The Light That Wraps You

It’s called cardiomyopathy. I was born with it. My parents always wanted to know why but the doctors couldn’t say. The causes are largely unknown. It could’ve been a number of things, really, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had it, and it caused my heart to fail.

I had always been pale and sickly, too weak to join in with the other kids as a child. I stayed indoors a lot, but I didn’t mind. I liked to read, and I was considered exceptionally smart for my age. Even if I didn’t have that many friends, I was still alive, and that was what mattered.

As far as heart diseases go, my life could have been worse. I was actually quite lucky for most of my life. I made friends. I played the piano. I graduated early. I went to med school. I was a normal, happy girl and everything was fine. Until I turned twenty-one. Things took a critical turn, and my heart decided that keeping me alive was no longer worth the effort. I was hospitalized in Boston, at the very same place that I worked, but it wasn’t enough. They knew they had to take action, so I went back home to Saint John, where I was given what is known as a “bridge-to-transplantation” surgery to keep me alive while I waited for a transplant.

Do you know the process, the steps you have to take just to survive? Like a true warrior, I had to fight my way to a new heart. It started with my physician telling me, “Lucinda, we need to talk”. He then explained to my parents and I that I was dying. He referred us to the nearest transplant center, in Halifax. This had already happened to me once before when I was a child. The transplant center had determined I was “too well” to receive a transplant, but not this time. This time, things were crashing down around me faster than I could fix them.

I didn't panic. Other people might have, when informed of their impending demise. Not me. I had known it was coming all of my life. It had always just been a matter of when.

My appointments and tests were all a blur. They had to draw my blood to test my general health, and then afterwards, over the course of several days, they tested my other organs to ensure I could handle such a high-risk surgery and the anesthesia that it would take to keep me asleep while they removed the one thing keeping me alive. Ironically, it was also the same thing that was killing me.

My family had to go through financial counseling, to find a way to pay for it. They had spent their life savings to try and keep me alive thus far, and they had nothing left. We knew there was a great chance that, if I ever got a heart, this surgery would cost well over half a million dollars. They would do anything to keep me alive, but even I knew we had to be realistic. They dealt with that, while I had to undergo mental tests.

The physicians and psychologists taught me how to manage stress. They taught me the value of patience, that each day was a new opportunity, a new hope to find a heart. What they didn’t tell me was that for a while, I would become a monster. I would frighten myself. Yes, I was hoping for a heart -- but that meant I was hoping someone would die. I prayed that it would be a natural, clean, painless death, but after waiting for almost two years, I grew cruel. While my parents raised money, contacted charities, and haggled with government insurance to try and pay for me, I sat in my hospital bed, and dreamed of a world where people dropped dead of my accord. I began hoping everyone around me would die, just so we could see if their heart would match. I began begging for the deaths of innocents, just so I could be saved. I was selfish. I wanted to live, at any cost.

They don’t tell you how that feels. They don’t tell you how the guilt hits after you receive your transplant, and how you wish you weren’t alive, just to save that person’s family the sorrow.

After all of that, I was placed on the national waiting list, with thousands of other people who have been there much longer than me and who will get first pick before me.

I spent almost two years on that list, surrounded by white walls that imitated shrouds in my mind. My hope soured, turning to despair. I knew I was dying. The list was only growing longer, I was becoming weaker, and time was running out. Each day became a curse, and I dreaded waking up, only to find yet again that any heart I could’ve had wasn’t right. Nothing worked. Nobody matched me. If the size was right, the blood type was wrong. If the blood type was right, someone else had been waiting longer. If it was just the right size, it would be halfway across the globe.

I didn’t want to die. I was twenty-three years old, almost twenty-four, and I still had an entire life to live, but it seemed like dying was all I had left to do.

Thankfully, you proved me wrong.



The Ben Lovejoy hat trick. That’s what they should call a fight, a goal, and a puck to the face.

It was December 22nd, one of the last few games before the Christmas break. We were hosting the Florida Panthers, and the game was going great for the Penguins.

I was standing in the tunnel when I saw it. Up until the fight between Lovejoy and Matthias, I had been sitting in the exam room all alone, watching the game on the mounted TV. As soon as the fight had broken out, I left, heading towards the ice, just in case. You never knew when a fight could turn nasty; visors could cut cheeks, knuckles could split, and bones could break. It was my job to be on hand if, and when, that happened.

