“I’ve got a few doctor’s appointments still,” I lie. I do have one, in fact. I should be heading to the hospital right now, but I need to buy myself some time. “I can come up the day after tomorrow.”
She sighs, and even in her sigh I hear the change from frustration to concern, as if she just remembered the whole reason I’m available right now and not playing rugby is because I’ve been out with a concussion for the last six weeks. “How are ye doing? How’s the head?”
“The head is fine,” I tell her. Aside from the brain fog and some bouts of vertigo I’m getting from time to time, I’m feeling better. What I’m hoping for today is for the doctor to tell me I can get back to the game. The team hasn’t been the same without me and I haven’t been the same without the game.
“That was a nasty tumble ye took,” she says. “I worry about you more and more.”
“Please, Nana, you know I’m not who ye should be worrying about right now.”
Another sigh. “Okay. Come up in a few days. Just … be prepared to stay awhile. Please. For me. For your father. We both need you around, and since you’re not playing yet, ye ought to stay here in Shambles as long as ye can.”
I swallow hard, already dreading what’s to come. “Okay.”
“Happy New Year, Padraig.”
“Happy New Year, Nana.”
I hang up the phone and take in a deep breath, trying to steady my heart that’s racing out of control. If I stop and think about what she said, it’ll only get worse. I have an appointment to get to, and I need to stay focused on that.
Not on my father.
Not on the things that happen between us every time I set foot in my hometown of Shambles.
Not what might happen the day after tomorrow, when I have to face his disappointment and at the same time face the fact that I might lose him.
I get in my car and drive out to the hospital, the traffic thick even at noon. With it being December thirty-first, everyone is getting ready for the night. That, coupled with the threat of snow, and Dublin is like a madhouse.
I guess I should be grateful that I’m even allowed to drive. For the first two weeks following the injury, my license was taken away and I had to take a cab everywhere. It wasn’t that big of a deal considering I often take cabs if I don’t have to drive, especially if I’m just going to places within the city, but it felt like my freedom had been taken away.
It didn’t help that it was such a stupid injury to begin with. One minute I had the ball and was running to get across the advantage line, my eagle eyes scanning for my best option, the next I started to get double vision, my gait faltering. I took a giant hit from the side and I think my opponent expected me to sidestep but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t even see him coming, which is very unlike me. Part of the reason why I’m such a good fly-half is because it’s like I have eyes in the back of my fucking head.
My neurologist, Dr. Byrne, has been seeing me since my first MRI. Normally the team always sees the same doctors for sprains and lacerations, but this was the first time I’d been sent to a neurologist.
“Padraig,” Dr. Byrne addresses me as he steps into his office where I’ve been waiting for the last five minutes. “Sorry about the wait. I know you probably want to get to your New Year’s Eve festivities pretty soon.”
Even though I have no plans, I don’t have to tell him that because there’s something in his eyes that tells me my plans would be spoiled anyway.
“It’s not a problem,” I tell him, feeling slightly more anxious now, my eyes going to the charts in his hand.
“And how is your father?” the doctor asks, sitting down at his desk.
I cough as I do when I get nervous. “I don’t think he’s doing too well. I have to go and see him on the second.”
“I see. Well, the offer still stands if he’d like to come to Dublin for treatment. Prostate cancer doesn’t have to be as hopeless as it’s made out to be. There are doctors that might be able to help him, new treatments that are still experimental