Concussions: The Pain No One Can See

I. Prelude

To be honest, Seau and Hernandez gave me quite the scare.

For a long time, I believed this was my burden to bear.

But alas, my recent endeavors have made me aware,

That this journey is my gift to share.

II. Impact

One minute and forty-seven seconds later.

My eyes are locked shut, but waves of neon color swirl in my sightline, and a repressed ringing sound buzzes through the back of my left ear.

A bead of sweat dribbles down my forehead, over my left eye, and eventually, I taste its salty essence as it lingers into my mouth.

Where am I?

As my eyes peel open, three steel bars impede my vision, but I manage to make out a crowd circling around me.

Squinting to minimize the burning daylight, I notice that each person in the crowd sports a navy helmet with gold horns curling up the sides, a white or navy practice pinnie loosely drooping over their shoulders, and each of them leans on their own lacrosse stick.

Oh, yeah… I’m at practice.

While still laying on my back, a man sporting fluorescent orange-tinted Oakley sunglasses, a navy Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap, and a blistering scar slithering down his neck, flips through sheets of paper on a clipboard, and barks out a laugh, “Wally, stop acting like a wuss. Get up. You’re fine. We aren’t going to win State laying on the turf. And the rest of you, back in your lines.”

My head throbs as I stumble to my feet, I wipe the pellets of seething hot artificial turf off my back and stumble back into the nearest line.

Coach is right.

I’m fine.

Right?

III. Walk of Shame

Fifteen minutes later.

With each step, the hazy world spins around me.

I feel the ham sandwich I had for lunch lurk up my throat, but I hold it down.

Waiting my turn, I watch as my teammates jog across the field, effortlessly fling the ball 20 yards to another teammate, who snatches the ball from the air, and heads to the back of the line.

As it should be.

But when it’s my turn, the ball whizzes right past my head.

Confused by the malfunction between my brain and stick, I smash my stick into the turf and reprimand myself.

I’m a three-year varsity starter, and I can’t catch a fucking pass.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m gonna get benched.

Quelling my rising distress, I lie to myself.

You’re okay.

Just got the wind knocked out of you.

You’ll get it together.

But then it happens again.

Again.

And…

Again.

My head spins; I sputter back and forth from outbursts of rage to torrents of self-pity.

Shit… I know this feeling.

I separate myself from my line, eye the coaches chattering by the jugs of water, and meekly head in their direction.

In a gravelly grunt, my Coach howls, “No walking on this field.”

Picking up my pace, I huff for air, nearly fainting along the way, but I make it.

Now inches from the group of three, I mutter, “I think I got a concussion.”

Without looking up, and still flipping through his clipboard, my Coach barks back, “If you got something to say, speak up!”

Using my last ounce of energy, I suck deep into my lungs, and announce, “Coach, I think I got a concussion.”

Failing to conceal his frustration, Coach’s scar bulges as he digests this information, and the implications for our upcoming game.

Scowling, he fires back, “You know what to do.”

As I tremble past him, and head inside to the Trainer, his voice growls, “Hustle!”

Is he mad at me?

Why?

IV. Back by Sunday

Thirty minutes later.

In a painted navy brick room that permeates sweat, testosterone, and body odor, a taut woman, built like a middle linebacker, but with soft blue eyes, swings her ring finger in front of my face.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Tracking the motion of her stubby finger causes my head to spin, nauseating me.

A sharp pain throbs in the bone just behind my left ear, and I can feel my body trembling.

She sighs a deep breath, and in a gentle voice confirms, “Yep, you’ve got a concussion. Should be rough for a day or two, but it’ll heal up, and you should be good to go for Sunday’s game.”

I nod.

“You drive to school today?”

I nod.

“Alright, practice will be over in about ten. Have one of your teammates drive your car home.”

I nod.

Her yellow-colored teeth clatter up and down as she chuckles to herself, “Go take a shower; you reek.”

Thoughts swirl through my head.

I should be good to go, right? I mean, I’ve had a bunch of concussions, but I’ll be good to…

WHAM!

Dazed in confusion, I rub the bump that has already formed on my forehead.

The Trainer bursts out laughing, “What, do we need to wrap you in bubble wrap?”

“Sorry.”

Why am I apologizing?

“Shower. Locker Room. Go.”

I nod, pressing my hands against the brick wall for support, as I inch out of the room.

V. Not a Disney Movie

One week later.

