Full of Heart: My Story of Survival, Strength, and Spirit

by J. R. Martinez

  In November, shortly before the move to Los Angeles, I was invited to be the grand marshal of the San Antonio Veterans Day Parade. While I was there, I looked up a couple of my old friends, and one night we went to dinner. While waiting for our table, the three of us grabbed seats at the bar. I looked over at the door as two women walked in. I made eye contact with one—a medium-complected Hispanic—and she smiled at me. She’s beautiful, I thought. As we were escorted to our table we passed by her. I said hello, but she only smiled back. A few minutes later our waitress brought a drink over to me. “It’s from that girl,” she said, pointing at the one I’d greeted. I went over to their table and asked if I could sit down, and they said yes. The girl’s name was Liz. She was a twenty-one-year-old college student and an Air Force reservist.

  So began my next relationship. I flew her up to New York to hang out for a weekend. I enjoyed her company but I didn’t really think of it becoming anything because I was focusing on my move.

  Once in California, Liz regularly came out from Texas to visit me. Our relationship was okay until, you guessed it, I caught her in a lie. Yeah, this seems to be a theme in my relationships. Frequently these “lies” were lies of omission, but they were always about other guys. I’m not talking about “You said you went to the grocery store at four but it was really at two,” but more like “You never told me you were still seeing your ex-boyfriend.”

  I decided to break it off with her, but then I remembered what my mom had said about pushing people away. Liz and I discussed our issues and decided to try again. In the spring, she broached the idea of moving in with me in L.A. I had gotten myself a nice little two-bedroom apartment in Studio City. By May I’d agreed, though I wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea. I felt like I was trying for something that just wasn’t there.

  Around this time I needed to have a surgery on my right eyelid. My eye was drying out a lot and it was very irritating. I’d known this surgery was necessary, but I’d been putting it off. So in an effort to continue to tell the story of Brot and not miss any time off of work, I asked the producer if we might be able to write the surgery into the story line. To my surprise, she agreed. I thought it was kick-ass that they were willing to accommodate me in the name of entertainment and bring attention to the fact that wounded warriors often aren’t a quick fix.

  Over Memorial Day weekend I flew to San Antonio to help Liz load her car with her stuff and her two dogs to make the drive west. I still had a nagging feeling of doubt about our relationship, which I tried to stifle. I knew Liz was drawn in by my newfound celebrity, and part of me even felt like it might be her main reason for dating me. And that didn’t feel right at all.

  Liz was suspicious of my connection with Diana, too. “Diana’s my friend,” I’d explain to her, again and again. By the time Liz moved out to L.A., Diana and I were hanging out together all the time. We’d go to movies, parties, dinner, everything.

  In July Liz went to a training session in Ohio for work. She was gone for two weeks. During that time Diana and I went to the movies. Diana told me she felt it was wrong to go together, just me and her, because I had a girlfriend.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I told her. “It’s not like we’re doing anything crazy.”

  Near the end of the month I was in New York. Diana’s birthday was coming up, so I flew back to Los Angeles so that I wouldn’t miss her celebration. Within weeks, I had asked Liz to move out. She was very upset. My feelings were blunted because I’d never really invested in the relationship.

  Meanwhile, I had a new and entirely unexpected love enter my life.

  In August an organization had asked me to speak at an event to raise money for the Wounded Warrior Project, a nonprofit that helps injured veterans transition from military active duty to civilian life. They also asked me to assist with the auction that was scheduled for the event and invited me to a barbecue the night before at the home of one of the sponsors.

  The sponsor mentioned that he was storing some of the auction items there at his house.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  A puppy—a Labrador retriever that could be trained to be a service dog to a veteran. They brought the dog out to show me.

  He looked like a stuffed animal. He was the cutest thing ever, and I mean ever. I held him all evening. I decided to try for him at the auction. I made up my mind that I’d bid up to $1,500, and not a penny more. I know that is a lot of money for a dog, but I knew it would go to a good cause.

  The next night I went to the event and got up onstage. I auctioned off a couple of items, and then I told the audience, “The next thing really hurts me to put up here for you all. It’s a two-month-old Lab.”

  I held him up and the audience melted. People began to bid. I had a friend in the audience who was bidding for me, but the numbers quickly surpassed my limit and finally the contest came down to one guy and a couple. Each said they’d pay $2,500, for a total of $5,000 for the dog.

  I was devastated. One of the winners stood, the puppy in her arms. “I’d like to say something,” she announced. She made her way to the podium. “We love this cause and we love coming every year,” she said, addressing the audience. “And we love this puppy, but unfortunately there’s no room in our house for this cute little thing.”

  She walked across the stage and put the puppy in my arms. “We’d like to give this puppy to J.R.,” she said.

  I was completely surprised and so freaking happy. It was meant to be.

  I went into fatherhood mode right away, albeit doggy fatherhood. The very next day I put the puppy into my backpack and took him to the All My Children set, where dogs weren’t allowed. I smuggled him into my dressing room, and then I went to see Diana. “Come into my dressing room,” I told her. “Just come now. I want to show you something.”

