She and Fisk talk for a minute before he turns to leave. He has a group to coach, after all. “So, what happened?” she starts preparing the electrodes. “I turned away right before it all went down.”
“Dunno, can’t feel my arm.”
She pauses for a moment and sets the electrodes down. “At all?”
I shake my head quickly. “If I do, it burns and feels heavy. It’s an effort to move it.”
“Bad stretch?”
This is where I lie. “Maybe I slept on it wrong?” It’s too early to hit the IL and my team needs me. The last couple of years, we’ve been expected to make a playoff run but we always seem to fuck it up when it counts the most. Whatever is going on with my arm needs to be fixed within ten days, at the most.
“Possible, but unlikely to cause you this much pain. Lie down, please.”
I do as she asks. She starts moving my arm in every direction she can, adding pressure in different places. I know the whole time while her hands are trained to feel for any abnormalities, she’s trained to watch our faces because try as we might, we can’t hide pain forever.
“I don’t feel anything pulling and definitely no knots. I’m going to start you on stim and then we’ll do massage for a bit. See if that can loosen whatever is going on in there.”
She places the electrodes on my arm, turns on the machine and disappears. With my free arm draped over my eyes, I try to visualize the annoying sensation actually doing something to help my arm, but it’s hard. Every so often, I jump from the stimulation and when I do, my sore arm throbs so much that the pain brings tears to my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
I hadn’t heard her come back. I nod, but I’m sure she knows what’s going on under my arm. There’s no need for me to make eye contact with her. The last thing I want to show her is that I can’t take the pain. Cait removes the electrodes and adds some oil to my skin. From her first touch, I hiss.
“Stop,” I tell her.
“It hurts when I touch your arm?”
“It hurts no matter what. I thi
nk the stim made it worse.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to go make you an appointment with the physician.”
“For what?”
She gives me a sad stare. “I’m not sure.”
Over the last couple of days, I have been poked, prodded, and studied as if I’m some medical mystery. I can’t explain it. My arm hurts when I lift it, leave it by my side, when it’s in a sling, and especially when I bump it against something. I can’t drive, at least not with my right arm. Sleeping is almost impossible. Dressing myself is even harder and for the first time in my adult life I wish I had a damn girlfriend or wife, or at least wish my mother was here so someone could help me. Although, asking my mother to pull down my shorts so I can use the bathroom is not high on my priority list. I’m not sure I’d even ask a girlfriend, but a wife — definitely. It’s that whole sickness and health vow that I’d take advantage of.
Today, I’m stuffed into a tube for an MRI. The nice tech gave some old-fashioned headphones, the kind we got back in the late eighties/early nineties with our Walkman. She didn’t, however, ask me what type of music I’d like to listen to, which I think is a ploy on her part. I can’t move, not that I want to anyway because doing so would cause excruciating pain in my arm, and the music she has playing through these headphones is soft jazz or classical. I’m not a music aficionado by any means so I can’t be sure what’s playing. What I do know is it’s putting me to sleep, which is fine. Everyone can use a thirty-minute power nap during the day.
When the table I’m lying on starts to move, my eyes flash open and blink rapidly to adjust to the lighting. I make sure the johnnie I’m wearing is still covering all the important parts and try to sit up without using my arm so much.
“The radiologist will look this over today and give you a call.”
“Great, thanks.”
She walks me back to the changing room and wishes me a good day. Inside, there’s a few men of various ages. I do everything I can to avoid eye contact, but the young one in here knows who I am.
“Hawk Sinclair, right?”
Man, how I want to say no, but my full sleeve of tattoos is a dead giveaway. Plus, my return to Boston without my team has been highly publicized thanks to the BoRe Blog. When Stone told us that the BoRe reporter was going to have exclusives, we thought he was joking. We understand ESPN, Fox Sports and our very own NESN getting the exclusives, but a blog? Hard to believe, but I guess things are changing in terms of spreading the news.
What I’m going through isn’t news though. It’s a damn travesty and should be kept in the clubhouse. I was hoping Wilson wouldn’t put me on the IL, that this issue would stay under wraps, but when I wasn’t ready three days later, he had no choice. Between him, Stone and Cait, they all thought it best that I return to Boston to seek treatment. The only thing I’ve done since my return is spend hours in physical therapy and doctor appointments.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?”
The fan sticks his hand out to shake mine, leaving me no choice but to keep the smokescreen up that everything’s okay. We shake and pain radiates through my arm.