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.