventually, it’ll become easier to accept the fact that you just don’t know.”
She paused again to let that much sink in. “And the second reason is that there will be things that you will have wished that you could have said to him, had you known the circumstances. I’m sure that, if you could go back in time, there would be so much you would have liked to tell him.”
He agreed. “Mmhmm.” Kevin didn’t bother to inform her that he thought he would have been able to say something magical, something perfect—something that would have convinced him that suicide was not the solution to whatever it was that he had been going through.
“Have you ever thought about it?” she coaxed. “What you would have said to him or maybe liked to have said to him if he had called you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, want me to tell you?”
“No, not necessarily. Not unless you wanted to,” she clarified, taking another sip. “But I think a very good thing for you to do to help you get at least some closure would be to write a letter to him and say everything that you’d like to get off your chest. And write it just like you would if you knew he’d read it.”
“Seriously?” Kevin asked, a little uncertain about the idea. It sounded silly and pointless—like a waste of time. He’d never be able to read it.
“Yes. I know it might sound a little weird, but it gives you an outlet to express yourself in a way that you feel you can’t. You might feel like since you can’t talk to him, that you can’t say these things. But you can, and I think you should. I want you to write down everything you’d like to say to him. Rewrite it if necessary. But make sure you’re honest and thorough.”
“And then what?”
Renée shrugged. “That depends on how you feel after. You’ll know by how you feel.” Then she stood. “Thanks for the coffee, Kevin. Good luck.”
“Wait,” he said, standing too. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. Don’t be afraid to feel your emotions, and you’ll sort through it. I’ve got to get going,” she told him, walking back toward the arena and her car. She had a lot to do, most of which included updating her résumé and printing it on cream-colored cardstock.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Going Mental: Part Two
She took a long sip of her vodka tonic and checked her appearance in the mirror behind the bar as she waited for some friends to join her. Running her fingers through her hair, she fluffed it out at the roots to try to give it more body and volume. Usually, she was never so dressed up on a Tuesday evening, but it was her friend’s birthday and there was no way Brandy was going to wait for the weekend to celebrate the milestone known as the Big Three Oh.
“Renée, you’re early!” the birthday girl hollered, making a loud entrance. Not that anyone would be able to miss her anyway, since she was in a sparkly tiara and bright pink sash.
“Am I? Or are you late?” she responded, turning in her seat and standing to hug her friend. Her left knee buckled under her weight, but she grabbed a hold of the edge of the bar and caught herself before she stumbled. It was barely noticeable by anyone who wouldn’t know to look for it.
“Um, I’m the birthday girl—which means the party doesn’t even start ’til I get here.”
“Good point,” Renée chuckled, sitting back down. She tried to nonchalantly massage her sore knee. “Who did you come with?”
“John’s parking the car, he just dropped me off so I could get my drink on.” Brandy called out to the man at the other end of the bar. “Bartender! We need drinks! A cosmo for me, a Canadian for my boyfriend, and another one of whatever she’s having.”
Renée finished off her drink in preparation for her next one, and then she adjusted her top that had shifted when they had embraced. After working all day, she wanted to be comfortable in jeans and a cotton shirt; however, Brandy had insisted that they celebrate in style for her big milestone, so she had stayed in her black dress slacks and had changed a nicer blouse. A little more vodka would be sure to help put her at ease.
Once her fresh cocktail arrived, Renée took a sip and asked her friend, “So, what’s the plan for tonight, by the way?”
Brandy set her drink on the bar. “Well, since I’m now thirty, I figure it’s time to start acting like an adult, right? So tonight will be a sophisticated night out. You know, mixed drinks and witty conversation.”
“Oh, so it has nothing to do with the fact that we all have to go to work tomorrow morning and can’t get totally smashed tonight?”
“Maybe only a little something to do with it,” Brandy chuckled.
Renée stirred her drink. “Hmm, thirty. How does it feel?”
“Amazingly, it feels just like twenty-nine. It’s the knowing that it’s not twenty-nine anymore that makes you feel like shit. I was thinking about buying myself a fake I.D. as a gift to myself.”
“What do you need a fake for?” Renée asked, confused.
“I’d get it a year younger, so I could still pretend to be in my twenties.”
“Oh, come on, Brandy, you’re acting like it’s so bad. You have so much to look forward to this year: your wedding and that fantastic honeymoon in Hawaii. None of that would be happening if you froze your life at age twenty-nine.”
“Stop, stop, you’re analyzing me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not ‘analyzing’ you. Not even close. I’m being realistic here. This is such a big year, and if you look at the positive aspects—”
“Ugh, this is what I get for having a psychologist as a best friend.” Brandy took a long swig of her drink. “Change of topic, please.”
Renée appeased her friend and picked a new subject. “Where’s John? Does it really take this long to find a spot?”
“Well, he might be waiting for someone.”
“Someone? Who?”
Brandy took a long sip of her drink, presumably to draw out the suspense. “David Montgomery.”
“David who?” Renée asked, feeling like she should have known who her friend was talking about just by the way she said his name. After repeating the name in her head a few times, she remembered. “Wait. No.”
“Yes.”
Renée cocked an eyebrow, and Brandy shrunk back with a giggle. “Oh, no, the eyebrow! Don’t give me the eyebrow!”
“I’m gonna give you a lot more than that. Brandy. I told you already that I didn’t want to be set up with him.”
“It’ll be fine, Renée. Don’t worry, you’ll like him, I promise.”
“Just like you promised that I’d like Ronald McDonald, and that we were gonna get married and have tons of babies? Brandy, please, I beg you—”
“Okay, first of all, his name was Donald McElroy—”
“Doesn’t matter, he was still a clown.”
“—and you two would have been perfect together. How was I supposed to know that Don was afraid of heights, and that you were going to take him up to the press box to watch the game?”
“You know, he still hasn’t paid to replace my shoes that he ruined that night. And the janitors still complain that they can’t get the puke smell out of the box.”
“All right, fine. But David’s different. He works with John, and he complains about how hard it is to find good women in this city.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course he does.”
“Just listen, before he gets here. He’s thirty-four, divorced, no kids, and most importantly no alimony. Lives in this super nice place in Kerrisdale. He’s cute. Oh yeah, and I told him that you were just dying to meet him.”
“What? No. Brandy, no.”
“Come on, Renée. It’s my birthday, and I just want to have a fun night with my friends—and if a little romance gets sparked, well, who am I to interfere?”
“Interfere? You interfered as soon as you lied to him, saying that I wanted to get hooked up with him. Not cool. I didn’t even get a chance to Google him or look him up on Facebook.”
“Don’t worry, I already vetted him for you.” Brandy tapped her with the back of her hand. “They’re coming in now. So pretend like you’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Renée begrudgingly faked a smile, but she was seething on the inside. While she could rationalize that her friend was trying to do something good for her, she hated that Brandy wanted to pair her off. When they were single, they did everything together and always had a blast; as soon as she met John, though, she began to spend the majority of her time with him instead. That didn’t bother Renée for the most part, because she had enough on her plate to keep her occupy her time—but what irritated her was how Brandy thought that, just because she herself was in a relationship, that Renée needed to be in one, too.
She swiveled in her seat to see her blind date. She recognized John, who looked nice with his dark blue pants and baby blue button down shirt, tucked in and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had dark, auburn hair that was cut short and the start of a beard across his face.
