Joie

 

I struggled with myself for two weeks. Battled every moment. Every break at work. Every walk between classes. Each night as I laid in bed. I wanted to reach out to him. How many times had Cole been there for me? There were too many to count. Had I ever been there for him? Had he ever needed me to be?

It was a time for reflection. Introspection. Something I’d been talking to my therapist about lately haunted me. For so many years, I’ve lived with this resentment. This almost blinding rage. I wasn’t oblivious to the pain and suffering of others, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had hard things to deal with. I was just overly conscious of those who seemed to live a charmed life. Overly sensitive. And no one lived a more charmed life than Cole Parker. I’d come to realize that as thankful as I have been for Cole, as much as I have loved him (and I could now admit that I did love him), I’ve also hated him. I have hated every perfect thing about Cole and his perfect life.

That Saturday, watching Cole play football for one of the most elite teams in the country, a new emotion joined the resentment and threatened to overtake it- pride. I was so proud of him. I couldn’t help but think of that little boy, the one with the blonde hair that bounced with every step as a little child. The one who was my best friend in the entire world. He’d made it. He was playing college football. Starting quarterback. And I wasn’t there to share it with him.

Something else I’ve been trying to overcome during my talks with my therapist, was my feelings about letting people into my life. Trusting. I’d been robbed of that basic human instinct by parents that were never there for me when I needed them, parents who constantly put their own needs and desires above mine- above their duty to me as their child. She helped me to understand that during the time in my life when my parents should have been fostering in me the ability to trust, they constantly let me down until I couldn’t trust anyone. Even the one who had been there for me over and over again- Cole.

These realizations took time and it was even longer before I could accept them. I still haven’t gotten over all of it and maybe I never would, but I was coming to the conclusion that I didn’t want to be alone and that was different from needing to not be alone. My mother needed someone like she needed air. I didn’t want to be that dependent on anyone. What I’ve finally realized- I wanted someone in my life. I wanted Cole. I only hoped it wasn’t too late.

And so there I was, laying on my bed, phone in hand. My contacts list opened to Cole’s information. I’d been following his progress online. A few days after the game, Notre Dame’s head coach released the information that Cole had suffered a concussion in that hit during the game. But that wasn’t all. He’d also suffered a career ending injury to his shoulder. An MRI revealed that his rotator cuff had been completely shredded. Cole would be facing surgery and months of rehabilitation.

I was devastated for him. All Cole ever wanted to do was play football. And now he wouldn’t.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard on my phone. One click. Just one click and I could text him. But what would I say?

Come on! Stop being such a chicken! This was Cole! I knew him. We used to pee in the same hole in his backyard for goodness sake. I knew his favorite candy was banana Laffy Taffy and Iron Man was his favorite Avenger. I knew he wore Ninja Turtle underwear until middle school and Darth Vader was his secret man-crush. I knew he had a soft spot for his sister and used to let her dress him up for tea parties in her bedroom. But mostly, I knew that I loved him. And I knew I wanted to need him. It was a choice. A choice I was finally willing to make.

And so, I sent the text.

 

I am so, so sorry.

 

And waited.

 

Cole

 

That was it. I would never play football again. I didn’t pay any attention to the doctor after he said those words. I didn’t listen when he talked about permanent nerve damage or that I would be lucky to have full use of my arm after surgery. Who cared? I would never throw the ball again in a college game. I would never have the chance to enter the NFL Draft. I was done. The years of

demanding work and sacrifice- for nothing. I would lose my scholarship. It was over.        

“It’s going to be okay, honey.” My mom’s worried face was never far from my periphery. She and my dad had been at the game, waiting anxiously outside the locker room while the docs checked me out after taking the worst hit of my football career. I knew in my heart they got it. They understood and felt awful about the news. But it wasn’t them. It was me. My dreams had been shattered. And I just didn’t know how to handle it. I was angry. And sad. And hurt. It hurt in every conceivable way.

Pain.

Pain always reminded me of Joie. Losing my dream of playing football was almost as bad as losing my dream of Joie. As the days passed after the game, I found my thoughts turning to Joie more and more. I missed her. I wanted her with me. It was crazy. Irrational. I hadn’t seen her at all since graduation. I knew she was out in California. At USC of all places. How incredibly ironic that my dreams would be ruined during a game against her school. I wondered if she’d watched. If she’d seen me play. If she recognized my salute to her. It was silly, I know. But it was tradition and I never wanted her to forget that I loved her. So, before every snap of every game I’ve ever played since that day when we were kids, I’ve pounded my fist over my heart to remind me of her.

I shook my head and looked at my phone in my hand. I’d pulled up her name on my contacts list a hundred times since meeting with the doctor. I just wanted to talk to her. To tell her everything. That I was sorry. That I missed her. That I still wanted her with every cell of my body.

They were coming in an hour to get me for surgery. My parents would be back any moment. I just wanted to be left alone. Unless, of course, by some miracle they were bringing Joie with them. I shouldn’t feel that way. I knew they loved me and were worried sick. It was suffocating, and I wished I could escape their concern. I really am a selfish idiot.

My phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced down out of pure habit and my heart almost stopped.

It was her.

 

I am so, so sorry.

 

A barrage of emotions battled inside me.

Anger.

Longing.

Resentment.

Desire.                        

Desperation. Shock.

She was sorry? For what?

Leaving me?

Not needing me?

Chewing up my heart and spitting it out into the dust?

Allowing me to save her time and time again and only to push me away?

I was itching to respond. But I didn’t know what to say. And honestly, I didn’t have time to think about it. I heard my parents down the hall and knew any second, they would be at the door to the hospital room I’d been shown to that morning. I stared at the screen.

“Oh, baby. Are you ready for this?” My mom rushed through the door of the hospital room to my side. Gingerly, I raised my arm and patted her back and pressed the button to turn off my phone. I didn’t need to focus on that right now. My injuries had been a blow not only to myself, but to my family. I knew my parents loved me and wanted the best for me. A career ending injury was not part of anyone’s plans and my parents were taking it hard. I knew they were disappointed for my sake.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And that was the truth. It had been two weeks since the game and I was ready to get this over with.

It wasn’t long before the anesthesiologist came in and explained everything he was doing as he hooked up machines and started medicine in an IV drip. Nurses and doctors fluttered around the room while my parents were shuffled to the side. One nurse lowered the hospital bed, so I was lying flat on my back. The lights on the ceiling seemed overly bright as the sounds in the room faded.

“We love you, Cole,” were the last words I heard before my world faded to black, but my thoughts were on Joie.

And why she was sorry.