Page 5 of Puck Me

“You said that seeing Dr. Davidson was non-negotiable. This isn’t Dr. Davidson.”

“Well, I said that when she was your psychiatrist. You’ve got a new psychiatrist now. I’m not arguing semantics with you, Chester. This is for your own good and you know it. Now get in there before I have to drag you in there.”

Chester Russo glares at the other guy and snatches up his crutches. He is about 5’10’’ and physically robust. I sense there is still a muscular frame under his baggy sweats even though he likely hasn’t trained in a long while.

“Good man.” His friend claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll make you pancakes for lunch after this, how does that sound?”

Chester doesn’t respond, but I can see the corners of his lips twitch very slightly. His friend doesn’t see it, Chester’s back being turned toward him, but he doesn’t seem bothered. He sits down in the waiting room, arms folded, clearly prepared to catch Chester if he tries to bolt. His friend has rippling muscles under his short sleeved shirt- I guess that he is probably another hockey star I probably should recognize.

“Chester, I’m Dr. Storm Harris. This way, please.”

I don’t give any indication that I witnessed the end of their argument. Chester takes a deep breath and gives me a very forced smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Harris.”

We go to my office and Chester lowers himself into a chair, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast.

“I’ve read your file, Chester, as well as chatted with Dr. Davidson. Why don’t you tell me in your own words how you’ve been doing?”

Chester just shrugs.

“You’ve got a good friend back there. I know depression makes it difficult to do the things that will get you better. Sometimes, you need a bit of extra help.”

“He’s a nightmare,” Chester mutters, though the corners of his mouth are twitching again.

“Have you two known each other long?”

“Since we were in school. We were on the same hockey team…”

He trails off, his face falling into lines of misery.

“You must miss it a lot.”

“What do you know?” Chester snaps.

“Well, I used to be a track athlete. 400 meters was my speciality. I ran for the US team at the Olympics in London 2012 . Training was my life. But then I injured my knee irreversibly. I recovered to where I can walk normally, but I can never run again. I very nearly didn’t make it out of the dark mental place I fell into after that, but when I did, I decided I wanted to help others do the same. I went to medical school and became a psychiatrist.”

“Oh.”

That story always takes them off guard. Athletes respect other athletes. It’s not necessarily usual for a psychiatrist to share personal information, but I make an exception for that particular part of my life.

“I remember that when the depression was at its worst, I felt like I’d never get better, like it was all hopeless.”

Chester nods. “Even Dr. Davidson knows that I’m not going to get better. This is my life now. This is all there is.”

I decide not to argue the point about Dr. Davidson. He’s wrong about her, but I don’t think he’s ready to hear that. Instead, I tackle the more problematic part of his statement.

“Some parts of your life won’t change, Chester. You have an injury that has changed your life forever, and that can’t be undone. However, that doesn’t mean you have to feel like this forever.”

“Oh, yeah? And how do you propose to change it? Do you have a magic wand in that desk?”

I chuckle at that. “Believe me, I wish I did. It would solve a lot of problems. However, I do have a few new medications I want to try. I also want to see you twice a week, for longer sessions. The medication will help in part, but you really need to come to terms with your new life and figure out what you want from here. Therapy can help with that.”

Chester doesn’t say anything.

“How have you been coping at home?”

He shrugs again.

“I can get your friend in here if I have to. I’m sure he’ll be happy to give me a report.”