An ordinary boy, an ordinary name
But ordinary's just not good enough today
Alone I'm thinking
Why is superman dead
-Our Lady Peace, “Superman’s Dead”
I sat in the stark white waiting room of Doctor Corsello’s office, my right hand clenched nervously, Lisa’s fingers entwined with the fingers of the other. Music from a local soft rock radio station lilted quietly from a speaker in the ceiling directly above my head, and nearly as hushed, the receptionist chatted on the telephone. I glanced up at the round-faced, black-digited clock on the wall for what seemed like the tenth time, and yet it was still reading 8:24—six minutes before my scheduled appointment.
“Relax,” Lisa whispered, squeezing my hand gently, “they’re just going to do a few tests, figure out how to fix what’s wrong, and then your recovery time will go by faster than ever. You’ll be on the ice again before you know it.”
I stretched my leg out, wincing at the pain. I’d hurt more that morning than I had since the day of my first surgery; I could barely even roll out of bed. The doubts that had been flitting along the edge of my consciousness had draped around me, suffocating me like a thick quilt on a humid day. “What if they can’t figure it out? What if it’s just too damaged to repair? What the hell do I do without hockey?”
The curse had brought a few disapproving glares, but Lisa waved them off with a look of her own that would have sent Charles Manson running. “Steve, I love you. Your kids love you. Your teammates love you,” she paused, then smiled, “Hell, most of your opponents love you too. And not just because you are the Captain of the Detriot Red Wings. I love you because you are kind and loving and so absolutely self-sacrificing. Your children love you because you are a wonderful father who would give or do anything for them. Your teammates love you because you are so dedicated to your work…and to them. You treat them like family rather than co-workers—you are as loving and respectful with them as you are with me. Everyone else in the league loves you because you are a good person, and you bring good things to the game of hockey—on and off of the ice. If you lose your ability to play, it will be a sad day for many people; your family, your team, and especially your fans. But that will not make them love you any less.”
But hockey is a part of me. I’ve played it longer than anything else I’ve known in my life, I countered silently, but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. She was so hopeful that I couldn’t bear to try to force the reality on her. Fortunately, I was saved having to think up an appropriate reply, because my name was called.
I grinned faintly at her as I stood up and followed the receptionist down the hallway, into a small room where she pointed to a pale blue, papery gown, indicating that I was to change into it after stripping out of my green Polo shirt and jeans. She left, closing the door behind her, to give me some privacy, and as I undressed, I took in the room around me. Credentials were on the wall, in matching wooden frames. There was a rack with various booklets along one wall, and a large closet on the wall adjacent to it. There was a small desk with some photographs on top that sat in the corner, with a swiveling gray chair behind it. The examining table was in the center of the room, and I sat on it as soon as I could, attempting to keep my red plaid boxers from showing too obviously from the open section at the back of the gown.
“Good morning, Mr. Yzerman,” Doctor Corsello said as he entered the room, “How is your knee feeling today?”
I groaned, utterly tired of hearing that question. “I am in excruciating pain today, Doctor. I could barely get out of bed, let alone come to this appointment,” Why mince words? Maybe if I was completely honest about the pain, he could help me more thoroughly.
He nodded, making a mark on a chart, then setting it on the desk in the corner, then walking towards me. He pressed his fingers to the underside of my knee, pressing and watching my reaction. When he found a place that caused me to flinch, he wrote on his chart again, then looked through a folder on his desk.
“First of all, I would like to have an X-ray of the area, so I’m going to need you to follow me. My patients and myself only use the back hallway so you needn’t worry about unnecessary exposure.”
After the X-ray, he directed me back to the first room, and I sat there wondering while I waited for him. I had never been this scared in my life, and the minutes just seemed to drag on for an eternity. Finally, he re-entered the room, staring at the X-ray. “Your doctor was right, the joint is completely healed. So the damage has to be in the nerves. I’m going to conduct two tests on you—both of which are going to be extremely painful. For the first test, a Nerve Conduction Test, I’ll need you in the room directly across the hall, and if you’d like, I can get your wife to come in.”
I thought for a moment, then told him to invite her in—I needed the moral support. Once we were all three in the next room, he pulled a large machine from the corner, and I laid down on a long operating table, stomach down, one arm stretched out, holding Lisa’s hand tightly. After a few moments, I felt a shock in the back of my knee, like I had rubbed my feet on the carpet too long, and then someone touched my skin. The shocks became more intense, until I was biting hard on my lower lip and Lisa gasped because I was squeezing her hand too tightly.
When he stopped, my knee was throbbing, and I was close to tears from the sting of the electricity that had been prickling my skin. The doctor left the room, giving me time to recover. I was silent for a long time, just taking deep breaths and trying to ignore the pain.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly, the concern evident in her voice.
I didn’t say anything, just grunted in a negative way. She rubbed her thumb back and forth across the back of my hand. “I am so sorry that this is hurting you so badly. I wish I could make it better…”
I sighed, “I know, Lisa. Thank you for just being here.”
When Doctor Corsello returned a few minutes later, the agony had subsided to a dull aching. He explained the next test, which involved a needle being probed into my leg, searching for nerve damage. I noticed the look of revulsion that crossed Lisa’s face, and urged her to leave the room, assuring her that I would be fine.
“Now, I need you to relax your muscles completely,” he instructed once she was gone. I did as asked, and was rewarded with a searing pain that made me gasp. By the time he finished prodding, I was sobbing, my hands clenched so tightly that my nails were drawing blood from the palms of my hands. He pressed a cotton gauze pad to the place where he’d pierced my flesh, then promised to return in a few minutes. I cried into my arm, begging God to take the pain away—or take me away, whichever was easier.
We left the offices soon afterwards, he had told us that the results of the tests wouldn’t be available for several days, and that he would get back to us as soon as possible. Lisa had to support me almost completely as we walked to the car, and I asked her to drive, because I couldn’t focus on anything but the unbearable throbbing in my knee. She suggested going for lunch, but I begged her to take me home instead. When we got there, Jiri was waiting on the front steps, looking tense and horribly terrified.
Lisa grinned, “He is so sweet…checking to make sure you’re okay.”
I panicked. He couldn’t see me like this. Not when I’m limping this bad. Not when I can barely even talk because I hurt so much. Not when my eyes are red and swollen from crying. I pulled a baseball cap from the glove compartment, then got out of the car, using the hat to somewhat shield my face. He noticed the look in my eyes, and instantly, his eyebrows knotted up, and he jumped to attention, as if showing that he was there to help me in any way possible. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I was vulnerable and human and completely mortal.
But God, was it good to see him.
