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Over a decade ago, when having a phone was shiny and new, Shane had Ilya's Boston number memorized.
Ilya wrote his phone number out as part of Shane's intake paperwork. Emergency contact, husband. Ilya put it on a scrap of paper too.
Shane's been tapping the number out for days now. Ilya has a 343 area code, and its relaxing little rhythm to tap out.
“That pattern is new,” Kieran says.
Shane remembers he is not a person, but a collective of symptoms and signs. He tries not to resent it.
“Can I ask if you've noticed it?” Kieran asks.
Shane nods.
“Can I ask if its connected to something you're anxious or unsure about?”
“Ilya’s area code.” He manages. It feels obvious. “I’m thinking about telling him the diagnosis.”
He doesn’t say my diagnosis or OCD or anything else. It’s deeply shameful in a way that he doesn’t want to admit to anyone that it’s sort of a relief that there’s something plausibly fixably wrong with him. Other than the food shit. The food shit is too big. Back in Juniors, their goalie Lysenko - a huge Ukrainian from Alberta - was dating a girl who hated how cold hockey rinks are, a problem he alone took seriously, which escalated to joking about which arenas where the least cold for poor Jessica, who carried her blanket and whatever crazy stuff he bought for her through the stands every period to switch ends.
Fixing his food bullshit feels like trying to fix how cold an arena is. Pointless, impossible, probably ruining the arena for hockey forever. Shane knows it's on the nose for himself to be the arena ruined for hockey. Can’t stop worrying about it.
Shane wants to deal with the OCD, which puts him on the same team as everyone else here for the first time, who would like to treat said OCD. It’s so clarifying to have a goal that no one is mad at him for. It is annoying that it’s OCD, because it feels like he’s spent every hour remembering every single joke about OCD. They weren’t funny in 2012, and they aren’t funny now.
“I’m worried Ilya will feel bad,” he says. “I think he feels guilty.”
“He might. You are both going through a major transition right now. But you’re both well supported.”
Kieran has a moonstone earring today. It's sort of distracting.
“I want to talk to you about control,” Kieran says. It’s an offer, sort of. Shane could come up with another topic, probably. He hasn’t yet, but he doesn’t do a whole lot.
“We only have 50 minutes,” Shane says, because he's a funny guy.
Kieran smiles, because he mostly doesn’t suck. “We aren't going to finish it today. I want to know what being in control means, for you, with food?”
Shane sighs. “Have you heard of CK Bars?”
Kieran shakes his head.
“Like an RX bar knockoff. They had awesome macros. They had awesome macros,” he tries to not let bitterness sneak in.
“Oh?”
Shane starts. “I had just finished cardio. I was so hungry. I had gone longer than I meant to. We had like no food. And I picked up this stupid bar and I double checked the macros. They had changed the recipe. They had somehow doubled the sugar and saturated fat and they added in like four ingredients!"
“What happened?” Kieran asks.
“I didn’t eat it,” he said. Kieran was quiet, gently giving the silence a chance to breathe so he could find words. “I cried.” I cried is probably an understatement, considering he threw the whole package on the ground. How relieved he was that Ilya had taken Anya out so no one was watching. It was one of the handful of times prior to the injury he was lightheaded after a workout. He had fallen against the kitchen counter and forced himself to sit, even though it brought him closer to the bars scattered on the floor. He hadn’t managed to get up until he placed his grocery order from the floor. The most embarrassing part was how angry he had been, how betrayed.
“It was supposed to be safe,” he said. “It was supposed to follow the rules.”
“Do you like all the rules?” Kieran asked. Shane bristles. “I’m asking because it seems like not following them causes you distress. Does following them make you happy?”
Shane thinks about how embarrassed he feels for himself in that moment. He thinks about how the anger is still there.
“They aren’t rules about being happy,” Shane tries. He doesn’t have another thing to say, words have left him.
“Do the rules keep you safe?” Kieran asks. Shane nods, unable to look the man in the face.
They were supposed to, Shane thinks. He thinks they’ve done a pretty shit job, not to mention hurt the people he loves most in the world. The issue is, what is he without rules and clinging to safety?
