Truth Doesn't Have a Side

by Bennet Omalu

  The extra steps I took to dig deeper into the real cause of Mike Webster’s death were not unusual. I had done this with multiple cases. Mike’s was not even the first brain on which I conducted such thorough analysis. Not long before Mike came into my autopsy suite, I conducted an autopsy on a woman named Florence. She lived in an abusive relationship with her husband. One night, he beat her up and pushed her down a flight of stairs. She suffered severe traumatic brain injury, with subdural hemorrhages. The fall did not take her life, not immediately at least. She lived in a vegetative state and passed four years later. I ordered the same types of tests on Florence’s brain that I did on Mike’s. In addition to the signs of the major trauma she suffered, I also found changes in her brain that resembled Alzheimer’s disease, albeit with some slight differences. I paid for the analysis of Florence’s brain out of my own pocket. I had to find answers for Florence, just as I did for Mike.

  Looking back, if it hadn’t been for Florence, I might never have had slides prepared of sections of Mike Webster’s brain. And if I had never had slides prepared of Mike’s brain, everything that follows in this book may have never happened. Florence prepared me for Mike—and I guess you could say Mike for me—but she was not the only one who played a role in bringing Mike and me together. I rarely watch television, especially in the morning, but I just happened to flip on the set the morning of Mike’s death, which allowed me to hear the derogatory terms reporters used to describe his post-football life. When I heard he suffered from depression, my heart went out to him because I had suffered from it myself.

  None of this would have meant anything if his body had come to the medical examiner’s office during the week. Another doctor in the office would have handled his case, and I never would have become involved. But I was the doctor on duty, and I had a history of depression, and I had just completed a second fellowship in neuropathology, and I had just investigated the death of another patient who had suffered traumatic brain injury, which paved the way for me to conduct the same battery of tests on Mike. I was also the only forensic pathologist in the office who was a neuropathologist as well.

  Autopsy case A02–5214 may not have initially jumped out at me as anything out of the ordinary, but looking back, I now realize this was truly a divine appointment. My life had led me to this moment and to this man. At the time, I had no idea the impact Iron Mike Webster would make on the rest of my life. If I had known, I probably would have walked away and dropped the case immediately. However, that is the thing about divine appointments. God reveals the details a little at a time as He takes us on His journey. It is up to us to trust Him, even when the road becomes treacherous.

  Chapter Twelve

  Prema

  In July 2002, a couple of months before I met Mike Webster, one of the families in my church invited me to attend their daughter’s wedding at our church’s parish hall. I immediately accepted the invitation, even though I knew I would miss the ceremony and most of the reception. My church, St. Benedict the Moor, had become my second family. What little life I had outside of work I spent there. St. Benedict was actually the second church I attended after moving to Pittsburgh. The first, which was near my first apartment in a predominantly white part of Pittsburgh, did not exactly extend a warm welcome to me. One of the families in that church told me about St. Benedict, a predominately African-American church where many African immigrants also attended. From the moment I first walked in the door, I felt like I was home. Over time, I became more and more involved in the life of the church. I joined the choir, even though I cannot sing. When the sound system went out, I bought a new one for the church and even ran it during most services. It may be just my imagination, but I think the choir director preferred having me at the sound board rather than in the choir.

  Because my church was family to me, I did not even consider declining the wedding invitation, even though I had to work that day. As soon as I finished my final report on my last autopsy of the day, I rushed home, took a quick shower, and dressed in my traditional Nigerian attire. I looked good, if I say so myself.

  By the time I arrived at the parish hall, most of the other guests had already left. Only a few close friends and family were still hanging around. I went to the mother of the bride, whom I knew very well, and let her know I had arrived just as I had promised. She was very happy to see me. She fixed me a plate of food and then went to take care of the remaining guests. I was in a mood to chat, so I walked around the hall saying hi to everyone and cracking some jokes. As I walked around the parish hall, I noticed a group of about five young men and women sitting together in a corner, relaxing and chatting. They appeared to be a group of African students who had helped the mother of the bride serve food and drinks during the reception. Since most of the guests had already left, they had time to relax. They all appeared tired and were chilling out.

  I headed over to the group for a very specific reason. In the middle of the group sat a long-haired young woman I had never seen before. I thought she was very cute, and this seemed the perfect time and place to introduce myself to her.

  I walked over to the group of five in the corner. They were engaged in a conversation, but I ignored it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Bennet Omalu. It is good to meet you.”

