[transplant99]

The Clint Malarchuk story should never be forgotten....both what happened that day and how it affected him later in life.

The first time I should have died was a Wednesday. March 22, 1989.

We were up 1-0. The puck was on the boards in the corner and I was on my post. The Blues' Steve Tuttle, a twenty-three-year-old rookie, charged to the net, looking for a pass. One of our defensemen, Uwe Krupp, was right behind him.

4:45 ... The pass came just above the crease -- a backdoor play. I slid across the net. 4:44 ... Krupp pulled Tuttle down from behind and slid into me, skates first. 4:43.

It felt like a kick to the mask. There was no pain, but I pulled my helmet off. And then I saw the blood. It spattered red in the faceoff circle.

A stream gushed out with every beat of my heart. It's an artery. I grabbed my neck, trying to keep the blood in, but it rushed between my fingers. It just kept coming. I slumped forward and it glugged out like a water fountain.

"We're going to save you."

"Jim, I can't breathe."

He flexed his grip. "You're not going to breathe until we get you to a doctor."

My mother was at home in Calgary, watching the game on satellite. I couldn't let her see this happen -- not on the ice, not on TV, not like this. They put me on a table in the trainer's room. Rip Simonick, our equipment manager, stood over me and held my hand. I asked him to call my mom.

One of the team's doctors took a towel and pressed it down on my throat with all his weight. He'd let up so I could breathe, and the blood would spout out and he'd press back down.

Security had to clear everyone out. Jim started cutting off my pads and chest protector. Rip was still holding my hand as he dialed my mother's number. I didn't want to pass out. If I close my eyes, I won't wake up.

I tried to make a joke: "Put in a couple stitches and let me get back out there." Blood gurgled out as I said it. No one laughed. They were white as ghosts, and I figured it was the end.

WARNING........GRAPHIC PHOTO

NSFW!

Ten days later, he was back on the ice. He received a standing ovation, but no counselling.

"None was provided. I didn't think of it back then, nor did they."

Looking back, Clint thinks he was in shock for those first few months. But by the next season, he started to experience depression and anxiety, as well as panic attacks.

Nightmares followed.

"I'd sit straight up in a chair so I wouldn't go into a deep sleep," he said, "so I wouldn't visualise in a dream the flashback of that skate coming up and cutting my jugular vein.

He was drinking heavily, and his relationship with Joanie began to break down. The anxiety he was experiencing led him to constantly question their relationship.

One afternoon, Joanie came home to find her husband sitting out back. He had been drinking and was holding a .22 caliber rifle.

"He just kept talking about how he couldn't turn his head off," Joanie remembers.

As their discussion became heated, Clint picked up the gun and placed it under his chin.

"This is what I wish would happen," he said, and pulled the trigger.

"Did I wanna die? No, no I didn't," Clint said.

"But boy I wanted to kill that pain, and I think most suicide survivors will tell you the same thing."


'Don't suffer in silence'
Clint went to rehab after the suicide attempt, where he was diagnosed with PTSD from the accident in 1989.

"I went 20 years with undiagnosed PTSD that almost ended my life 20 years later," he said.

He and Joanie are now mental health advocates, urging others to seek help for their problems.

Just a reminder..if you feel that kind of pain...you are not alone and tell someone. People really do want to help.

http://www.espn.com/nhl/story/_/id/1...jury-cost-life

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thecurrent/...ater-1.4980926