Years.
February 23rd, 2018
February 23rd, 2018
Jonathan Toews was bleeding, and badly at that. He couldn't see the gash that stretched from his ear down across his neck and collarbone, but the searing pain and frantic response from those around him was enough to indicate what had just happened.
He'd been scuffling and shuffling in front of the net for a good seven seconds trying to direct passes from his teammates. Team Canada was down by one with ten minutes left in the semi-final round of the Pyeongchang Winter Olympics against Sweden. If they lost, they'd have to fight for the bronze medal.
The only medal Jon wanted to win was gold.
Now he was struggling to breathe as someone held a towel over his neck to apply pressure. The voice of the crowd changed considerably since the buzzer sounded to indicate the goal Jon had fought hard to chip in. He paid for it by losing his balance and falling back onto the ice, just as someone forgot to stop.
Cheers turned into hushed murmurs and frantic exclamations. Cameras clicked. The game had stopped all play. He thought he could hear his mother screaming from the stands– somewhere within the mass. Jon could imagine her gripping his father's arms with white knuckles. Was David watching on TV?
He was on a stretcher now. Eyes closed, Jon struggled to decipher who the voices of those close to him belonged to. Coach Babcock was shouting something, but he was too far away. Someone grabbed his shoulder briefly– "Johnny, it's gonna be okay, buddy, don't worry!" Was that Sid? Maybe it was Seabs. Both had been with him during the shift.
Jon opened his eyes; they were rushing him down a corridor under the arena stands now. The door at the end of the corridor beckoned with white sunlight that was so bright that he couldn't keep his eyes open. He again listened to the voices around him.
"Keep that pressure, keep him alive!"
"Check the artery!"
"Jonathan, the ambulance is here," a voice spoke directly into his ear. "We're taking you to the hospital and you are going to have surgery."
I am going to die.
The revelation flew through his mind as they hastily loaded him in the back of the vehicle, the frantic and fast-talking chatter unrelenting. Is this really what dying felt like? Painful and helpless, while everyone around you was the the exact opposite?
There was the old saying, that life would flash before your eyes when it was happening. Jon effortlessly spun his woozy mind as the paramedics placed a needle into his forearm. The first time he learned to skate on his backyard pond. His first goal in peewee. His first goal in college, in Worlds, in the NHL, and so on. Birthday parties, funerals, award ceremonies. Getting drafted. Raising the Stanley Cup. Once. Twice. Taking the new boat out on the lake with David. His first kiss. His first time. Some other kisses. Some other times.
His best kiss. His best time.
His first–and only–love.
The world is watching, he thought to himself. If the world was watching, then so would she– wherever she was.
Would she come running, after all of these years? After the things he put her through; after the things they put each other through?
It had been several months since he last checked up on her via social media. She had been in London, though he didn't know what for, and for how long. It has been a while since he'd gotten rip-roaring drunk enough to take a peek into what she publicly displayed of her life online. Otherwise, he would shove all thoughts of her out of his mind, like he had never met her in his life.
Here and now, though, Jon didn't know if his heart beat erratically because of the blood loss or at the thought of never seeing Gen Whitby again.
I am going to die, Jon thought once more.
Sirens wailed as he kept fading. In and out, in and out. The pain was no longer as difficult to endure as was the ability to remain conscious. Breathing was no longer an immediate bodily function, and he knew that if he stopped, his body would stop as well.
"Jon, don't give up, buddy–" another voice desperately cut into his despair. "You gotta stay with us– Johnny, just stay, man–"
Cue the struggled sobs.
Johnny, just stay.
The last time he'd seen Gen, she'd used the exact same phrase. But they were fighting– really going at it that time– and he hadn't stayed. He left, slamming her apartment door with a bang and booking it down the stairs with angry tears in his eyes. How did she have the right to ask him to stay when she couldn't do the same? In that moment, Jon thought they were through, forever.
It was about four years to the date since he thought they were through. Another few months would mark the sixth year since she'd walked into his life. Gen had haunted him since. If this was him really dying–right here and now– her voice and those three words were to be the last thing on his mind.
Johnny, just stay.
He clenched the hand of whomever was at his side as if she was right there beside him instead.
Gen, baby, he wanted to say. I wish I had stayed.