  The five people in the group stopped talking and just sort of looked at one another. If I had paid any attention at all to them, I would have noticed the unhappy looks on their faces. I wasn’t looking at anyone in the group except the one young woman with the long hair. I went straight to her and stretched out my hand. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

  “How dare you!” she snapped back. Her accent appeared to be Kenyan.

  “What?” I asked, surprised.

  “Just who do you think you are that you can walk right over here and interrupt our conversation? Don’t you see how rude that is?”

  “Well, I . . .” I stammered.

  She looked me over and the clothes I was wearing. “I bet you are Nigerian, aren’t you? You Nigerians are all alike. You are all rude.” She was really letting me have it.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. I then tried to salvage the moment, and I smiled and said, “I just thought you were cute, so I wanted to meet you. What is your name?”

  “My name! Why would I tell you my name? You have to be the tenth Nigerian man who has come up to me today and told me I was cute and asked me my name.” After saying this, she sort of glared at me, letting me know the conversation was over.

  I was dumbfounded and humiliated. I turned around silently and walked away in shame. As I walked away, I heard them making jokes and laughing at me. I avoided that corner for the rest of the night.

  An hour or so later, I found the bride and groom, wished them well, and told them I needed to get home and get to sleep. It had been a very long day, and I had to work the next day. Before I could get out the door, the bride’s mother called me. “Bennet, Bennet.”

  I turned and asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “Can you drop off some of the workers who helped me tonight? They have put in a long day, and they do not have rides. I hate for them to have to go stand at a bus stop.”

  “Of course,” I said, “I am glad to help. Just have them meet me at my car.” I went outside and pulled my car closer to the door. There I sat for half an hour. Finally, the group of workers who needed rides came walking out. You can probably guess who they were. The people who needed a ride home were four of the five people in front of whom I had so embarrassed myself earlier. Three climbed into the backseat, while the girl with the long hair got in the front.

  I did not make eye contact with her. Instead I asked the group, “Where do you need to go?” I drove each person to their address. One had forgotten her keys, so I drove back to the parish hall so she could retrieve them. Another had to pick up something from the pharmacy. I told her it would be no trouble to make an additional stop. After that, I had to stop by the grocery store on the way to the next-to-last address. I did not c
omplain, nor did I say anything to the girl in the front seat.

  Finally, I did have to speak to the girl. “What address do I need to take you to?” That was all I said. I didn’t dare say anything after the tongue-lashing she’d given me earlier in the evening. She gave me an address. When we got to the house where she shared a room with a friend, she asked me, “Would you mind dropping me off at the laundry? It seemed everyone else needed to make another stop, and this would help me a lot.”

  “Of course I will take you,” I said.

  She disappeared into her house and emerged a few minutes later with a laundry bag. I drove her to the laundry, which was not far from her house. “Okay, this is it,” I said. “Bye-bye.”

  Before she got out of the car, she smiled at me for the first time. “You are a very nice and patient man and not at all the jerk I thought you were,” she said.

  I smiled and said, “Thank you.” I still did not know her name, nor did I dare ask. I just wanted to get home and go to sleep. This was not exactly the kind of night I wanted to remember.

  The next day, I had forgotten about the girl and was consumed again by work. A very busy week went by filled with work and classes and everything else that packed my days to the maximum. The group of people I’d chauffeured after the wedding was the last thing on my mind when I arrived at church the following Sunday. That is, until I saw this same girl sitting on the other side of the sanctuary. Since she was at the wedding, I should have guessed she attended St. Benedict, but I had never noticed her before. In spite of the rough time she gave me at the wedding reception, I still thought she was cute.

  After the service, I went to my pastor, Father Carmen D’Amico, and asked him about this woman. Father Carmen was more than my priest and pastor; he was like an older brother who profoundly impacted my life during my time in Pittsburgh. Before I became a part of St. Benedict, I had struggled in living out my faith. Father Carmen became a spiritual mentor to me. From him I learned how to live out a quiet and deep faith in my normal routines of life. The two of us got together on almost a daily basis after morning Mass. Over coffee, we talked about life and faith and everything else. More than what he said to me, he changed me by the way I watched him live out his faith. He inspired me to do more, to be more of a man of God.

  Occasionally during our coffee talks, Father Carmen mentioned people within the congregation who needed help. Through his influence, I got involved in the evangelical ministry of the church, taking tapes of the services to our shut-ins who could not make it to church. I also delivered the Holy Eucharist to these same members. At the St. Benedict the Moor parish, I got to know many older African-American men and women who had lived through the darkest days of racism in our country. From them I learned how to respond to injustices in a Christlike manner. Later, when I experienced a different kind of opposition, I went back to the lessons I had learned from these dear people. They shaped how I respond to my critics even to this day.