Next to him was David, who was taller, leaner, and darker. Hotter. His hair was so dark brown that it almost looked black. He was cleanly shaven and dressed simply in black dress pants and a freshly pressed white shirt. As soon as Renée met his gaze, he smiled and flashed perfectly straight teeth that must have taken years of orthodontic work.
“I forgive you,” she whispered to Brandy, impressed with her friend’s taste. She wasn’t naïve enough to expect him to be the perfect package—after all, something had to be wrong with him if he was divorced—but at least he would be eye candy for the night. She brought her hand up to her face to push up her glasses since that was one of her nervous tics, but then she realized that she had her contacts in.
Brandy laughed at Renée’s reaction and then stood up to hug her fiancé. While they were otherwise occupied, David moved beside Renée.
She spoke first and awkwardly held out her hand, not knowing what was appropriate for their first meeting. “You must be David. Hi, I’m Renée.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He took her hand and squeezed it, instead of shaking it, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And please, call me Dave.”
Renée was trying to decide if Dave was being aggressive or smooth when Brandy suggested that they grab a table. Dave slid into the booth first, and Brandy and John took the other side, forcing Renée to sit beside her blind date. Not that she minded, but it still felt weird to her to be so forward on a first date; it was worse that she hadn’t even had any warning in order to mentally prepare and psych herself up for it.
While they all perused the tapas menu, Brandy nudged Renée under the table. Once she had her attention, she mouthed, talk to him. Renée felt nervous because she had an audience. “So, uh, Dave, Brandy told me that you work with John?”
“Yeah, I work in development for EA, innovating some new technologies for their games. We’re already working on NHL 13.”
They continued with their small talk, and Brandy and John chipped in as needed in order to keep it going. Dave proved to be very gentlemanly, maintaining enough distance in the booth so Renée didn’t feel crowded or like her personal space was being taken away. Still, she was nervous, so she sipped on her drink and finished it before their food arrived. The alcohol made her warm and slightly tipsy. Renée found herself relaxing and enjoying the night—including the company.
Which was why she was surprised when she decided to scan the scant crowd in the bar and her mood began to sour. Maybe it was the alcohol that made her more emotional, or perhaps it was just residual anger bubbling up to the surface. It was probably both.
Dave noticed that his date was distracted. His arm snaked around her shoulders and he leaned close to her ear. Brandy and John were talking about something, so they didn’t hear him ask, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.” She smiled at him and turned her attention back to the table. She didn’t even mind that he kept his arm around her.
He checked the section of the room where her line of sight had been fixed, spotting what had sidetracked her. “Oh, Mason Raymond. Man, it sucks what happened to him last season. Think I should buy him a beer?”
“No,” Renée responded firmly. “Definitely not.”
Dave scrunched up his face, wondering why she had suddenly become so cold.
John tried to explain, “Renée works for the Canucks.”
“Oh.” Dave was silent for a moment, until the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. “Brandy said you were a psychologist. You mean, you counsel them?”
Renée didn’t like talking about it. She assumed that it was common knowledge that teams would employ a team therapist since the job was so high-pressure, but that didn’t mean that she could disclose anything about it—including how much of role she played or didn’t play in the players’ lives. Her emotions got the best of her, and she picked up her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “I’m sorry, will you excuse me for just a minute?”
Before they could answer, Renée was up and heading to the bar. She took a few deep breaths and then sat on the empty barstool to his left. “Hi, Mason.”
His reaction was a little delayed. He turned his head and carefully squinted with bloodshot eyes. Mason knew he had been drinking heavily, but he must have been seeing things. “Dr. Carlyle?”
“What are you doing out here at the bar?” she asked, none too pleased when he shrugged and then pointed at his almost empty beer glass. “Well I can see that. Why are you here? You shouldn’t be drinking during your rehab. And not alone. What about your homework?” The words fell out of her mouth, loosened by the vodka.
“So what? It’s not like you care,” he slurred. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned into his hands. “You just sit there anyway, with your pen and paper and your glasses and your fuckin’ eyebrow. You....” He squinted again. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. Mason, this is not how you’re supposed to be dealing with this. This isn’t going to help.” Renée reached for his phone. “I’m going to call you a taxi, and you are—”
He grabbed her hand and said, “Listen, doc, I get it. I mean, what you say. But you don’t really get it, so I don’t care what you tell me to do.”
Renée lost it. She kept her voice down, speaking through clenched teeth. “That’s all you say, ‘no one gets it.’ No one can possibly understand what it is you’re going through. Not your parents, your friends, your teammates, and certainly not a psychologist who not only studied the human mind for years, but also played hockey—and did it well, for your information—until she got sidelined due to injury.” She broke the boundaries of keeping her personal life out of their relationship, but only because she was too mad to care.
She continued, “I don’t think you understand the chance you have to get better and stronger before you go back out there and play. And all the resources you have to help you along the way—you just waste it all. You’re acting like a whiny crybaby when you need to just suck it up already and move forward. So you know what? Fuck you. Go ahead and dick around instead of taking this seriously like you should, and good luck making it back by the Boston game, because at the rate you’re going, it’ll take a miracle.”
Standing up, she left him at the bar and hurried back to her table for her purse. Brandy, John, and Dave had just seen a short exchange and hadn’t heard any of what had been said. They were surprised when Renée said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Is everything okay?” Brandy asked, concerned. She thought her best friend had been having fun, so she couldn’t figure out why she was suddenly so quick to call it a night.
“Yeah. Uh,” she struggled for a good excuse. It wasn’t as simple as saying she was now pissed off because her work had obviously been all for naught and how pissed off she was at that realization. Mason wasn’t any better off, and while she knew that they had only had two sessions, he was actively blowing off her assignment to him in favor of drinking than talking it out. “Talking to him made me remember that I have some things I have to get done for work tomorrow. I’m sorry, Brandy. Happy birthday.”
“I mean, if you have to go...” Brandy said sadly.
Dave spoke up. “Can I take you home?”
“Oh, I drove. Sorry.”
“Well, I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered, standing up before Renée could tell him not to bother. “I’ll be back, guys,” he told John and Brandy, and then he followed her out of the bar and into the night.
“I am sorry, Dave, to cut our night short.”
“Oh, no problem. It is getting late, I guess. You’re sure everything’s okay? And you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him, and she tried to mean it. With the windows down and the music blasting, she figured she’d be fine. “I had a good time, though.”
“I did, too. I’m not gonna lie. I was worried about this when Brandy suggested it, but I’m glad that I came out tonight.”
“Yeah, me too. Oh, this is my car here.” Renée unlocked her car but hesitated before getting inside. The awkwardness had returned.
“I’d like to give you my card, so you can call me sometime.”
She took it and checked it quickly. It was a nice business card, from what she could read in the dark. “Thanks.”
“Do you, uh, have one?”
“No, I don’t actually. I mean, I have cards, just not with me.” She shifted her weight. “But I’ll call you.”
Dave grinned. “Okay, good.” Even more awkwardly, he leaned in. Renée wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hug her or what, so she stood still rather than to go in for the kill and accidentally be wrong. He did, in fact, make the move, and he pressed his lips to hers for a goodnight peck. “Be careful driving home, Renée.”
“Thanks, Dave. Goodnight.” In order to not appear too overeager, she sat in the driver’s seat and quickly pointed her car in the direction of her home. It didn’t take long before the high of infatuation faded away and she began to wonder what the hell she was going to do about her job. If she was even going to still have a job after that outburst.