Jonathan Toews was bleeding, and badly at that. He couldn't see the gash that stretched from his ear down across his neck and collarbone, but the searing pain and frantic response from those around him was enough to indicate what had just happened.
He'd been scuffling and shuffling in front of the net for a good seven seconds trying to direct passes from his teammates. Team Canada was down by one with ten minutes left in the semi-final round of the Pyeongchang Winter Olympics against Sweden. If they lost, they'd have to fight for the bronze medal.
The only medal Jon wanted to win was gold.
Now he was struggling to breathe as someone held a towel over his neck to apply pressure. The voice of the crowd changed considerably since the buzzer sounded to indicate the goal Jon had fought hard to chip in. He paid for it by losing his balance and falling back onto the ice, just as someone forgot to stop.
Cheers turned into hushed murmurs and frantic exclamations. Cameras clicked. The game had stopped all play. He thought he could hear his mother screaming from the stands– somewhere within the mass. Jon could imagine her gripping his father's arms with white knuckles. Was David watching on TV?
He was on a stretcher now. Eyes closed, Jon struggled to decipher who the voices of those close to him belonged to. Coach Babcock was shouting something, but he was too far away. Someone grabbed his shoulder briefly– "Johnny, it's gonna be okay, buddy, don't worry!" Was that Sid? Maybe it was Seabs. Both had been with him during the shift.
Jon opened his eyes; they were rushing him down a corridor under the arena stands now. The door at the end of the corridor beckoned with white sunlight that was so bright that he couldn't keep his eyes open. He again listened to the voices around him.
"Keep that pressure, keep him alive!"
"Check the artery!"
"Jonathan, the ambulance is here," a voice spoke directly into his ear. "We're taking you to the hospital and you are going to have surgery."
I am going to die.
The revelation flew through his mind as they hastily loaded him in the back of the vehicle, the frantic and fast-talking chatter unrelenting. Is this really what dying felt like? Painful and helpless, while everyone around you was the the exact opposite?
There was the old saying, that life would flash before your eyes when it was happening. Jon effortlessly spun his woozy mind as the paramedics placed a needle into his forearm. The first time he learned to skate on his backyard pond. His first goal in peewee. His first goal in college, in Worlds, in the NHL, and so on. Birthday parties, funerals, award ceremonies. Getting drafted. Raising the Stanley Cup. Once. Twice. Taking the new boat out on the lake with David. His first kiss. His first time. Some other kisses. Some other times.
His best kiss. His best time.
His first–and only–love.
The world is watching, he thought to himself. If the world was watching, then so would she– wherever she was.
Would she come running, after all of these years? After the things he put her through; after the things they put each other through?
It had been several months since he last checked up on her via social media. She had been in London, though he didn't know what for, and for how long. It has been a while since he'd gotten rip-roaring drunk enough to take a peek into what she publicly displayed of her life online. Otherwise, he would shove all thoughts of her out of his mind, like he had never met her in his life.
Here and now, though, Jon didn't know if his heart beat erratically because of the blood loss or at the thought of never seeing Gen Whitby again.
I am going to die, Jon thought once more.
Sirens wailed as he kept fading. In and out, in and out. The pain was no longer as difficult to endure as was the ability to remain conscious. Breathing was no longer an immediate bodily function, and he knew that if he stopped, his body would stop as well.
"Jon, don't give up, buddy–" another voice desperately cut into his despair. "You gotta stay with us– Johnny, just stay, man–"
Cue the struggled sobs.
Johnny, just stay.
The last time he'd seen Gen, she'd used the exact same phrase. But they were fighting– really going at it that time– and he hadn't stayed. He left, slamming her apartment door with a bang and booking it down the stairs with angry tears in his eyes. How did she have the right to ask him to stay when she couldn't do the same? In that moment, Jon thought they were through, forever.
It was about four years to the date since he thought they were through. Another few months would mark the sixth year since she'd walked into his life. Gen had haunted him since. If this was him really dying–right here and now– her voice and those three words were to be the last thing on his mind.
Johnny, just stay.
He clenched the hand of whomever was at his side as if she was right there beside him instead.
Gen, baby, he wanted to say. I wish I had stayed.
7/28/13