At the heart of noon, while all my teammates are bragging at the lunch tables about their overtime win the day before, exaggerating their stats to impress the cute girls surrounding them, my thighs cling to the grey patient’s bed at the Childrens’ Hospital Concussion Clinic while my Mother sits in a wooden chair beside me lost in a game of Candy Crush.

After nights of retching up acidic, sometimes bloody vomit, my bruised eyes ache as I stare at a mossy green mural depicting a faded, but oddly accurate image of Bambi.

Her doey brown eyes stare at me.

Taunting me.

Why do all children’s hospitals have stupid Disney murals?

If you’re one of the unlucky ones sitting in a room like this, there’s never a happily…

“Hey there, Sport.”

A white lab-coated, grizzly man with a thick beard interrupts my thoughts as he strolls into the room, hauls himself onto the top of the formica counter to the right of the sink, clutching a clipboard.

I can feel his piercing gaze assessing me, as if the last hour of tests were inconclusive.

“So, based on your symptoms, and our examination of your physical responses, our team has concluded that you have a condition called Post Concussion Syndrome.”

He pauses.

I can tell he wants me to say something.

But I say nothing.

The Doctor continues, “So, I hate to say it, but it means you can’t play lacrosse. For now, I want you to report to me weekly, and I’ll coordinate a plan for you to integrate back into school. You will also need to do physical therapy to retrain your brain.”

The Doctor’s voice rings in my head.

After my Mother steps in to ask a series of questions, exhausted by the appointment, I tune out again, staring down Bambi.

Until the Doctor responds…

“Unfortunately, Wally can never play lacrosse again, or for that matter any contact sport. The risk is too substantial.”

My heart skips a beat.

Never?

My raw throat struggles to swallow the thick saliva pooling in my mouth.

I feel like I should be sad, torn up, the sport I had played since I was nine taken from me in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t even remember what I did before lacrosse. It is, or I guess I should say “was” such a large part of my life, but oddly enough, I feel nothing.

Nothing at all.

VI. Wally Roxanne’s Day Off

One week and one day later.

Ever since lacrosse had been taken from me, school seems pointless.

So, I cut class and longed to live like Ferris Bueller.

But that’s not really how it went.

...

The shades of my white blinds do everything in their power to shutter out the daylight drooping down firmly in place like prison bars, yet the little bit of sunlight that seeps through their gaps burns my eyes like I am staring directly at the sun.

My body shivers in the icy cold air of my basement bedroom, but sweat dribbles down my pecs, into the crevices of my armpits, and slithers all the way down to my legs, causing my back to cling to my navy cotton bed sheets.

My stomach growls with hunger, and the dry cessation of my dehydrated mouth tastes like I am constantly chewing on chalk, but I’m too apathetic to do anything about it.

Intermittently, spurts of burning hot vomit erupt from my throat, and flow down my chest.

I just leave it there.

My head whirls in circles, throbbing in pain, like someone is stabbing it with a dull butter knife.

Over and Over.

It’s so unfair this is happening to me.

Why me?

What am I even supposed to do?

My eyes are too sensitive to watch television, to scroll through my phone, to even leave the depressing dungeon that is my bedroom.

So, to pass the time, I gaze at the blank white popcorn ceiling, constructing figures with my imagination.

Okay, screw this.

I gotta do something.

My eyes roll around the empty room searching for ideas.

Impromptu trip to Chicago?

I mean I could…

Nah, too much work.

Come on think of something.

Then, it hits me.

No one is home; it’s 11a.m. on a weekday.

A devious smile springs across my face.

I feel a wave of giddiness surge throughout my body.

I lift myself out of my bed, hobble towards my bathroom, use all my might to push open the boxy window just above my toilet, before lowering myself onto the fuzzy blue bathmat.

I open a mahogany drawer beneath my mucous clogged sink, spot a stack of three books, yank out the one on the bottom of the stack, my school-issued copy of Catcher in the Rye, flip open the book, and there it is.

A small baggie, untouched for so long specks of dust cling to its exterior.

In it, rests a few finger fulls of orange-crusted marijuana, a miniature red and black patterned glass pipe, and a white Bic lighter.

Still lying on the bathmat, but turning my body to face the window, I wriggle off a sticky bit of greenery, tear it to shreds between the finger nails of my thumb and index finger, flick on the lighter, press it to the pipe, and suck in the burning air until I choke.