“Renée, you’re early!” the birthday girl hollered, making a loud entrance. Not that anyone would be able to miss her anyway, since she was in a sparkly tiara and bright pink sash.
“Am I? Or are you late?” she responded, turning in her seat and standing to hug her friend. Her left knee buckled under her weight, but she grabbed a hold of the edge of the bar and caught herself before she stumbled. It was barely noticeable by anyone who wouldn’t know to look for it.
“Um, I’m the birthday girl—which means the party doesn’t even start ’til I get here.”
“Good point,” Renée chuckled, sitting back down. She tried to nonchalantly massage her sore knee. “Who did you come with?”
“John’s parking the car, he just dropped me off so I could get my drink on.” Brandy called out to the man at the other end of the bar. “Bartender! We need drinks! A cosmo for me, a Canadian for my boyfriend, and another one of whatever she’s having.”
Renée finished off her drink in preparation for her next one, and then she adjusted her top that had shifted when they had embraced. After working all day, she wanted to be comfortable in jeans and a cotton shirt; however, Brandy had insisted that they celebrate in style for her big milestone, so she had stayed in her black dress slacks and had changed a nicer blouse. A little more vodka would be sure to help put her at ease.
Once her fresh cocktail arrived, Renée took a sip and asked her friend, “So, what’s the plan for tonight, by the way?”
Brandy set her drink on the bar. “Well, since I’m now thirty, I figure it’s time to start acting like an adult, right? So tonight will be a sophisticated night out. You know, mixed drinks and witty conversation.”
“Oh, so it has nothing to do with the fact that we all have to go to work tomorrow morning and can’t get totally smashed tonight?”
“Maybe only a little something to do with it,” Brandy chuckled.
Renée stirred her drink. “Hmm, thirty. How does it feel?”
“Amazingly, it feels just like twenty-nine. It’s the knowing that it’s not twenty-nine anymore that makes you feel like shit. I was thinking about buying myself a fake I.D. as a gift to myself.”
“What do you need a fake for?” Renée asked, confused.
“I’d get it a year younger, so I could still pretend to be in my twenties.”
“Oh, come on, Brandy, you’re acting like it’s so bad. You have so much to look forward to this year: your wedding and that fantastic honeymoon in Hawaii. None of that would be happening if you froze your life at age twenty-nine.”
“Stop, stop, you’re analyzing me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not ‘analyzing’ you. Not even close. I’m being realistic here. This is such a big year, and if you look at the positive aspects—”
“Ugh, this is what I get for having a psychologist as a best friend.” Brandy took a long swig of her drink. “Change of topic, please.”
Renée appeased her friend and picked a new subject. “Where’s John? Does it really take this long to find a spot?”
“Well, he might be waiting for someone.”
“Someone? Who?”
Brandy took a long sip of her drink, presumably to draw out the suspense. “David Montgomery.”
“David who?” Renée asked, feeling like she should have known who her friend was talking about just by the way she said his name. After repeating the name in her head a few times, she remembered. “Wait. No.”
“Yes.”
Renée cocked an eyebrow, and Brandy shrunk back with a giggle. “Oh, no, the eyebrow! Don’t give me the eyebrow!”
“I’m gonna give you a lot more than that. Brandy. I told you already that I didn’t want to be set up with him.”
“It’ll be fine, Renée. Don’t worry, you’ll like him, I promise.”
“Just like you promised that I’d like Ronald McDonald, and that we were gonna get married and have tons of babies? Brandy, please, I beg you—”
“Okay, first of all, his name was Donald McElroy—”
“Doesn’t matter, he was still a clown.”
“—and you two would have been perfect together. How was I supposed to know that Don was afraid of heights, and that you were going to take him up to the press box to watch the game?”
“You know, he still hasn’t paid to replace my shoes that he ruined that night. And the janitors still complain that they can’t get the puke smell out of the box.”
“All right, fine. But David’s different. He works with John, and he complains about how hard it is to find good women in this city.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course he does.”
“Just listen, before he gets here. He’s thirty-four, divorced, no kids, and most importantly no alimony. Lives in this super nice place in Kerrisdale. He’s cute. Oh yeah, and I told him that you were just dying to meet him.”
“What? No. Brandy, no.”
“Come on, Renée. It’s my birthday, and I just want to have a fun night with my friends—and if a little romance gets sparked, well, who am I to interfere?”
“Interfere? You interfered as soon as you lied to him, saying that I wanted to get hooked up with him. Not cool. I didn’t even get a chance to Google him or look him up on Facebook.”
“Don’t worry, I already vetted him for you.” Brandy tapped her with the back of her hand. “They’re coming in now. So pretend like you’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Renée begrudgingly faked a smile, but she was seething on the inside. While she could rationalize that her friend was trying to do something good for her, she hated that Brandy wanted to pair her off. When they were single, they did everything together and always had a blast; as soon as she met John, though, she began to spend the majority of her time with him instead. That didn’t bother Renée for the most part, because she had enough on her plate to keep her occupy her time—but what irritated her was how Brandy thought that, just because she herself was in a relationship, that Renée needed to be in one, too.
She swiveled in her seat to see her blind date. She recognized John, who looked nice with his dark blue pants and baby blue button down shirt, tucked in and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had dark, auburn hair that was cut short and the start of a beard across his face.
Next to him was David, who was taller, leaner, and darker. Hotter. His hair was so dark brown that it almost looked black. He was cleanly shaven and dressed simply in black dress pants and a freshly pressed white shirt. As soon as Renée met his gaze, he smiled and flashed perfectly straight teeth that must have taken years of orthodontic work.
“I forgive you,” she whispered to Brandy, impressed with her friend’s taste. She wasn’t naïve enough to expect him to be the perfect package—after all, something had to be wrong with him if he was divorced—but at least he would be eye candy for the night. She brought her hand up to her face to push up her glasses since that was one of her nervous tics, but then she realized that she had her contacts in.
Brandy laughed at Renée’s reaction and then stood up to hug her fiancé. While they were otherwise occupied, David moved beside Renée.
She spoke first and awkwardly held out her hand, not knowing what was appropriate for their first meeting. “You must be David. Hi, I’m Renée.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He took her hand and squeezed it, instead of shaking it, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And please, call me Dave.”
Renée was trying to decide if Dave was being aggressive or smooth when Brandy suggested that they grab a table. Dave slid into the booth first, and Brandy and John took the other side, forcing Renée to sit beside her blind date. Not that she minded, but it still felt weird to her to be so forward on a first date; it was worse that she hadn’t even had any warning in order to mentally prepare and psych herself up for it.
While they all perused the tapas menu, Brandy nudged Renée under the table. Once she had her attention, she mouthed, talk to him. Renée felt nervous because she had an audience. “So, uh, Dave, Brandy told me that you work with John?”
“Yeah, I work in development for EA, innovating some new technologies for their games. We’re already working on NHL 13.”
They continued with their small talk, and Brandy and John chipped in as needed in order to keep it going. Dave proved to be very gentlemanly, maintaining enough distance in the booth so Renée didn’t feel crowded or like her personal space was being taken away. Still, she was nervous, so she sipped on her drink and finished it before their food arrived. The alcohol made her warm and slightly tipsy. Renée found herself relaxing and enjoying the night—including the company.
