Easing himself into the chair caused the hospital gown to ride up. To make his humiliation complete, Amery draped a blanket across his lap.
Dr. Dainsworth returned and sat on the rolling stool, getting in Ronin’s face. “I did my homework on you, Sensei Black. Impressive that you’ve achieved the eighth-degree black belt level at your age. Aren’t most jujitsu practitioners who reach Hachidan status in their fifties?”
“Yes. But my sensei in Japan factors other things besides mastering techniques into advancement. The belt system in Japan is different from the U.S.”
“Understood.”
“I imagine my sister contacted you because you’re . . . ?” Ronin purposely left that vague to see how this doctor would fill in the blanks.
“A neurologist specializing in treating sports-related brain trauma for athletes who have a documented history of repetitive cranial injuries.” He raised an eyebrow. “Need my other qualifications? Medical degrees? Internships? I can have my secretary send you a copy of my latest article in the New England Journal of Medicine on the four years of research I compiled on potential long-term effects of brain injuries in mixed martial arts fighters as compared to boxers.”
“So you’re the best of the best.”
“Yes. And like you, I reached that level at a relatively young age, also due to dedicating my life to my studies.”
Ronin respected warranted cockiness. “Hit me with the questions.”
“If you had to guess, how many times would you say you’ve been knocked unconscious either during a match or in practice?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Because it’s too high a number to count?”
He nodded.
The doctor jotted something down in Ronin’s chart. Then he asked, “How many times have you been knocked out in the last month?”
“Twice.” Ronin didn’t look at Amery, but he felt her staring at him.
“Did you seek medical attention after the first incident?”
“No.”
“What was different this time? Did you feel your injuries were more severe?”
“Not especially. I probably wouldn’t have sought help on my own. But I had some . . . confused moments and showed up on Amery’s doorstep and she . . .”
“Had no choice but to call an ambulance when you passed out on my floor,” she finished.
Dr. Dainsworth focused on Amery. “Did you see him after his first concussion? Were his reactions and behavior similar?”
She shook her head. “We broke up a little more than six weeks ago.”
The doctor directed his shrewd gaze to Ronin. “Did this breakup directly contribute to your need to compete on a more physical level?”
Here was a moment of truth between them. Ronin reached for Amery’s hand. “Yes. Being in the cage forced my focus away from what was going on in my personal life.”
The sound of the doctor scrawling seemed unbearably loud in the quiet room.
“Look. I’ll be brutally honest here.” The doctor’s eyes searched Ronin’s face. “You’ve suffered two major head injuries in the past four weeks. Have you heard of second-impact syndrome?”
“Of course.”
“So you know that a second impact to the brain, while you’re still symptomatic from the first traumatic concussion, can result in cerebral edema, brain stem herniation, cerebral hemorrhaging, and even death?”
“I’m aware of the risks, Doctor.”
“But you disregarded them. Why?”
“Physical pain is something I know how to deal with.” Even though Ronin wasn’t about to start discussing emotional pain with the doctor, the topic seemed to hang in the air like a foul odor.
Walking like a cripple, complaining about your head hurting—why don’t you just start crying so you come across as a total fucking pussy?
“After studying your CAT scan,” the doctor continued, “your MRI, and your PET scan, my recommendation for treatment hasn’t changed. Before I tell you what that is, I have to ask: If you were aware that one of your students had these same types of brain injuries in the same time frame, what would your recommendation be for recovery?”
“Medical tests. Rest. Observe the practices but zero physical participation until cleared by a medical professional and after all the risk factors for returning to the discipline were weighed.”
“So you’ll enforce that rule with your students but don’t abide by the same rule yourself?”
Ronin hadn’t seen that one coming. He glanced over at Amery, expecting to see a smirk, but she was horrified. “Amery—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Shut up and listen to your doctor for a change.”
Fuck. “So what is the verdict?”
“If I thought you’d adhere to my edict of no more MMA-style fighting—ever—I’d issue it.” The doctor furrowed his brow. “But I’ve dealt with your type for years—physical contact is in your blood. For you personally, it’s a way of life.”
“And my livelihood,” Ronin pointed out.
“Teaching is your livelihood,” Amery retorted. “Not fighting.”
Being a fighter—whether in the ring himself or teaching others, was what defined him. Who would he be if he didn’t have that?
“My recommendation is one more week of rest. During that time, while you’re working on physical therapy for your knee, you can start gentle stretches to maintain your flexibility. Then for the next month, no body-to-body impact. That means zero. If you can teach without physical demonstration, then return to teaching. But no jarring moves either against the mat, the heavy bag, or another person.”
A month wandering around his dojo doing goddamn nothing besides observing?
“Then I’ll see you in my office and we’ll run follow-up tests to see what level of activity you can safely resume.”
Despite the panic rising inside him, he managed a cool, “Even then, what are the chances my physical activity will be limited?”
“I guarantee if you don’t follow my instructions for at least a month, it’ll affect your recovery time. But beyond that? Time will tell. The best thing you can do as a teacher is to lead by example. Show your students that head injuries are serious—no matter what level of martial arts mastery you achieve. Don’t risk your life and your long-term health because of pride.”
“When can I go home?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll need someone to stay with you, at least for the first few days. I’ll call in a month’s meds to the pharmacy on file. Any further questions?”
“No.”
The doctor stood. “Give yourself time to heal. I’ve seen guys in car accidents who didn’t sustain these levels of injury.” He motioned for Amery to walk with him to the door.
What the fuck was he saying to her?
Take it easy. Getting angry put more pressure in his head. He closed his eyes. The thought of staying in this place another minute literally made him nauseous. He forced even, slow breaths to try to keep his heart rate steady so it wasn’t obvious on the monitor just how much he felt like a caged animal.
“Ronin?”
“What?” When he realized he’d snapped at her, he said, “Sorry. It’s just not what I wanted to hear.”
“I get that, but on some level you had to expect this.” She reached over and swept his hair from his eyes. “So are you going to ask me to stay with you and take care of you while you recover?”
No fucking way. She’d seen too much of his weak side already. “I don’t expect that from you.”
“Then why did you show up at my door?”
His soul screamed, Because I need you, but his mouth couldn’t force the words out. What if she believed the only reason he said that was because he required a caretaker for the short term? What he wanted—no, what he needed—from her was far, far more than that. So why couldn’t he tell her?