  After a while she came and knocked on my door. I had the puppy hidden under a blanket and he popped out. She went crazy over him.

  I named him Romeo and took him everywhere with me. I had a trainer come in a couple of times to help me with his house-training, but other than that I trained him on my own. He’s so in tune to me that even if he’s running toward another dog, he’ll turn mid-stride if I call his name. He’s an amazing dog. He was my little baby.

  By September 2010, coming up on a year since we’d moved to L.A., Diana and I had begun to spend more and more time together. We did stuff that couples would do, without being a couple. The more we hung out, the more I realized how much I liked to be around her. In October I finally put a voice to it.

  I’d asked her to watch the first game of the NBA season with me.

  She said yes, but then she called to tell me that she couldn’t get out of work in time.

  I asked her to come by anyway, later.

  She said no.

  All of a sudden it came out: “Do you ever think of me differently?”

  She hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. More than a friend,” I said.

  She went right at it, trying to play it off like I was drunk and operating under liquid courage. But I wasn’t.

  “No,” she said. “We’re friends.”

  So we continued to see each other at work, and our relationship didn’t change.

  One night in November I asked her to be my guest at an event I was emceeing. She agreed and came over after work to change into her evening outfit. She put on her dress in my bathroom and then asked me to zip her up.

  Hmm, that’s what you do when you’re in a relationship, I thought. Later, on the way home from the event, I put my hand on hers in the car. She ignored the move and kept on talking. Forget it, I thought. I’m done with this.

  Still, we maintained our connection as friends. At Thanksgiving, I went home to Dalton and Diana went home to New York. We talked for hours every night. We burned up the phone lines like we were teenagers, talking about anything and everything.

  Finally, when we both returned to California, we got together to
discuss our relationship in person, and that was our beginning.

  They say that opposites attract, and maybe that’s the case with Diana and me. Diana’s upbringing, for example, could not have been any more different from mine. She grew up surrounded by family. Her mother and her biological dad divorced when she was two, but her dad stayed in her life for some years after. Her mom and stepfather got together when Diana was five, so she was always raised by two parents and had a boatload of grandparents. She was an only child until age nine. She never saw her parents fight; it’s not that they didn’t, but they didn’t do it in front of Diana and her two younger sisters.

  Diana’s mom put her into every activity she wanted to be in and even those she didn’t know she wanted to be in: ballet, gymnastics, track, basketball. She lived in the same neighborhood—Sunnyside, Queens—her entire life and went to Catholic schools. Although her family wasn’t rich, by her own admission her parents gave her everything she wanted or needed—a Sweet Sixteen party, money to go out with her friends, a car when she was seventeen, a basketball hoop in front of the house, a home where her friends were always welcome to hang out. She was a cheerleader at Christ the King High School, in her sweater and turtleneck vest; short pleated white, red, and gold skirt; and Nike sneakers—belly always covered. She also ran track and cross-country and played basketball. Her parents insisted that Diana get good grades, and she delivered. She was the salutatorian of her eighth grade class, an honors student, and went to college on a partial academic scholarship.

  But we had one major thing in common: We enjoyed being with each other. For Valentine’s Day, she gave me a cooking class we’d do together. I surprised her with a trip to Northern California. There, standing on the Golden Gate Bridge—amid our visits to wineries, to Alcatraz, to romantic restaurants—this amazing feeling came over me when I realized that I loved this girl.

  I decided to ratchet down my speaking schedule, stay home more, and enjoy my life and enjoy being with Diana. It was so natural with her. We were moving fast, but we’d known each other for a couple of years already. It’s normal to be on a high when you first start a relationship, but this was more. She was solid and trustworthy. We had the same sense of humor and laughed together all the time. She was feisty and self-reliant—although I was, too, so sometimes we butted heads. We finished each other’s sentences and knew what the other was thinking. I’d say something and she’d exclaim, “Oh my God, I was just thinking about that! God strike me down right now!”

  “God is tired of hearing that. That’s like trying to name-drop—it’s not cool,” I’d reply.

  I told my mom that one thing I really appreciated about Diana was that she didn’t give off a flirtatious vibe to other guys. To me, she’s affectionate and loving, but I didn’t have to worry about her when I wasn’t around. If a dude is going to go after her, it would be because he wanted to, not because she was inviting it. With this reassurance, even with my track record with women, I let my defenses fall away.

  Meanwhile, Tinseltown wasn’t finished with the surprises for me. I began to hear buzz on social media and at fan events that I’d be a good candidate for an ABC show called Dancing with the Stars. I didn’t think much about it until April, when the All My Children executives called everyone into the studio and told us the show had been canceled. Taping would cease in August 2011.

  Many of the cast and crew were upset that they’d picked up and moved across the country for a show that had ended little more than a year later. I didn’t blame them, but my situation was different: I hadn’t disrupted a family, and the move had put me smack into the middle of the entertainment industry, just where I thought I wanted to be. The All My Children casting director helped me to assemble a package and reels so I could look around for an agent to represent me. I wanted to continue acting. And now that I had my companion, I felt I could focus on this other aspect of my life.