Which was why she was surprised when she decided to scan the scant crowd in the bar and her mood began to sour. Maybe it was the alcohol that made her more emotional, or perhaps it was just residual anger bubbling up to the surface. It was probably both.
Dave noticed that his date was distracted. His arm snaked around her shoulders and he leaned close to her ear. Brandy and John were talking about something, so they didn’t hear him ask, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.” She smiled at him and turned her attention back to the table. She didn’t even mind that he kept his arm around her.
He checked the section of the room where her line of sight had been fixed, spotting what had sidetracked her. “Oh, Mason Raymond. Man, it sucks what happened to him last season. Think I should buy him a beer?”
“No,” Renée responded firmly. “Definitely not.”
Dave scrunched up his face, wondering why she had suddenly become so cold.
John tried to explain, “Renée works for the Canucks.”
“Oh.” Dave was silent for a moment, until the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. “Brandy said you were a psychologist. You mean, you counsel them?”
Renée didn’t like talking about it. She assumed that it was common knowledge that teams would employ a team therapist since the job was so high-pressure, but that didn’t mean that she could disclose anything about it—including how much of role she played or didn’t play in the players’ lives. Her emotions got the best of her, and she picked up her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “I’m sorry, will you excuse me for just a minute?”
Before they could answer, Renée was up and heading to the bar. She took a few deep breaths and then sat on the empty barstool to his left. “Hi, Mason.”
His reaction was a little delayed. He turned his head and carefully squinted with bloodshot eyes. Mason knew he had been drinking heavily, but he must have been seeing things. “Dr. Carlyle?”
“What are you doing out here at the bar?” she asked, none too pleased when he shrugged and then pointed at his almost empty beer glass. “Well I can see that. Why are you here? You shouldn’t be drinking during your rehab. And not alone. What about your homework?” The words fell out of her mouth, loosened by the vodka.
“So what? It’s not like you care,” he slurred. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned into his hands. “You just sit there anyway, with your pen and paper and your glasses and your fuckin’ eyebrow. You....” He squinted again. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. Mason, this is not how you’re supposed to be dealing with this. This isn’t going to help.” Renée reached for his phone. “I’m going to call you a taxi, and you are—”
He grabbed her hand and said, “Listen, doc, I get it. I mean, what you say. But you don’t really get it, so I don’t care what you tell me to do.”
Renée lost it. She kept her voice down, speaking through clenched teeth. “That’s all you say, ‘no one gets it.’ No one can possibly understand what it is you’re going through. Not your parents, your friends, your teammates, and certainly not a psychologist who not only studied the human mind for years, but also played hockey—and did it well, for your information—until she got sidelined due to injury.” She broke the boundaries of keeping her personal life out of their relationship, but only because she was too mad to care.
She continued, “I don’t think you understand the chance you have to get better and stronger before you go back out there and play. And all the resources you have to help you along the way—you just waste it all. You’re acting like a whiny crybaby when you need to just suck it up already and move forward. So you know what? Fuck you. Go ahead and dick around instead of taking this seriously like you should, and good luck making it back by the Boston game, because at the rate you’re going, it’ll take a miracle.”
Standing up, she left him at the bar and hurried back to her table for her purse. Brandy, John, and Dave had just seen a short exchange and hadn’t heard any of what had been said. They were surprised when Renée said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Is everything okay?” Brandy asked, concerned. She thought her best friend had been having fun, so she couldn’t figure out why she was suddenly so quick to call it a night.
“Yeah. Uh,” she struggled for a good excuse. It wasn’t as simple as saying she was now pissed off because her work had obviously been all for naught and how pissed off she was at that realization. Mason wasn’t any better off, and while she knew that they had only had two sessions, he was actively blowing off her assignment to him in favor of drinking than talking it out. “Talking to him made me remember that I have some things I have to get done for work tomorrow. I’m sorry, Brandy. Happy birthday.”
“I mean, if you have to go...” Brandy said sadly.
Dave spoke up. “Can I take you home?”
“Oh, I drove. Sorry.”
“Well, I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered, standing up before Renée could tell him not to bother. “I’ll be back, guys,” he told John and Brandy, and then he followed her out of the bar and into the night.
“I am sorry, Dave, to cut our night short.”
“Oh, no problem. It is getting late, I guess. You’re sure everything’s okay? And you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him, and she tried to mean it. With the windows down and the music blasting, she figured she’d be fine. “I had a good time, though.”
“I did, too. I’m not gonna lie. I was worried about this when Brandy suggested it, but I’m glad that I came out tonight.”
“Yeah, me too. Oh, this is my car here.” Renée unlocked her car but hesitated before getting inside. The awkwardness had returned.
“I’d like to give you my card, so you can call me sometime.”
She took it and checked it quickly. It was a nice business card, from what she could read in the dark. “Thanks.”
“Do you, uh, have one?”
“No, I don’t actually. I mean, I have cards, just not with me.” She shifted her weight. “But I’ll call you.”
Dave grinned. “Okay, good.” Even more awkwardly, he leaned in. Renée wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hug her or what, so she stood still rather than to go in for the kill and accidentally be wrong. He did, in fact, make the move, and he pressed his lips to hers for a goodnight peck. “Be careful driving home, Renée.”
“Thanks, Dave. Goodnight.” In order to not appear too overeager, she sat in the driver’s seat and quickly pointed her car in the direction of her home. It didn’t take long before the high of infatuation faded away and she began to wonder what the hell she was going to do about her job. If she was even going to still have a job after that outburst.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Going Mental: Part One
I am not MelTing, and this is not a story about the Penguins.
But I got this idea when we had agreed to make our second bet, and since the Canucks received a point, shouldn't they get some love too? Once I get an idea in my head, I've got to run away with it.
This'll be longer than a one-shot (because one-shots are hard!), and it's not going to be typical fan-fiction either. It's going to involve what I think are sensitive subjects, so I hope it doesn't offend anyone.
--Jay
“But Coach—”
“No ‘buts,’ Raymond,” Coach Vigneault ordered, “you’re going. Now get your ass out of here.”
Mason Raymond shoved his hands in his pockets and left the dressing room with his head down, waiting until he out of hearing range before he cursed. Everyone was being so careful this season. Playing it safe. He tried telling the head coach that it was overkill and unnecessary, but Vigneault refused to listen and Mason’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
Meanwhile, his teammates were dressing and preparing for another day of training camp. Unfortunately for him, Mason was injured and wasn’t slated to return for months. Instead of taking part in the rigorous practice to get into game-shape and to bond with his fellow players, he was being forced to yet another doctor’s appointment.
He continued to mutter to himself as he shuffled down the long hallway, away from the loud echoes of laughter, the sharp sound of tape being ripped, and the low hum of music—and toward the cold, impersonal atmosphere of the front offices. It wasn’t just any doctor’s appointment; Mason was scheduled for weekly therapy sessions with the team psychologist.
After a tragic summer for the National Hockey League, no one wanted to take any risks when it came to the mental health of the players. Appointments were usually mandated as a part of the beginning- and end-of-the-year physicals, so that a player could be adequately assessed and noted for reference purposes; other than that, no other sessions were required. Sometimes, the psychologists were called in to consult during losing streaks, and coaches would recommend that the players seek help during the season when they were slumping or struggling under the weight of the pressure on them, but Mason had never been pushed liked this to see the shrink. And he didn’t like it.
Shrinks were for crazy people, and Mason was not crazy.
