My Darling Bride(29)

“Because they don’t know if you have it until you’re dead.”

She nods. “CTE can only be diagnosed with autopsy, so it is difficult to gather data because people usually do not want autopsy while alive. So, we have no good answer.”

She stands and shuffles over to a poster on the wall that shows two brains. Surrounding the brains are microscopic pictures and little lines pointing back to the diagrams. She points to the poster. “Two brains are here, one good, one CTE. In an MRI, you see no difference, both good brains.” She points a finger in the air. “But in autopsy we take tiny slices and look under the microscope.”

I grimace, aware that many athletes donate their bodies to science after they pass away.

She points at the microscopic pictures of the CTE brain. “This is where we see tiny black splotches between and around the cells. These areas, they do not work anymore. They have atrophied. They died because they don’t have blood flow or have a damaged neurological pathway. When you have lots of these black spots in your brain, you think differently, sometimes depressed, sometimes angry, sometimes forgetful. Maybe this is caused in a football player that has one big concussion. Maybe this is caused in a football player that has many, many little concussions. We can’t tell.”

I twist my Rolex, anxiety rippling.

She shrugs. “There are many autopsies of players that had many concussions in the record, and the doctors see no CTE. On the other hand, do you know story of Jonah Truman?”

Jonah died when he fell out of the back of a boat while on vacation. “Wide receiver for Atlanta. It was terrible what happened to him.”

“How many years did he play?”

“Not too long—I just met him a few times.”

She twirls her wrist in the air. “Four years is the right answer. He had no documented concussions in high school, college, or pro. They don’t hit Jonah so much because he was very fast on his feet. His autopsy showed CTE, minuscule, yes, but there. He never knew he had it or probably never felt any issue from it. So the correct answer is, no one knows how many concussions will be bad.”

That sucks. “So what advice do you have?”

Her gaze rakes me up and down. “I can tell you are an athletic man. You need exercise. You need to feel worthy. The most dangerous sport in the world is surprising. It is cycling. Then, football and hockey. Basketball and baseball are next. I would tell you to try swimming, but then you might hit your head on the diving board or the bottom of the pool. All sports leave you open to CTE, even going for a jog. You might trip over the sidewalk and bang your head on a fire hydrant or a street sign. Bang. Concussion. Possible traumatic brain injury, or TBI.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, merde. Lots and lots of shit. But we cannot hide in a hole to protect ourselves from getting injured, because all life is a risk. You walk out of the house, and boom, you might die from a piece of the space station that falls from the sky.”

“Unlikely.”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Harlan. Do not joke.”

“Sorry.” This is what I came for. She isn’t treating me with kid gloves like the team doctors.

“You only have three recorded concussions,” Dr. Moreau continues as she glances down at her laptop. “You are not experiencing quick anger. You are not forgetful. Your brain scans are normal. If you were symptomatic, then I would say, no, that you need to heal, but you say you have no headache, no dizziness, so I say okay, fine, take a risk. It is up to you. There’s a baseball saying: you can’t steal second base without taking your foot off first.”

My breath quickens.

Football is worth the risk.

I’m already picturing myself in my uniform and on the field, Jasper passing me the ball.

“But I am not God,” she declares as she points at me. “I do not know what will happen to you in life. So, I can only give facts. The truth is, you suffered a severe concussion, Mr. Harlan. You may have the beginnings of CTE right now, even though you aren’t symptomatic.” She folds her hands in front of herself. “This is the end. Do you have questions?”

My eyes shut briefly. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

She frowns. “No, no, don’t be relieved. Be wary. Be afraid. I do not know the future, Mr. Harlan. That is the entire point. As a doctor, I must warn you about playing this sport. I cannot see the inside of your brain. I wish I could, so I could give you a definitive answer, but it is impossible. Your next tackle might be the end.”

“Yes, I got all of that, I did, but the odds are in my favor. I’ve only had a few concussions in my life.”

“Jonah had none on his record, Mr. Harlan, and he had CTE.”

Sure, but she’s being cautious. Most doctors who aren’t affiliated with sports will always warn you against playing.

She sighs. “Life is a game of chance. Some win, some lose. I hope you win. Anyway, I promise not to bet against you next time.”

My smile is lopsided. “Right, thanks for that. Actually, if you have some time, I do have some other questions for you . . .”

She nods and motions for me to sit again.

After we get settled, I take a deep breath, hoping she doesn’t think I’m imagining what happened to me. “When I was on the field and I was . . . dead . . . something happened. It wasn’t like a light at the end of a tunnel or some kind of religious experience like you see in the movies. It was strange and weird. I’m not into any kind of psychic stuff or woo-woo science or whatever you want to call this, but . . .”