The puck to the face surprised everyone. We were still dwelling in the excitement of Lovejoy’s first NHL fight and his first NHL goal, and it had seemingly come out of nowhere. I was still silently celebrating when I saw it. It zoomed straight at him, hitting in the face and bouncing away. He crumpled, falling to the ice in a heap, gloves covering his face. Groans echoed around Consol, and whistles were blown. Everything seemed to move in slow motion for all one second, before adrenaline kicked my body into motion, and I ran.

By the time I reached the ice, Lovejoy had already been helped up by one of the trainers. He had a towel pressed to his left cheek, and he was skating slowly. I waited by the glass, watching as the rest of the guys at the bench banged their sticks against the boards and cheered for Benny.

When he reached me, he grimaced.

“Come on,” I gestured. He followed me back, until the sounds of the crowd faded, and we had reached the exam room with several trainers and, to my surprise, several of the camera crew for the HBO special. “Sit down.”

He did as I said, still clutching the towel. I snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, as the trainers bustled behind me, making note of what had happened and standing by in case I needed a hand.

“Okay, where exactly did it hit you? Chin, jaw, cheek--?”

“Cheek.”

“Uh-huh. Right underneath your visor?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”

“Okay.” Even sitting on the exam table, he was still taller than me. I reached up, gently placing my hand over his. “I’m going to need to move the towel, okay?”

“Yeah.”

I didn't like doing this in front of cameras. I felt as if I were performing, when really I was trying to do my job. I couldn't dwell on it, however, because Benny needed me. Pushing aside how uncomfortable I was, I resolutely focused on the task at hand. As carefully as I could, I pulled the towel away. Already, his cheek had begun to swell; the puck had left a nasty welt that would surely bruise by the next morning. I handed the towel to one of the trainers, before standing on my tiptoes and flipping on the overhead light. Lovejoy’s face was suddenly illuminated, and it looked ten times worse. I tilted his head back, and gently began to prod at the skin around the cut. He sucked in a harsh breath.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “But I just need to test your facial nerves, to make sure the trauma hasn’t permanently damaged them.”

“And h-has it?” Lovejoy asked nervously.

“No. That you can still feel pain is an excellent sign.” I looked over my shoulder at one of the trainers. “I need three cc’s of lidocaine, if you please.”

“Coming right up, Doc.”

“Okay, Benny, can you lay back for me please?”

He did as I instructed, and I sat down one of the wheeled stools. I pulled the rotating overhead light down to our level, and reached out my hand for the syringe. “You’re going to feel a prick,” I said lightly, testing the syringe. A few drops spilled out, and without further prompting, I injected the needle into his cheek. He didn’t squirm at all, just laid there as I slowly pushed the plunger down and injected all of the anesthetic into his face. When I was finished, I handed the syringe back to the trainer, and they disposed of it properly.

“You okay?” I leaned over his face, wiping cooled sweat from his forehead with a clean towel.

“Yep.”

He looked a little unsure, and overcome with a sudden impulse, I pressed a friendly kiss to his forehead. Cameras be damned. “I’m so happy for you,” I whispered.

His cheek had been red enough from the puck, but now the rest of his face had turned pink as well. “Why?” He asked quietly. “Because I got hit?”

“No,” I giggled. “I’m happy for your goal. It was wonderful.” I reached down and squeezed his hand. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks…” He appeared dazed, and I leaned back to give him some space. I explained to him that the anesthetic would take a few minutes to kick in, and while we waited, I prepared the suture for his cheek. The cut wasn’t too bad, but it was bad enough that it was still bleeding.

The game was over by the time I started stitching up his cheek. I was sad that Lovejoy was missing out on the congratulatory speech from Dan, but I was still happy for him. I chatted about all sorts of meaningless things to distract him before I finally finished. I had one of the trainers snip the suture for me, before I wiped the blood off of his face as tenderly as I could. I was removing all of the tools that I had laid out on his chest when Geno walked in with the shovel.

“For you,” He said, leaning the shovel against the door. The Penguins had a ritual of handing off the shovel to the MVP of that game, and everyone in the dressing room had come to a unanimous decision that no one deserved it more than Lovejoy.

He approached the exam table, looking down at Benny with a grin. “You look awesome,” He remarked. “Girls love.”