No one actively sought out professional help; it had something to do with the stigma surrounding it as well as the macho, jock attitude of professional athletes who were bred and trained to handle heavy expectations. Policies were being changed, though, as a consequence of three “non-suspicious” deaths of men still in the prime of their lives—including Mason’s own former teammate, Rick Rypien. While everyone on the team had been aware that Rypien had his share of problems, it was still a total shock to learn of his death and how it had happened. Management wanted to make sure that never happened again.
The nature of Mason’s injury, as well as the projected long recovery time, made him a prime candidate to try out the new, proactive mental health program instituted by the Canucks. It started in the previous season: in game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, he took a hit that broke one of his vertebrae. It wasn’t just that he was missing training camp and the start of the new season, but that he also missed an epically important game seven. He had had to watch in a back brace from the press box as his team fell apart on the ice below him. If any of the guys were going to need special attention, it was going to be Mason. Ryan Kesler was missing camp, too, but he had finished out the previous season—for what that was worth. Now, while every other player he knew was training and rededicating themselves for a brand new start in October, he had his fingers crossed for a December comeback.
Sure, playing sports was stressful; there was no doubt about that. No professional athlete would deny it. There was a constant, heavy burden to win and to prove their worth on the team. Mason hadn’t performed quite up to expectations for the Canucks, and he struggled with feeling like a disappointment. Watching the most important game of his team’s season from the press box made him feel impotent, even though he didn’t quite have the capacity to voice that. And he still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel now that he was missing training camp and the beginning of the new season—but no matter what was going through his brain, he knew that he didn’t want to have to talk it out with some know-it-all headshrinker who knew nothing about the reality of playing professional ice hockey.
He found himself in front of the office door with the plaque Dr. Carlyle, sports psychologist labeling it, and then he reluctantly knocked on the door. For a few moments, silence followed; Mason hoped that there was some kind of miscommunication or mix-up that would mean he wouldn’t have to go through with his appointment, but that was dashed when he finally heard, “Come in!”
Mason didn’t care for the office. The walls were bare and painted a dull taupe color, broken up only by the hanging, framed diplomas. He had to sit on a couch that was lumpy and uncomfortable; he fidgeted and adjusted his position several times, but he still couldn’t settle in. The shrink sat across from him in an armchair, instead of behind the big desk at the end of the room. That would have been preferable to him, because this faked some kind of personal connection, like it would make him feel more at ease. But it didn’t.
Dr. Carlyle had been waiting for Mason to arrive for his appointment was set to begin as soon as he arrived. She had her legs crossed at the knee, her patient folder in her lap and pen poised to take notes. She never looked like she enjoyed her job and that she had rather be anywhere else.
“Good morning, Mason,” she greeted. “How are you feeling today?”
“Uh, good. You know.” He squirmed again under her watchful gaze. Whenever she peered over her dark, thick-rimmed glasses at him, he knew she was judging him. Politely, he asked, “How’re you?”
The question caught her a little off-guard; typically, she was the one asking after her patients. She was so surprised that it took a couple seconds to respond, creating an awkward lull in the fifty-minute session. “I’m good, thanks.” The appointment was supposed to be solely about the patient; not only was it what she got paid for, but she couldn’t talk about herself. It would have ruined the doctor-patient relationship. She tried to always be authoritative and in control—and especially to never get personal. She had to be clinical in order to be effective.
She wasn’t a part of the team. Dr. Carlyle didn’t get invited out for drinks after the games or for lunch after practices like some of the trainers or other staff did. It was part and parcel of the position. She wasn’t a friend. Besides, everyone knew that therapists couldn’t be friends with their patients. That was unethical and unscrupulous.
Dr. Carlyle cleared her throat and officially started the session. “So, tell me, how has your rehab been going this week?”
“Good.”
“Progressing as expected?”
He shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess. No setbacks, at least.”
“So you’d say you’re on track then?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, that’s great,” she said, taking note of that. “And how have you been feeling aside from the physical aspect of your injury?”
“Good.” Mason liked to keep his answer as short and as simple whenever possible. He was afraid of saying something wrong, so he was terse.
Dr. Carlyle raised an eyebrow at his response. She always looked so harsh and stern, especially when she gave those kinds of disapproving expressions. With her brown hair pulled back into a tight, severe bun and those glasses perched low on her nose, she looked like one of those librarians that always yelled at him for being too loud in the library. Plus, she was dressed in head-to-toe black, like she was heading to a funeral after work.
“Care to elaborate on that, Mason?”
He shrugged again. “I feel... fine. Good. Just, well, good.”
She set down her pen and gestured toward him. “You know, you can be honest with me here. We have doctor-patient privilege, and this is all kept in confidence. I don’t go running to Alain to tell him what you’ve said.”
Mason gave one single nod of his head. “I know.”
“Okay then. The only way these meetings are going to be of any help to you is if you open up and tell me the truth. I mean, I know that this is only our second session, but you’ll be seeing me every week until at least Christmas,” she told him. “We just want to make sure that you’re dealing properly with the stress of your injury and then that you’ll make a smooth transition in rejoining the team.”
“I know.”
“Really? Because I have to sign off on it before you’ll be playing a game for the Canucks this season. So it’s very important that you take these appointments seriously and use them to your benefit.”
Raymond didn’t say anything for a while. Finally, he subtly nodded, knowing that he’d have to actively participate if he wanted to play—but he still wasn’t happy.
Knowing that their time for the week was slowly ticking away, Dr. Carlyle moved forward their session and tried to coax him into talking. “I know that a lot of players, in all of professional sports, don’t disclose injuries. They don’t tell the coach that they’re sore and should probably sit out, or tell the doctors or trainers about nagging injuries. They pop some pills, suck it up, and go out there and play. I know that you’ve undoubtedly done that in your career, am I right?”
She paused, waiting for him to answer her. At first, he had assumed that it was a rhetorical question; when too much time had passed and the silence become as uncomfortable as the couch, he muttered a cooperative, “Uh, yeah, I have.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t have that luxury with this injury. It’s public knowledge that you got seriously injured. You have a long road in front of you still, lots of doctors’ appointments and assessments. I won’t sugarcoat it: it’s hard. It’ll be hard on you physically and hard on you mentally. You’re going to feel a lot of different emotions as you progress, and I want you to know that it’ll all be perfectly normal. If you help me to get a feel for how you’re feeling now, then I can give you some strategies to help you through the process of recovery.
“Now, at our first appointment, we went over your diagnosis and your timetable for return, which was a very medical approach to help me understand what it is you’re dealing with. Today, however, I’d like to talk about the summer and how you dealt with it on your own.” She picked up her pen again and turned back to her notes. “You’ve been restricted to cardio-only workouts. No lifting, no skating. Sounds like a pretty idle offseason. What did you do with your time?”
Mason didn’t like the open questions that required more than either a “yes” or a “no.” He cleared his throat. “Took a couple fishing trips once I could stop wearing the brace. Rode the stationary bike for a lot of my cardio, but there wasn’t much else I could do. No golf. Couldn’t run for a while. Spent a lot of time in Vancouver, ’cause that’s where my doctors are. Played a lot of video games, hung out with some friends who came to visit me. Not much else.”
She scribbled as much of that down as possible. He made it sound he was taking everything in stride, but Dr. Carlyle knew that couldn’t be the case. She wanted to stir up some emotion to see how he was dealing with it all, so she brought up what was sure to be a touchy subject. “Did you hear from Boychuk?”
