Let It Be: A Sequel to So Be It

Chapter Forty-Five

AN: As you read over this chapter, I suggest listening to the song Hotel Ceiling by Rixton.

Chapter Forty-Five: Olli's POV

It never failed to amaze me how even when your life was crashing and burning, the world was still going on around you. The earth was still spinning. In the grand scheme of things, nothing was different.

My back was pressed into the stiff, dusty mattress, as I stared up at the ceiling. At one point in time, it must have been painted ivory, but by now, it was faded, and dirt-scuffed.

Things got so bad so fast, I couldn't even fathom it.

What the fuck happened to me? To Alex? To our lives?

Christmas was right around the corner. It was supposed to be our first Christmas with Amelia. Things were supposed to be cliched and cheesy, but that was going to make us happy. God, we were going to be so happy.

But that was all gone. Because of what, a sneeze? Because of God? Because the stars, the moon, and the sun aligned?

That seemed so bullshitty.

Life wasn't supposed to just crumble like that, was it? Those things didn't usually happen, correct? This was some special circumstance.

Without thinking twice, I pounded my fist backward into the headboard behind me.

As my hand throbbed, I pulled it back into my lap, and continued to gaze up above me. If I was religious, I would've prayed, but there was nothing to pray for anymore.

Most of it was all gone.

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December started out strong. Very strong, to be honest. There were successful trips to the grocery store -which might not have sounded like much, but was quite the accomplishment with a one month-old. Some nights, we'd go through the Fort Pitt Tunnel, and let the skyline lights absorb us.

Things were finally slowing down, and smoothing themselves out. Alex hadn't talked to her family yet, but I wasn't pushing. She deserved the chance to sort everything out on her own. That was her space, and I wouldn't invade it.

I guess you could say the downwards spiral began one night, after a game.

Earlier in the evening, we were hosting the Devils in a Metropolitan Division clash at home. It was deep into the third period, and we were up with a comfortable three goal lead.

I'd been playing the puck in the corner, with my chest against the glass. It was a familiar play I'd made a million times before, at various points in my career.

My head was up and looking to the side, so I could prepare to make the breakout pass to one of our wingers, who was stationed up at the outside hashmarks. I slipped the puck off the toe of my stick, right to our guy's blade, and he began up the other end of the ice.

And that's when it happened. That's when I got slammed.

From behind, someone checked me at full speed. It wasn't dirty, cheap, or a headshot. It was a completely clean hit, with a bulk of the contact in my lower back. I didn't fall, I didn't black out; nothing that drastic.

After the hit, whoever the opposing player was began to skate away, but I didn't have as easy a time. There was an absolute throbbing pain in my shoulder, in the exact same spot there'd been the previous season, when I tore my labrum.

As I tried to regain myself and head in the direction of the bench, I knew damn well I wouldn't be playing another shift for a long time. The pain I was suffering from wasn't your average wear-and-tear, sit-a-couple-minutes-and-the-sting's-gone-away kind of thing. It was absolutely excruciating.

That night, I ended up in the emergency room of UPMC Mercy (again; I was becoming quite friendly with that place) with an absolute basket case of a wife, and a baby girl that wouldn't stop crying.

The doctors on call diagnosed me with a re-torn labrum; it rendered the previous surgery that I had to be completely useless.

Ultimately, they gave me a decision: I could have the same operation I had done in the offseason again, with a timetable of about six months until I could 'practice' again. I'd be able to skate much sooner than that, but not with my stick, or anything.

My second option was to wait; give it some time; rehab it with a few physical therapy sessions a week; and see if I could gain more strength in it, that way I'd avoid another surgery.

Alex and I discussed it for a few moments, before agreeing to a month's worth of physical therapy. Neither of us wanted another operation; the first one had hurt enough.

At the time, it seemed like the logical decision to make. The one that would give me the best chance at playing again in the 2014-15 season. It showed the largest glimmer of hope, and after having dealt with thyroid cancer, that seemed like what I needed. Maybe even what I deserved.

Things didn't work out that way, though.

Instead, there was no hope left.

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My first burned out of pain from throttling the board behind me. I shouldn't have done it, but had desperately needed to get my feelings out of me. There was no way I could leave them bottled up inside me.

I was isolated in the damn room, with nothing to do. There was no one to talk to; no one to vent to.

At a time like that, I needed Alex with me. We made that vow; in sickness and in health, right? It was the sickness part of it, and we were separated. That didn't seem fair. At all.

My shoulder injury was not the worst thing in the world, but it was also where the beginning of the end begun.

Or did the beginning begin that day we had to take Amelia to Sid's?

Amelia..dear god did it hurt to say her name, even if it was just in my head.

Out of pure disgust, I thrashed to my side, and pulled the blankets up to my neck.

There was no way I would get a single wink of sleep, but as long as I tried to, maybe things would feel normal.

Maybe rest would numb the pain.