  Right after the All My Children announcement went public, I received a text from a friend back in Dalton. “What about Dancing with the Stars?”

  Hmm, I thought. For the first time, I actually considered it. I went into Julie’s office one day and asked her opinion. She said she thought it was a great idea and that I should pursue it. Two All My Children actors—Susan Lucci and Cameron Mathison—had been competitors on the show in earlier seasons. Julie said she’d put in a call to a Dancing with the Stars contact.

  A few weeks later my phone rang. It was May 2011, just after the eighth anniversary of my accident. The Dancing with the Stars casting director was on the other end of the line. We set up a meeting for an upcoming Friday in June. On that day, the casting director and another executive questioned me about my background. They asked me to tell them how much I enjoyed dancing, if I’d ever had formal dance instruction, and whether I was healthy enough to compete. By this time I was finished with my surgeries—my hands had straightened out and my grafts had healed. I was in good shape.

  “The show is physically demanding,” the casting director said. “Do you think you can do it?”

  You know my answer.

  They told me they’d decide the cast within the next couple of weeks.

  More than a month later the casting director emailed me, but she didn’t have a decision yet. I really had to know soon because I needed to book my future speaking engagements.

  The wait dragged on, day after day, week after week, until one day in August she texted me to say that she’d be calling me in a couple of hours to make me an official offer. I was excited beyond words. At the same time, I was emotional because I knew this opportunity would change my life, exposing me to an even larger national audience. Diana and I hugged each other for the longest time. Neither of us could believe it.

  I was invited to meet my dancing partner at the end of August. No one had given me any clue about who it would be. I was incredibly nervous, like a schoolkid going to pick up his date before the prom.

  I waited outside the meeting room, and a producer came over to me. He explained how the meeting would go down.

  “When you walk in, be sure to close the door behind you,” he said. “Then walk over to her and greet her. Once we do it we may have to reenact it from a different angle.”

  At their signal, I opened the door and my eyes landed on Karina Smirnoff. Of course I knew who she was, an amazing Ukrainian-born dancer who’d appeared in nine seasons of the show.

  I was stoked and gave her a big hug. She’s a sweet and passionate person and we clicked from the very first moment. She hadn’t heard of me beforehand; she said they’d pulled her aside while she was waiting to meet me and told her that she’d be dancing with a war veteran.

  “I have a special place in my heart for the military and their families,” she said, “but I was a little concerned. Like, what war? Was this going to be an elderly veteran?”

  She was super-excited, she said, and told me that six months earlier she’d actually pitched a show—slugged “Dancing with the Heroes”—to the network. They’d passed on it but now she got to dance with me, which was the basis for her pitch anyway. She told me that Dancing with the Stars is the coolest thing she’s ever done, and that it gives her a high similar to traditional competition.

  We said a lot to each other that first morning, just sitting and talking together for hours about some really personal stuff. It was a big heart-to-heart. We both loved performing and sharing what we love the most with other people. We didn’t want to just entertain; we wanted to bring the audience into our world.

  Dancing with the Stars is “very emotionally fulfilling,” she told me. “You find levels of feeling that you didn’t think were there. It teaches you about yourself and how to handle certain situations.”

  Karina described the intensity of the Dancing with the Stars experience, both for the celebrity and the professional. “Every week the dances become like your little babies,” she said. “Nothing can prepare you for this. If we go all the way, it’s an insanely grueling schedule. Even your
hair follicles will be exhausted. You’ll wake up beat, and you still have a whole day ahead of you.”

  I wasn’t afraid of hard work and, luckily, I wasn’t experiencing any residual effects of my injuries that might handicap my development as a dancer. Even so, I certainly knew it was going to be difficult. That’s all I heard from the professionals, the producers, and the former contestants. I felt optimistic about my run, because I’d always been a good dancer with easy rhythm. One of the first questions from Karina to me that first day was: Can you dance?

  I went to the safest and goofiest move I had—the running man, which I followed with a skillful sprinkler move. She laughed. I felt ridiculous.

  “I can’t dance on the spot with no music!” I said. “Where’s my music?”

  She said our music for the first week would be for a Viennese waltz.

  “A Vietnam what?” I asked.

  Karina laughed again, but I honestly didn’t have any idea what that was. She showed me a move where I had to spread out my arms like a swan. Then she put me into this hold as if I were clasping a box. Then I had to twirl around with my arms lifted and my shoulders down.

  I never regretted signing up, but during those first few hours I wondered what in the hell I’d gotten myself into.

  We started to sway around the room, but the pace was too fast for me. We stopped a few times to start all over. The great thing about the three weeks leading up to the first show was that we were only supposed to rehearse up to five hours per day. The producers didn’t want anyone to get hurt prior to the premiere by pushing themselves too hard. Although five hours were more than I’d ever done, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

  We had about four days of rehearsal before the official announcement of the cast. On the big day, Diana and I were picked up at my apartment by a town car and driven to the CBS studios in Hollywood. Everything was a big secret. We pulled into the drop-off area where they’d erected a tent to cover the entrance so that no paparazzo would be able to see us. I thought it was pretty crazy that the cameras would even care about little ole me.