Helped by his teammates, McCleary headed to the dressing room but collapsed shortly after leaving the ice. (Reuters)

All this time, the problem is not that oxygen wasn't coming in, it's more the carbon dioxide not coming out. Poison is accumulating in my body and I can't get it out.

From the bench, I take my first step off the ice. Hardly in the tunnel towards the dressing room I feel my knees bend to the point that two teammates have to hold me so I don't collapse.

Curiously, up until that moment, despite all this panic, I told myself that I would at most miss the rest of the period. Not the rest of my career.

Just before that moment, I had no idea how much the puck devastated the bones in my larynx. The seconds were ticking and death was already breathing down my neck.

Then, I lost consciousness in the arms of my teammates.

After that, nothing.

No memory of the doctors laying me down on the therapist's table or in uncontrollable panic, grabbing one of them and throwing him over the table. No memory of all the chaos, of my uncontrolled agitation, of the panic in that small room under the stands, of the blood coming out of my mouth, all over the table, on the ground, on my sweater, on the hands of the doctors who were trying to somehow contain the small but fiery athlete that I am. At the time, I was unconscious and in full distress.

No memory of Dr. Fleiszer thrusting a needle in my throat to give me as much oxygen as possible after urgently coming down from the stands. No memory either of being transported by an ambulance to the Montreal General Hospital, taking Rue de la Montagne. During the trip, doctors were asking themselves, despite all their effort, if I would live through this nightmare.