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“How are you feeling, Francine?”
“To be honest…I’m a little nervous.”
A slow smile spreads across Dr. Khalid’s lips. “That’s perfectly normal,” he reaches down and places his hand on myknee, “three pokes, I’ll get in there and clean things up, and then you’ll be back up and walking before you know it.”
“What about skating?” I ask.
Walking is fine, but I’d rather skate.
“Francine, I’ve worked on a lot of hockey players. This won’t keep you out of the game.” A nurse comes in and shuffles Dr. Khalid off to change and get ready for surgery and the anesthesiologist is right behind them asking all the same questions I’ve already answered a few times this afternoon.
“We’re ready to roll,” a voice calls from somewhere down the hall. “Let’s move.”
Closing my eyes to block out the lights moving overhead, I do what I can to quell my nerves, doing what I did as a kid afraid to cross the Mackinac Bridge when we’d travel between peninsulas: reciting the names and numbers of the Detroit Union’s 1997-98 championship winning team. Osgood, number thirty. Murphy, number fifty five.
There’s music playing in the operating room. One of those bands that shares a name with a city. After they wheel me in, I move myself over to the small table, making sure I’m not laying on my IV or heart monitor lines. I’m no stranger to hockey injuries, and this isn’t my first time inside an OR, but it doesn't get any easier. The music helps though, and the team talking me through what’s going on; from the nurse to my left helping me situate on the table, to the orthopedic resident on my right adjusting the arm rest and getting my IV line out of the way.
When the anesthesiologist fits a mask over my nose and mouth and tells me to take ten deep breaths. As I do, I continue down the Union lineup, my vision goes fuzzy, and yellow at the edges. The last thing I think about is Mary Anne and why she’s walking away. Who is she walking away from? Why did she walk away? I may never know. But I do know, when I wake up with gritty eyes and a dry mouth, that song is stuck in my head. I trysitting up and my arms tangle in a blanket. Panic settles in my chest until a pair of hands gently lays me back down in the bed.
“You’re okay, Francine,” the voice sounds far away, but the fog finally clears enough for me to realize I’m in a recovery room, Malina sits to my right, Rachel to my left. “The surgery was a success. Your knee is going to be just fine. The anesthesia just needs some more time to wear off. Do you want crackers or anything?”
“Is a popsicle an option?”
“I’ll check with the nurse.”
“Stefan…?” The only thought in my head that breaks through the fog.
“I called him after your surgeon talked to us,” Malina answers, taking my hand in hers and giving a squeeze. “Once the anesthesia wears off you can give him a call. He’s expecting it.”
“Do you think that’ll be before puck drop?” The words feel funny coming out of my mouth and I must have said something wrong because Rachel covers her hand to stop a laugh.
“Say again?”
“Will this wear off before puck drop? I want to talk to him before he has to play.”
“Where’s he playing tonight?” Malina asks.
“Canada.”
“That’s a big country,” Rachel chuckles, tapping on the screen of her phone. “Looks like Toronto. He’s probably going to be practicing soon. But you could leave him a message.”
“That’s okay. I can call him after the game.” I mumble around a bite of popsicle before closing my eyes and dozing a little bit more, nestled under the warm recovery room blankets.
“I should have called him.” I’m seated on the sectional sofa in Stefan’s living room, my foot propped up on a stack of pillows, watching as he takes another hard hit into the boards. He’s been dropped down to the fourth line for the last period of play after a disaster of a second period. Too many giveaways. Too many hits. No communication with his line. It’s been hard to watch.
“He’s got it bad if you’re the reason he can’t find the puck tonight,” Rachel quips from where she’s perched on the other end of the sofa, Stevie curled in her lap. “I will not let you blame yourself for him being unable to play tonight.”
“Be nice, you.”
“Thisisme being nice, Franny.”
“I know,” I sigh. “At least you’re nice to me, though.”
“And me,” comes Malina’s voice from the kitchen, “most of the time.”
“You two don’t have to stay,” I remind them for what feels like the hundredth time. “I can handle myself.”
“Rachel is staying with you tonight to make sure that you don’t try to do too much, too soon. Just because youcanwalk without crutches doesn’t mean you should. Just because you don’t havetoo muchpain doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stay up on your pain meds.”