We all laughed. “Okay,” I patted Benny’s arm. “You’re free to go. Now, keep in mind that when the anesthetic wears off, it is going to hurt. You can take standard, over-the-counter painkillers for it, and I’m sure you know the drill there.” He nodded. “It is going to swell also, so watch out for that. You might want to wear a mask in tomorrow’s game, just as a precaution.”

“Okay. Thank you so much, Lux.”

“It was no problem, Benny. Congratulations.”

His eyes brightened, and I could see the gleam of tears. I watched him walk from the room with Geno, and I could hear the excited murmurs beyond and the slaps of high-fives. This had been a huge moment in his career, and although he had been hurt, I had never been so happy or proud for someone. Nobody deserved it more than him.

The cameramen and the trainers followed Benny out, presumably to interview him, and I was left in blissful silence for several minutes. As I cleaned up, throwing away wrappers and my rubber gloves, there was a brisk knock on the door. I turned, surprised to see Dan standing there.

“Hi. How’d it go?”

“He will live. It’s going to swell quite badly though, so a mask is advised.”

“Oh yeah, he’s not getting out of that. If he were to get hit again…” He let that sentence hang in the air and I nodded. “So, we’re going to be leaving for Washington tonight around eleven. Did you have a bag packed? I have a feeling Benny’s going to give us a hard time, and Malkin still needs some looking after.”

I shut a drawer, straightening with a wry smile. “Am I a physician, or a nanny?”

“How about both?” Dan smiled quickly. “So how about it? A nice trip to Washington, and then back home in time for Christmas?”

I didn’t bother reminding him that Boston was my home. “Yes, I’m all packed and ready to go.” I reached for a cabinet on the wall, suddenly pausing. “Dan, would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“No, of course not. Do you need something before we go?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about a hockey player.”

He folded his arms, leaning in the doorway. “I might be able to. Who did you have in mind?”

“Luc Bourdon.”

Dan frowned. “What did you want to know about Luc Bourdon?”

“Did you… know him?”

“I wasn’t the head coach when he was killed, so I can’t say that I had ever interacted with him during the few games that we had against Vancouver. I know it was such a tragedy, though.” Dan shook his head. “He was only twenty-one.”

“So you never knew him? Never spoke to him?”

“Can I ask why you want to know?”

I turned around, leaning against the counter. The words were out of my mouth before I had time to even consider lying. “Because I have his heart.”

There was a very long silence after that, as the words sunk in. Dan looked surprised, his eyebrows raised. He took his glasses off and shined them on the edge of his tie, before sliding them back on. “I… had no idea,” He finally managed.

I shrugged. “How could you? I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even his family?”

“No, I wrote to them. His girlfriend, Charlene, wrote me back a few times, but… Neither of us knew where to go from there.” I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I just want to know people who knew him. I feel like… he would want me to see them. Does that make any sense?”

“Of course it does. But… you have to be careful about these sorts of things. They--”

There were sudden footsteps in the hall, and Fleury burst in, wearing a ridiculous green turtleneck with snowmen on it. “Lux, you have to--” He broke off and skidded to a stop, glancing between the two of us. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Hey Flower,” Dan said with a smile. “Great game tonight. Is everyone else on their way home before the flight?”

“Yeah, Coach. I just came by to tell Lux about me and Johnny.”

“What about you and Johnny?” I asked, making a face.

“You’ll see on the plane. Sit by Kris, okay?” He vanished out the door just as quickly, leaving Dan and I to look at each other awkwardly.

“Well, that was certainly interesting,” I said with a quick laugh. It died the moment that it touched the air, and I slid my hands into my pockets, unsure of what else to do.

“Yeah, that’s us,” He replied wryly, “always interesting. Anyway, thank you for telling me. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

“I--you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Not yet. I think maybe after I talk to Charlene, then I can reveal myself. But not until then. She has a right. She deserves to be first.”

“I understand.” There was a quick silence before he clapped his hands together. “Well, are you ready?”

I stared at the door. That question held so many undercurrents. Was I ready to go to DC was the question that he was really asking, but in my mind, I heard your voice, the one I had only ever heard through watching videos of you after your death, asking me are you ready to talk to Charlene face to face? Are you ready for people to know?

I didn’t know the answers to those questions, not yet. They would have to wait. Instead, I did the one thing that I knew I was ready for. I smiled at Dan, and without hesitation, I walked through the door.