He doesn’t really want to use the patient landline. It’s too public. Someone breaks down every other day on the phone and Shane averts his eyes. People don’t always look away. But he needs to hear Ilya’s voice. Ilya picks up, “This is Ilya,” says his husband.
“Hey,” Shane says.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes. His voice is softer already. “Are you alright?”
“I’m good,” Shane says. He hasn’t gotten used to how heavy Boost sits in his stomach, and they were out cold chocolate ones. He’ll take cold vanilla over warm chocolate. He feels off balance. He ate his brownie and it didn’t just taste like sugar. It tasted like chocolate, real chocolate - like kissing chocolate off Ilya’s lips.
“What’s your favourite chocolate?” Shane asks.
“Why?”
“I’ve never asked you about the food you like.” That’s not strictly true. Shane sometimes asked if Ilya liked a meal Shane thought was healthy enough.
“Hazy showed me Oh Henry bars when I moved to Ottawa, those are very good. Better than Snickers.” Ilya speaks slowly, like it’s a test. Like Shane is going to start critiquing him. Shane doesn’t say anything. “Team got a whole box of those high protein Snickers bars. I don’t think they are very good, but I only tried when I was very hungry after training, so they were good to me then.”
Shane thinks about how there’s no way a Snickers bar could have any nutritional value. Then he thinks about the team, stumbling after a rough training session. The guys he barely knows between the stress of the early season and his injury. He didn’t want any of them to be hungry.
“I’m glad you had them,” Shane says, unclear if he means the team or the bars.
“Yes. Me too?” Ilya tries.
“I have OCD.” Shane says. There. Rip the bandaid off.
“Oh. Okay.” Ilya is processing. Shane doesn’t know what he wants.
“It’s not great,” Shane tries. “No one else is making a net of rules so tight it takes them out.”
“OCD is not that rare. Treatable,” Ilya says slowly.
“-I want to fix it,” there, easy.
Ilya sounds incredulous, “Is that what your therapist says? Fix?”
“No,” he answers.
Ilya sighs. “This is like my depression. We don’t win or beat it forever. We just make it lighter, easier?”
“I just want to come home,” Shane says.
“You will,” Ilya promises.
“I want this to be easier,” he says. “I’m scared.”
“It has been very scary,” Ilya says frankly. “You are brave,” he continues, not for the first time.
“I wish you were here,” Shane says quietly.
“Sunday. I will be there Sunday,” Ilya’s voice has so much desperation in it.
“This is worse than when I played for Montreal,” Shane says, trying to joke.
“Mmh. Pike is not in your room. Something to consider.” Ilya passes it back, nice and easy.
“I wish he was here. I miss him.” Shane’s brain keeps dragging him to honestly.
“More than you miss me?”
“Never.”
“Ah good.” Ilya sounds too smug for what should have been the end of a joke.
“Sunday,” he promises. He’s almost jealous of Ilya for a moment. Ilya will do things in his parents home and then drive five hours and the whole time, will be getting closer to him. All Shane can do is wait.
“Sunday,” Ilya vows in return.
“Love you. Talk later,” Shane says, and hangs up the phone because he can’t start crying in the middle of the common room.
Today in group they are trying fear foods. There’s little bites, trial portions. He’s supposed to notice neutral or positive things about it. Then he has to eat it. There’s always three foods. The energy in the room is always tense. It’s always quiet too. Acting too positive gets dirty looks, acting too upset gets eyes rolled. It is funny how most of the fellow patients are relatively supportive in group, but with food in front of them, they become their worst selves.
Shane hates that he has that in common with them. So he puts his game mask on.
First is mac and cheese. The negative thoughts come first. He tries not to think about food during meals. Looking at the tiny portion, the only thought he has is At least its small. Carbs and fat. No protein. No vitamins. There’s probably calcium in the milk, and his bones are still a little fucked. It’s something Jackie would make for her kids. He wouldn’t eat it at her house, but he’s certain she’s made mac and cheese before.