His voice changed a little when he said, “Yeah.”
“Did you have a conversation with him about what happened?”
“No. He just texted me, to say he was sorry and that he didn’t mean for me to get hurt on the play.”
“And did you accept his apology?”
He scoffed. “No. I didn’t bother answering his fucking text. He was obviously too busy celebrating winning the Cup to even give me call, so, you know, whatever.”
Dr. Carlyle took note of his angry outburst. It was the most emotion she had ever seen out of him, which encouraged her. “Would you like to confront him about it?”
Shrugging, he said, “Not really. It wouldn’t do much good now. I....” Mason stopped himself from venting further.
“What?” she prodded, hoping he would be open with her. “Go on.”
Mason played with his hands in his lap. He didn’t want to talk, but he knew he had to. “I thought a lot of this summer about what would happen when we played the Bruins this year. What I would do when I was out there on the ice with Boychuk. And then it occurred to me that I’d be lucky to be back on the ice in time for that game.”
She checked her file because something seemed off. “But that game is in January. You’re projected to be back on the ice in December.”
“I know, but that’s if my rehab and reconditioning goes according to schedule as we planned. If I have a setback or if I’m just not in shape in time, well, I might not be back in that game.”
She wrote fourth stage down, which was what she had assumed. Anytime a player got seriously injured and had to miss considerable time, they experienced the five stages of the Kübler-Ross Model of Grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Mason was no exception, and until he realized that, his rehab and conditioning were going to be a lot more difficult on him and infinitely more stressful. Not to mention, they hadn’t even begun taking about the natural, ensuing anxiety over re-injury.
“So, if you are able to play in January and you’re on the ice with Boychuk,” she posed, “how do you think you’ll react?”
“I don’t know,” Mason answered honestly. Dr. Carlyle kept quiet, forcing him to expound on the possibility. “Over the summer, I kept imagining I would go in for the hit. Not to hurt him, I don’t want to break his back or anything, I just... I don’t know, I want him to know that I’m there. Remind him of what he did. Make him feel sorry.”
“You didn’t think his apology was sincere then? You don’t think he feels any remorse for what he did?”
“I think he might feel bad, but not sorry. Why would he? He didn’t even get punished. No call on the ice, no suspension or anything. He just kept on playing, and his team ended up winning.”
Her instincts were to ask him how he felt about the seeming lack of justice in the NHL discipline system, but she was quickly learning that she needed to do more to provoke a response. “How much does that bother you?”
“A lot. A whole heck of a fucking lot. After everything we heard about how dirty we were playing—which, okay, that’s what Boston wanted to portray us as, and everyone who didn’t want us to win was going to buy into it—but Boston could do no wrong. I was really mad for a while.”
“So do you think you’ve moved on then?”
“Hmm. I, well, I don’t know.”
She underlined fourth stage in her notes, now fairly certain that he was stuck in the depression phase. It made sense from what she heard from Coach Vigneault, and also fit in with the time of the year. Mason was isolated from his teammates because he couldn’t practice with them—and even though he hung out with them, it was never the same as bonding by going through the experience of camp: pushing his body and discovering chemistry with the group of players that he would spend so much of the next seven to nine months with. Dr. Carlyle’s job was to help get him past that and into the stage of acceptance. The final jump was always the hardest. Now that she could pinpoint his frame of mind, it made proceeding easier.
“I’d like to talk now about the importance of having a support system to help you through the next few months. Now obviously you have me and the rest of the staff here,” she said with a comforting smile, “to listen and help in anyway we can. The trainers, the doctors, we can all give you tips to guide you on your path to recovery. But who else do you have to talk to you, outside of that?”
“Uh, my parents, I guess. They worry a lot already though, I don’t like to tell them stuff other than the good news.”
“Okay, what about friends, other than your teammates?”
“I don’t know, I don’t talk to them about the medical stuff or hockey.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t really understand it. Like, they watch the games, they know I’m hurt and stuff, but they don’t get it really.”
Dr. Carlyle scribbled down about his lack of network away from the team. “Okay, so then do you talk to your teammates about your situation? Like Ryan Kesler, who’s also missing the start of the season, or Kevin Bieska, who’s gone through missing big spans several times?”
“No. See, it’s different for Kes. He’s skating at least. I mean, I haven’t laced up for months, haven’t done anything that’ gonna help me get into game shape. And Juice, it happened during the season for him, both times when he got cut, so he’s talked to me a little bit, but, you know, it’s a different situation.”
Dr. Carlyle was worried that he had set himself apart from even his own teammates—who were in the best position of all to commiserate and empathize with him. Mason was essentially on his own when he needed support and camaraderie the most. If he wasn’t seeking out his friendships, then he was wallowing in his own depression. Bottling up those feelings would only backfire on him if he hiccoughed up on his way toward full recovery.
“I want to give you some homework for the week,” she said. “When you feel like you’re struggling or alone, I want you to reach out to someone. And I want you to do it at least three times in the coming week, with three different people. Maybe a teammate, or a friend, or a relative. You don’t have to talk about your injury or rehab—unless, of course, you want to—but you just have to connect with them on a personal level. Okay?”
Mason struggled to not roll his eyes. He wanted to give the impression that he was willing to actively participate in these head games so she’d have no trouble signing off on his eventual return to the ice. “Yeah, sure, okay,” he lied. He would have said anything to get out of that office. Luckily for him, it worked.
“Great. We have about ten minutes of our session left, so let’s work on some relaxation techniques that you can use whenever you’re feeling stressed,” Dr. Carlyle said, instructing her patient to close his eyes and picture the ocean. Instead, he imagined that he was back out on the ice, ready for the home opener against the Penguins.
But I got this idea when we had agreed to make our second bet, and since the Canucks received a point, shouldn't they get some love too? Once I get an idea in my head, I've got to run away with it.
This'll be longer than a one-shot (because one-shots are hard!), and it's not going to be typical fan-fiction either. It's going to involve what I think are sensitive subjects, so I hope it doesn't offend anyone.
--Jay
“But Coach—”
“No ‘buts,’ Raymond,” Coach Vigneault ordered, “you’re going. Now get your ass out of here.”
Mason Raymond shoved his hands in his pockets and left the dressing room with his head down, waiting until he out of hearing range before he cursed. Everyone was being so careful this season. Playing it safe. He tried telling the head coach that it was overkill and unnecessary, but Vigneault refused to listen and Mason’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
Meanwhile, his teammates were dressing and preparing for another day of training camp. Unfortunately for him, Mason was injured and wasn’t slated to return for months. Instead of taking part in the rigorous practice to get into game-shape and to bond with his fellow players, he was being forced to yet another doctor’s appointment.
He continued to mutter to himself as he shuffled down the long hallway, away from the loud echoes of laughter, the sharp sound of tape being ripped, and the low hum of music—and toward the cold, impersonal atmosphere of the front offices. It wasn’t just any doctor’s appointment; Mason was scheduled for weekly therapy sessions with the team psychologist.
After a tragic summer for the National Hockey League, no one wanted to take any risks when it came to the mental health of the players. Appointments were usually mandated as a part of the beginning- and end-of-the-year physicals, so that a player could be adequately assessed and noted for reference purposes; other than that, no other sessions were required. Sometimes, the psychologists were called in to consult during losing streaks, and coaches would recommend that the players seek help during the season when they were slumping or struggling under the weight of the pressure on them, but Mason had never been pushed liked this to see the shrink. And he didn’t like it.