Aaaaaahhhhhhh.

I lean back, erupting with laughter, feeling the first semblance of peace since that fateful Monday.

And I know… I need more.

I deserve more.

VII. Beholden to the Pain

Three weeks later.

BZZZ. BZZZ.

As I roll over, and smash my hand onto the top of my alarm clock, my eyes roll, and I groan.

Back to school… Grrreeattt…

You see, I have no desire to go back.

In actuality, after a couple tumultuous arguments with my Mom, a few frantic rants about how no one gets my pain, four secret meetups with my dealer in the back yard, and endless smoke sessions, I have been forbidden from missing another day of school.

On my way out, I don’t even bother to shower, leaving my jaw length hair matted to my face.

While gnawing on a banana in the kitchen, I sling on a wrinkled white polo button-down, and shiver as my mom wraps a basic navy J Crew tie around my neck, knotting it so tightly I feel like I am suffocating.

This sucks.

Oddly enough, the lack of traffic allows me to arrive to school fifteen minutes early.

So, I hike out to the most discrete, hidden away bathroom in the basement of our five-story school, huffing on a THC cartridge while loosening my navy tie.

Now, this was risky business.

All schools have drug policies, and a punishment would be inevitable for this behavior, but my high school was full of Catholic extremists, and would not hesitate to expel me.

Which made it all the more fun.

...

BING. BING.

As the automated bell buzzes over the loudspeaker, I chuckle to myself laughing at how I managed to be late to my first class despite arriving fifteen minutes early.

Now collecting myself, I stumble through the empty hallway.

A few minutes later, I have made it from the basement all the way up to my destination on the fourth floor, and I hover just outside the classroom door, rolling my eyes as my energetic Professor’s high-pitched voice rattles off incomprehensible gibberish in Spanish.

As I walk in, my Professor freezes.

Whispers circulate the room probably wondering why my eyes are so freaking red? Why I haven’t been to school in weeks? Wondering what the hell is wrong with me?

I spot an empty seat in the back corner of the room, drop my backpack to the floor, and rest my head on the cold wooden desk.

Fuck this.

After what feels like an eternity, I raise my head and glance at the clock hanging just above the door surrounded by rainbow-colored piñatas.

8:09.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes.

Suddenly, I become aware of the rancid smell emanating from my damp armpits, my chest constricts, I forget how to breathe.

While shaking in place, I fight for air, panting so loud, the entire room could hear me.

My throat begins to burn; I can feel vomit inching up my throat.

Be cool, be cool, be cool.

You’re fine.

All good.

Nope.

I bolt up, and sprint out of the room, hustle down the hallway, spot a bathroom, yank open the stall, and proceed to vomit into the urine-stained toilet.

As I look down gobs of blood mixed with a mustardy mucous defile the previously pristine porcelain toilet.

The world spun, my chest felt tight, caving in, and I couldn’t stop shaking as my knees press into the hard floor.

This is bad.

Really bad.

VIII. Hello, Ms. Dean of Students

Three weeks and one day later.

The very next day, I find a white note stuck to the outside of my locker informing me that I have a meeting with the interim Dean of Students.

I should have been worried, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t care less.

...

She sat in a leather chair, framed degrees hung to the rouge painted wall behind her, a grey bob clung tightly to her potato-shaped head, and as she unfolded the cuffs of her navy blue pantsuit, her empty black eyes glower at me while she flashes a wide superficial smile.

“So, Mr. Roxanne.”

She spoke with a ring of annoyance as she pounded into her keyboard searching through what I assume were my school records.

“The past few weeks have evidently been abnormal for you. Normally you are an honors student, I know you have been accepted into a prestigious university, but your recent approach to your academics has been dare I say…”

Her eyes scan the room in a faux appearance to be searching for what to say, even though we both knew what was coming.

“Apathetic… unacceptable, you have missed 12 days of school in the past month alone, and you have 3 missed papers, 9 missed quizzes, and 2 missed tests.”

As her voice drones on, I can’t repress a smirk from forming on my face.

“Do you find something funny, Mr. Roxanne?”

You know what… I do! How about some sympathy or compassion you freaking cold-hearted witch?

“Uh, no sorry.”

“I am well aware that you have suffered a concussion, and I empathize with your state of affairs. So, I will give you two weeks to make up all your missed assignments. Otherwise, I’m afraid we will not let you graduate, you will have to attend summer school, and we will notify the university you plan to attend.”