He tries to imagine an evening at the Pike house. He takes a bite. It’s fine. It doesn’t taste as cheesy as Jackie’s smelt. He’s shocked to find himself curious. He wonders if Jackie’s tastes better. More bites. Not rushing, not taking too long. He doesn’t hate the noodles. They aren’t too mushy. He can say that. The noodles are good.
He finishes his little bowl. The flavour is pretty bland. Ilya would put hot sauce on it, he thinks.
They go around the room. Roxanna, the group therapist, says encouraging things. Shane says his piece. A few people agree with him. Other people talk about kids. Someone says they really like cheese.
The second food is square with blueberries in it. Roxanna tells them it’s a blueberry lemon blondie. Shane wonders why they would waste fresh, in season blueberries in a baked good. He does not say this. Blueberries have antioxidants. People keep telling him that added things to healthy food doesn’t negate their benefits. He eyes the bar.
He almost drops it after his first bite. It’s so rich. It tastes so much, sweet and dense and tangy. The blueberries are really nice in it. It’s almost too sweet, electrifying. Ilya would like it. His dad likes lemon things. It’s dense, but in kind of a satisfying way.
There’s sugar crystals on the back of his teeth. There’s some sort of fat on his fingers where he picked up the square. That’s in him now. He breathes. Nothing bad will happen to him if he eats the thing. In very real contrast, if he stops trying to eat all the bullshit they want from him, he might not start again. And then he’ll lose hockey and who knows what else. He swallows the last of it. He takes a long time with his single glass of water for the activity, trying to get the sugar from his mouth.
“I like the blueberries. And the texture,” he says on his turn. Why not. Roxanna nods.
Up third is pizza. Shane wants to laugh. Carbs and cheese. They are a room full of adults about to be taken out by carbs and cheese for the second time in forty minutes. He doesn’t laugh, because that would be rude. He gets his piece. The butter fat is still on his fingers. The cheese grease is going to make it worse.
He doesn’t want to eat it. So what, a voice in his head says. You’re just never going to eat pizza again? He thinks about how much he wanted pizza in that restaurant with Ilya and Fabian and Ryan. I didn’t eat it then, why should I eat it now? He tells himself in response. He realizes he isn’t getting out of this. It’s only going to get harder and worse, as people finish their pizza and his gets cold. So he eats, chokes it down. Finishes his water. Sits and waits.
On his turn to talk, he says, “It made me think of my friends.” Roxanna smiles, and Shane fights the urge to spill his guts about how it’s not just that simple.
During the mandatory common room time after food, Shane sits quietly.
He taps his fingers. He wishes he wasn’t. He wishes it helped more.
Half an hour later, his stomach still hurts. He goes to his room. He’s allowed to. They trust him, sort of.
He sits on the floor, leaning against the shitty little bed. He wants Ilya so badly it hurts. He doesn’t want to feel this way. He misses when food made sense, when the rules were easy and calming.
To his own surprise, he’s crying. His breathing is coming harder and heavier, and he’s crying. What the fuck. He can’t think too hard about it and he can’t stop crying. It’s just happening. He so fucking sick of things happening to him that he has no say over. He tries to breath better and it doesn’t fucking work. He’s sobbing, ugly sobbing like a child.
There’s no relief. He grabs his shitty pillow and shoves his face into it. Muffle the sobs. Experience less of the world. Limit his air so he can just stop.
Mercifully, it ends. He doesn’t feel any better. His chest feels empty and his guts feel knotted.
Glancing at the window, he sees the sun is lower than he thought. It’s firmly late afternoon. Shane has never paid day to day attention to how the days get shorter throughout the summer. But each day is a countdown to the fall, to the next season. Each day passes quicker, full of boredom and awkward conversations. Less opportunities to make the right choice, and higher consequences for the wrong ones.
He squeezes the pillow tightly against his chest.
“Fuck. Okay.” He tells himself. He stands up. He makes the bed, since the sheets got rumpled in his dramatics. Flips the pillow over so anyone coming in can’t see the tears on the pillowcase.
Maybe there will be something for him before dinner, he hopes. Ilya in three days, he tells himself. The certainty is soothing. Eventually his body will get with the program.