Shrinks were for crazy people, and Mason was not crazy.
No one actively sought out professional help; it had something to do with the stigma surrounding it as well as the macho, jock attitude of professional athletes who were bred and trained to handle heavy expectations. Policies were being changed, though, as a consequence of three “non-suspicious” deaths of men still in the prime of their lives—including Mason’s own former teammate, Rick Rypien. While everyone on the team had been aware that Rypien had his share of problems, it was still a total shock to learn of his death and how it had happened. Management wanted to make sure that never happened again.
The nature of Mason’s injury, as well as the projected long recovery time, made him a prime candidate to try out the new, proactive mental health program instituted by the Canucks. It started in the previous season: in game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, he took a hit that broke one of his vertebrae. It wasn’t just that he was missing training camp and the start of the new season, but that he also missed an epically important game seven. He had had to watch in a back brace from the press box as his team fell apart on the ice below him. If any of the guys were going to need special attention, it was going to be Mason. Ryan Kesler was missing camp, too, but he had finished out the previous season—for what that was worth. Now, while every other player he knew was training and rededicating themselves for a brand new start in October, he had his fingers crossed for a December comeback.
Sure, playing sports was stressful; there was no doubt about that. No professional athlete would deny it. There was a constant, heavy burden to win and to prove their worth on the team. Mason hadn’t performed quite up to expectations for the Canucks, and he struggled with feeling like a disappointment. Watching the most important game of his team’s season from the press box made him feel impotent, even though he didn’t quite have the capacity to voice that. And he still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel now that he was missing training camp and the beginning of the new season—but no matter what was going through his brain, he knew that he didn’t want to have to talk it out with some know-it-all headshrinker who knew nothing about the reality of playing professional ice hockey.
He found himself in front of the office door with the plaque Dr. Carlyle, sports psychologist labeling it, and then he reluctantly knocked on the door. For a few moments, silence followed; Mason hoped that there was some kind of miscommunication or mix-up that would mean he wouldn’t have to go through with his appointment, but that was dashed when he finally heard, “Come in!”
Mason didn’t care for the office. The walls were bare and painted a dull taupe color, broken up only by the hanging, framed diplomas. He had to sit on a couch that was lumpy and uncomfortable; he fidgeted and adjusted his position several times, but he still couldn’t settle in. The shrink sat across from him in an armchair, instead of behind the big desk at the end of the room. That would have been preferable to him, because this faked some kind of personal connection, like it would make him feel more at ease. But it didn’t.
Dr. Carlyle had been waiting for Mason to arrive for his appointment was set to begin as soon as he arrived. She had her legs crossed at the knee, her patient folder in her lap and pen poised to take notes. She never looked like she enjoyed her job and that she had rather be anywhere else.
“Good morning, Mason,” she greeted. “How are you feeling today?”
“Uh, good. You know.” He squirmed again under her watchful gaze. Whenever she peered over her dark, thick-rimmed glasses at him, he knew she was judging him. Politely, he asked, “How’re you?”
The question caught her a little off-guard; typically, she was the one asking after her patients. She was so surprised that it took a couple seconds to respond, creating an awkward lull in the fifty-minute session. “I’m good, thanks.” The appointment was supposed to be solely about the patient; not only was it what she got paid for, but she couldn’t talk about herself. It would have ruined the doctor-patient relationship. She tried to always be authoritative and in control—and especially to never get personal. She had to be clinical in order to be effective.
She wasn’t a part of the team. Dr. Carlyle didn’t get invited out for drinks after the games or for lunch after practices like some of the trainers or other staff did. It was part and parcel of the position. She wasn’t a friend. Besides, everyone knew that therapists couldn’t be friends with their patients. That was unethical and unscrupulous.
Dr. Carlyle cleared her throat and officially started the session. “So, tell me, how has your rehab been going this week?”
“Good.”
“Progressing as expected?”
He shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess. No setbacks, at least.”
“So you’d say you’re on track then?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, that’s great,” she said, taking note of that. “And how have you been feeling aside from the physical aspect of your injury?”
“Good.” Mason liked to keep his answer as short and as simple whenever possible. He was afraid of saying something wrong, so he was terse.
Dr. Carlyle raised an eyebrow at his response. She always looked so harsh and stern, especially when she gave those kinds of disapproving expressions. With her brown hair pulled back into a tight, severe bun and those glasses perched low on her nose, she looked like one of those librarians that always yelled at him for being too loud in the library. Plus, she was dressed in head-to-toe black, like she was heading to a funeral after work.
“Care to elaborate on that, Mason?”
He shrugged again. “I feel... fine. Good. Just, well, good.”
She set down her pen and gestured toward him. “You know, you can be honest with me here. We have doctor-patient privilege, and this is all kept in confidence. I don’t go running to Alain to tell him what you’ve said.”
Mason gave one single nod of his head. “I know.”
“Okay then. The only way these meetings are going to be of any help to you is if you open up and tell me the truth. I mean, I know that this is only our second session, but you’ll be seeing me every week until at least Christmas,” she told him. “We just want to make sure that you’re dealing properly with the stress of your injury and then that you’ll make a smooth transition in rejoining the team.”
“I know.”
“Really? Because I have to sign off on it before you’ll be playing a game for the Canucks this season. So it’s very important that you take these appointments seriously and use them to your benefit.”
Raymond didn’t say anything for a while. Finally, he subtly nodded, knowing that he’d have to actively participate if he wanted to play—but he still wasn’t happy.
Knowing that their time for the week was slowly ticking away, Dr. Carlyle moved forward their session and tried to coax him into talking. “I know that a lot of players, in all of professional sports, don’t disclose injuries. They don’t tell the coach that they’re sore and should probably sit out, or tell the doctors or trainers about nagging injuries. They pop some pills, suck it up, and go out there and play. I know that you’ve undoubtedly done that in your career, am I right?”
She paused, waiting for him to answer her. At first, he had assumed that it was a rhetorical question; when too much time had passed and the silence become as uncomfortable as the couch, he muttered a cooperative, “Uh, yeah, I have.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t have that luxury with this injury. It’s public knowledge that you got seriously injured. You have a long road in front of you still, lots of doctors’ appointments and assessments. I won’t sugarcoat it: it’s hard. It’ll be hard on you physically and hard on you mentally. You’re going to feel a lot of different emotions as you progress, and I want you to know that it’ll all be perfectly normal. If you help me to get a feel for how you’re feeling now, then I can give you some strategies to help you through the process of recovery.
“Now, at our first appointment, we went over your diagnosis and your timetable for return, which was a very medical approach to help me understand what it is you’re dealing with. Today, however, I’d like to talk about the summer and how you dealt with it on your own.” She picked up her pen again and turned back to her notes. “You’ve been restricted to cardio-only workouts. No lifting, no skating. Sounds like a pretty idle offseason. What did you do with your time?”
Mason didn’t like the open questions that required more than either a “yes” or a “no.” He cleared his throat. “Took a couple fishing trips once I could stop wearing the brace. Rode the stationary bike for a lot of my cardio, but there wasn’t much else I could do. No golf. Couldn’t run for a while. Spent a lot of time in Vancouver, ’cause that’s where my doctors are. Played a lot of video games, hung out with some friends who came to visit me. Not much else.”