I feel my fists curl into a ball of rage.

I want to scream at this presumptuous bitch that I’ve been in so much fucking pain, lights burn my eyes, I can’t look at a computer, I lost the sport I love, I’m vomiting in between classes, I am experiencing constant panic attacks. IT KILLS! YOU DON’T GET IT! I’M IN SO MUCH PAIN!

But I don’t.

I just nod my head, and affirm, “I’ll get it done.”

IX. Showtime

Three weeks and two days later.

A few droplets from the pouring rain manage to sneak through my open window, and onto the bathroom floor.

Flurries of smoke prance around the room, as I flick my white lighter, igniting a brief flame before it fades.

My legs are crossed, a stack of 20 books sits to my left, and my overheated computer scorches my bare thighs.

I‘m never gonna fucking get this done.

Sweat dribbles down the crown of my forehead, my head throbs from each and every angle, the mere sight of the computer sears my sensitive eyes, taunting me to give up.

X. You Again?

Five weeks and two days later.

With my head down and a thick stapled stack of papers, I march right into that same office.

She sits in that same leather chair, staring at me with that same superficial grin.

In a synthetically optimistic voice, she exclaims, “WOW! I can’t believe you did it. I knew you were really milking that concussion, but I’m glad you got your act together. How do you feel?”

How do I feel? HOW DO I FUCKING FEEL? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You just forced me to finish some bullshit meaningless busywork assignments while my head is fucking broken.

Censoring myself, I stare directly into her black eyes, and mutter, “Awful,” before turning around and stomping out of the room.

XI. A Death at Graduation

Six weeks and five days later.

Planted on a tie-dye beach towel, with my head resting on a folded hoodie propped up against a flat boulder, I sit in my backyard gazing out at the polluted abyss of Lake Michigan.

My phone buzzes through my khaki pants over and over again, but I don’t even bother to check it.

In that exact moment, all of my classmates were sporting caps and gowns, smiling before their parents’ iPhones.

Graduation — the culminating celebration of one’s high school experience.

A walk across the stage, a crowd full of cheering spectators, a puff on a Cuban cigar, and promises of staying in touch with classmates you have no intention of ever speaking to again.

Frankly, there was nothing to celebrate.

So, although I was invited, I declined the invitation, claiming that all the noise would hurt my head.

But in reality, I didn’t feel like being interrogated by all my classmates, and their parents, or worse, becoming a recipient of their pity.

I just wanted to be alone.

So, I spent the morning in the company of my muck-stained pipe, my white Bic lighter, and a plump bag of green flowery goodness gazing out at the endless murky body of water.

Still perched in the same spot, the sun slowly fades from the sky casting off a spectacular shade of flamingo pink.

But to me, it didn’t seem all that special.

After huffing on my pipe for the entire day, I thought I would be floating in the sky, oozing with euphoria, but honestly, I am bored, and my head is still fucking throbbing.

Halfheartedly, I mutter to myself, “Why is nothing changing?”

Then, a vat of anger surges through my veins.

With a tight grip on the pipe, I jump to my feet, flail my arms, and howl at the top of my lungs, “WHY IS NOTHING CHANGING? WHY IS NOTHING CHANGING? WHY IS NOTHING CHANGING?”

My face radiates fiery heat, the words of my chant fade into incomprehensible primal wails, and then…

I hurl the pipe into the rocky terrain, and it shatters before my eyes.

I gather my breath, lower myself back to my perch, and mumble to myself, “I’m done being a victim. I’m gonna show them. I’m gonna be something.”

XII. Resurrection

Four years later.

I couldn’t help but smile to myself knowing that I made good on my promise.

My chest flutters up and down not with angst, but with excitement.

As I glance at my hands, they do not shake, but instead, rest firmly on a wood podium.

A microphone perches just in front of my mouth, a piece of paper titled “Valedictorian Speech” sits flat on the top of the podium, and a crowd of roughly two thousand wait quietly for me to speak.

After sucking in a deep breath, my voice booms.

As I share my concluding remarks, encouraging each of my graduating classmates to live their best life, I smile and feel my body flood with a mixture of relief and euphoria.

The crowd roars, jumping to their feet, hooting and hollering.

My heart bounces up and down, my fist pumps into the air, and through it all, my head still pounds with pain.