:: Hushed voices in hospital hallways ::

Last week, one of my close friends ended up in the hospital for what could have been a very serious issue, but thankfully turned out OK.

On Thursday, after work, I drove out to the hospital to visit her for a few hours. I realized as I pulled into the parking lot and found a space, that the last time I was in a hospital was when Brad had his accident and we all spent countless nights there, sitting, waiting, whispering - hoping for good news.

I'd forgotten what that was like. What it was like to be stuck in a place between good news and bad. Or, in many cases, in a place where the chance for good news had long since left the building.

It was mid-evening when I arrived. As I traipsed lazily through the hallways, trying to find my way to Ward 4D, I passed numerous other hospital visitors. I'd nod politely as I would walk past, or smile and say 'Hi,' if I happened to be sharing an elevator ride with someone. Just bein' polite, I thought.

But I forgot, I guess, where I was. A place where people come to softly whisper goodbyes to dying loved ones, or where people pace the halls, worried sick that their brother or sister or mother or father comes out of surgery still breathing.

Or the place where people huddle, quietly playing cards while keeping their darkest thoughts to themselves, waiting for a friend to wake up.

I got very little response from my pleasantries. At most, I'd be returned a nod of one eyebrow, followed by eyes fixed on the floor. At worst, I'd get daggers stared back at me, or a back turned.

But always, there was silence. I couldn't blame them.

Some people, I soon remembered, are in no mood for my good tidings.

I wrote this at Christmas time, when Brad first woke up from the coma. I was going to post it then, but figured I'd wait until he came home for good. I had forgotten about it completely, until today, when I decided I should commemorate Gorski's return to Grove with something a little more than a "Hey, Brad's back."

Something vaguely resembling the original appears below.

:: Comeback Player of the Year ::

Seven months and a day ago Brad was in a car accident that put him in a coma. Things have been so good now for so many weeks, it's tough to think back to those days in the fall, when things were so bleak, so scary.

With all the stress, worry, tears, and hospital visits, I think it's fair to say it was the toughest time of most of our lives. I know it was for me.

I know that we've all – at some point in our lives – had to suffer through the death, or near-death, of someone close - a grandparent, or elderly aunt or uncle. And yes, it's immeasurably difficult to make it through something like that - that goes without saying. But still, this was different.

This was Brad.

This was a 21-year-old guy who we'd all known a long time.

This was the kid who inexplicably always seemed to be having more fun than anyone else in the room. Always grinning, always laughing. The guy who'd bust out his patented "pterodactyl" at any given time. This kind of bad stuff wasn't supposed to happen to people like him. But it did.

When Chris called me that night in October to tell me the news, I didn't take him that seriously. Oh, a car accident, I thought. Big deal. Probably a fender bender like that other time. I failed to notice the quiver in his voice. Then - figuring I knew the answer anyway - I asked the next logical question, as we all did to various people while news spread: Is he OK?

We all got the same startling answer to that question.

"I don't think so, man."

I was stunned. Absolutely floored. I remember I called Kels right after, to tell her.

It was the worst phone call I've ever had to make.

I could barely get the words out, and I know she had a hard time digesting the news. I could tell by her voice. There was a long period of silence. Then we hung up. Then there was a text message. After that, the rest is pretty much a blur.

In fact, most of the days that followed are blurry too. Playing cards at the hospital every night, trying to hold it together, where you'd almost feel guilty for the occasional laugh. Then getting home at 8 or 9 o'clock and sometimes just completely falling apart.

Things slowly got better for B-Rad, of course. An eye open here. A toe wiggle there. Enough to give the rest of us hope that one day he'd wake up.

And then, near Christmas, he did.

It's been a long, slow process since then for the kid, and nobody will quite know how tough it was except for him. But regardless, you've gotta admire the shit out of him for getting this far. Weaker people would have given up.

He was hit by a semi for Christ's sake, man.

I know we used to always bug Brad about being skinny. About having pipe cleaner arms, or about how he fit into a 12-year-old's Batman costume for Halloween (I know you don't remember it Gorsk, but we've got the pictures. You looked awesome.), but I think we can all agree now that Brad is one tough customer.

Besides, he's not so skinny now anyhow - boxes of cookies and 50 free slurpees a week will do that to ya.

Back in the fall, I remember having a conversation with some people about how, since the accident, nobody's petty little arguments or problems with each other really mattered anymore. It all kind of melted away because we realized that, in life, there's a lot more important things to worry about.

It's unfortunate as hell it took something like the accident to remind people - myself included - of that, and since then I'm sure it's been forgotten again from time to time, but a little reminder never hurt.

It's about perspective, that's all. So Gorsk, in a strange still-wish-it-never happened kind of way, thanks.

And also, thanks for coming back.

Thought maybe we'd lost you there for awhile.

Welcome home.