She scribbled as much of that down as possible. He made it sound he was taking everything in stride, but Dr. Carlyle knew that couldn’t be the case. She wanted to stir up some emotion to see how he was dealing with it all, so she brought up what was sure to be a touchy subject. “Did you hear from Boychuk?”
His voice changed a little when he said, “Yeah.”
“Did you have a conversation with him about what happened?”
“No. He just texted me, to say he was sorry and that he didn’t mean for me to get hurt on the play.”
“And did you accept his apology?”
He scoffed. “No. I didn’t bother answering his fucking text. He was obviously too busy celebrating winning the Cup to even give me call, so, you know, whatever.”
Dr. Carlyle took note of his angry outburst. It was the most emotion she had ever seen out of him, which encouraged her. “Would you like to confront him about it?”
Shrugging, he said, “Not really. It wouldn’t do much good now. I....” Mason stopped himself from venting further.
“What?” she prodded, hoping he would be open with her. “Go on.”
Mason played with his hands in his lap. He didn’t want to talk, but he knew he had to. “I thought a lot of this summer about what would happen when we played the Bruins this year. What I would do when I was out there on the ice with Boychuk. And then it occurred to me that I’d be lucky to be back on the ice in time for that game.”
She checked her file because something seemed off. “But that game is in January. You’re projected to be back on the ice in December.”
“I know, but that’s if my rehab and reconditioning goes according to schedule as we planned. If I have a setback or if I’m just not in shape in time, well, I might not be back in that game.”
She wrote fourth stage down, which was what she had assumed. Anytime a player got seriously injured and had to miss considerable time, they experienced the five stages of the Kübler-Ross Model of Grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Mason was no exception, and until he realized that, his rehab and conditioning were going to be a lot more difficult on him and infinitely more stressful. Not to mention, they hadn’t even begun taking about the natural, ensuing anxiety over re-injury.
“So, if you are able to play in January and you’re on the ice with Boychuk,” she posed, “how do you think you’ll react?”
“I don’t know,” Mason answered honestly. Dr. Carlyle kept quiet, forcing him to expound on the possibility. “Over the summer, I kept imagining I would go in for the hit. Not to hurt him, I don’t want to break his back or anything, I just... I don’t know, I want him to know that I’m there. Remind him of what he did. Make him feel sorry.”
“You didn’t think his apology was sincere then? You don’t think he feels any remorse for what he did?”
“I think he might feel bad, but not sorry. Why would he? He didn’t even get punished. No call on the ice, no suspension or anything. He just kept on playing, and his team ended up winning.”
Her instincts were to ask him how he felt about the seeming lack of justice in the NHL discipline system, but she was quickly learning that she needed to do more to provoke a response. “How much does that bother you?”
“A lot. A whole heck of a fucking lot. After everything we heard about how dirty we were playing—which, okay, that’s what Boston wanted to portray us as, and everyone who didn’t want us to win was going to buy into it—but Boston could do no wrong. I was really mad for a while.”
“So do you think you’ve moved on then?”
“Hmm. I, well, I don’t know.”
She underlined fourth stage in her notes, now fairly certain that he was stuck in the depression phase. It made sense from what she heard from Coach Vigneault, and also fit in with the time of the year. Mason was isolated from his teammates because he couldn’t practice with them—and even though he hung out with them, it was never the same as bonding by going through the experience of camp: pushing his body and discovering chemistry with the group of players that he would spend so much of the next seven to nine months with. Dr. Carlyle’s job was to help get him past that and into the stage of acceptance. The final jump was always the hardest. Now that she could pinpoint his frame of mind, it made proceeding easier.
“I’d like to talk now about the importance of having a support system to help you through the next few months. Now obviously you have me and the rest of the staff here,” she said with a comforting smile, “to listen and help in anyway we can. The trainers, the doctors, we can all give you tips to guide you on your path to recovery. But who else do you have to talk to you, outside of that?”
“Uh, my parents, I guess. They worry a lot already though, I don’t like to tell them stuff other than the good news.”
“Okay, what about friends, other than your teammates?”
“I don’t know, I don’t talk to them about the medical stuff or hockey.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t really understand it. Like, they watch the games, they know I’m hurt and stuff, but they don’t get it really.”
Dr. Carlyle scribbled down about his lack of network away from the team. “Okay, so then do you talk to your teammates about your situation? Like Ryan Kesler, who’s also missing the start of the season, or Kevin Bieska, who’s gone through missing big spans several times?”
“No. See, it’s different for Kes. He’s skating at least. I mean, I haven’t laced up for months, haven’t done anything that’ gonna help me get into game shape. And Juice, it happened during the season for him, both times when he got cut, so he’s talked to me a little bit, but, you know, it’s a different situation.”
Dr. Carlyle was worried that he had set himself apart from even his own teammates—who were in the best position of all to commiserate and empathize with him. Mason was essentially on his own when he needed support and camaraderie the most. If he wasn’t seeking out his friendships, then he was wallowing in his own depression. Bottling up those feelings would only backfire on him if he hiccoughed up on his way toward full recovery.
“I want to give you some homework for the week,” she said. “When you feel like you’re struggling or alone, I want you to reach out to someone. And I want you to do it at least three times in the coming week, with three different people. Maybe a teammate, or a friend, or a relative. You don’t have to talk about your injury or rehab—unless, of course, you want to—but you just have to connect with them on a personal level. Okay?”
Mason struggled to not roll his eyes. He wanted to give the impression that he was willing to actively participate in these head games so she’d have no trouble signing off on his eventual return to the ice. “Yeah, sure, okay,” he lied. He would have said anything to get out of that office. Luckily for him, it worked.
“Great. We have about ten minutes of our session left, so let’s work on some relaxation techniques that you can use whenever you’re feeling stressed,” Dr. Carlyle said, instructing her patient to close his eyes and picture the ocean. Instead, he imagined that he was back out on the ice, ready for the home opener against the Penguins.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
The bet
Okay, here's the bet. If the Penguins win, MelTing will write a short story about one of these Penguins players: Dustin Jeffrey, Ben Lovejoy, Matt Niskanen or Kris Letang. If the Canucks win, Jay will write a short story about one of these Canucks players: Aaron Volpatti, Victor Orekovich, or Alex Edler. The author gets to choose which player she wants to write about, but feel free to comment on your personal choice.
So on Thursday, may the best team win!
P.S. After Tephywashere's comment, I spent the night rethinking my choices, after all I obviously left my scruples at the door when I started writing ff. If it was any player, I'd choose the ones with a sense of humour: Keith Ballard, Alex Burrows or Kevin Bieksa. So my new player choice is: anyone! Jay can watch the game and choose whatever player catches her fancy, if of course, the Canucks win.
P.S. After Tephywashere's comment, I spent the night rethinking my choices, after all I obviously left my scruples at the door when I started writing ff. If it was any player, I'd choose the ones with a sense of humour: Keith Ballard, Alex Burrows or Kevin Bieksa. So my new player choice is: anyone! Jay can watch the game and choose whatever player catches her fancy, if of course, the Canucks win.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A new season, a new bet
The Canucks and Penguins will be opening their new seasons with a duel in Vancouver. So Jay and I are reviving the bet from last year, the winner's team earns her a short story. We're still working out who the lucky players who may be featured will be, so stay tuned.
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