  I write all of this to let you know what kind of relationship I had with Father Carmen and the role he had in my life. I can honestly say that without his influence, I never would have survived the storm I encountered after I went public with what I discovered in Mike Webster. All of that was still in the future when I asked Father Carmen about this woman. “Who is she?” I asked.

  “She is the woman about whom I spoke with you last week over coffee,” he said. He had indeed mentioned a woman named Prema who had recently moved to Pittsburgh from Kenya by way of Michigan. Over coffee, he had told me she was attending a local community college to earn her nursing degree, but was having a difficult time. He asked me then if I might consider helping her, and I had told him I would. At the time, I had no idea that this was the woman he’d told me about.

  “She’s the one?” I said, surprised.

  “Yes. That’s Prema. Come, let me introduce you to her. I know you can help her. I feel the Spirit of God in you, Bennet. I know you will help as you have helped others in the parish.”

  “How can I help her?” I asked.

  “Help her as a Christian brother helps his sister,” he said.

  To be completely honest, after the hard time she gave me when we first met, I was not completely sure trying to help her was such a good idea. However, I knew God spoke through my pastor. I followed him over toward her.

  When Prema saw me approaching, she broke into a smile. That was a good sign. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello,” I replied.

  “Good, the two of you know each other,” Father Carmen said and walked away.

  “Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “I can drive you.”

  “That would be nice,” she said. We talked on the way home. Before we got to her house, I asked if she was hungry. That led to a detour for lunch. Reading all of this you might conclude that this was a romantic lunch. It was not. Romance was not on my mind, nor was it on hers. Yes, I thought she was cute, but after Father Carmen asked me to help her as a Christian brother, any thoughts of romance had to go away. He had entrusted her to me as an act of faith in my character. The last thing I would ever do was betray that trust. As a Christian brother, I decided to help her like I would help one of my sisters—Winny, Uche, or Mie-Mie.

  • • • •

  It quickly became clear what kind of help Prema needed. In addition to attending classes for her nursing degree, she also worked nights sorting mail for a large bank. After work, she rode the bus home, slept for two or three hours, got up, and went to class. I hated that she had to ride a bus late at night, so I volunteered to drive her when my job was less busy. One night, she called late at night, in tears. She’d been demoted to housekeeper after her supervisor made a pass at her and she rejected him.

  That was the last straw for me. If Mie-Mie’s boss had made a pass at her, I knew exactly what I would tell her. “I want you to quit your job and just concentrate on school,” I told Prema.

  “I have to work to live,” she said.

  “I have a very good job and make plenty of money,” I told her. “I will support you until you get your degree.”

  The mention of a degree was a sore point for both of us. Prema already had a degree from a college in Kenya. However, many places in the United States did not recognize her degree or equate it to a nursing degree obtained from a school in the United States. That’s why she had gone back to school.

  “We can find you an apartment closer to the school. Do not worry. I will cover the expenses until you graduate and get on your own feet,” I said. Prema hesitated. “Do not feel bad because you have a need. Need is not bad. Need is need. As part of the one body of Christ, this is how we are to help one another. Please, let me do this for you.”

  There is an old African saying that goes, “Your fellow human being is the God you see and the God you know.” First John 3:17–18 says very much the same thing: “If someone who has worldly means sees a brother in need and refuses him compassion, how can the love of God remain in him? Children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth.” When we have a need, God does not come down from heaven to meet that need Himself. Instead, He sends our fellow human beings to be His angels of mercy, grace, peace, and love. He has sent so many angels into my life at just the right moment. I felt privileged to be the angel in return.

  I helped Prema find a place to live in a better part of town, along with paying her rent and tuition and giving her a weekly living allowance of a couple hundred dollars. For me, this was a way of repaying the kindness my sisters and their husbands and my extended family showed to me when they helped cover my expenses in coming to America. This was not about love. I didn’t even know what love was.

  There was, however, a day I believe I fell in love with Prema without even knowing it. One afternoon I picked her up to help her run some errands when she turned to me and asked, “Would you take me to the Western Union office so I can wire some money to my mother back in Kenya?”

  “Okay,” I answered in a puzzled tone.
I knew Prema barely had enough money to make it week to week.

  She sensed my wonderment and answered the question I did not dare ask. “My father left my mother unannounced one day and married a younger woman. Since then, my mother was on her own with us and raised me, my sister, and our two brothers. I send her money every month, if you must know.”

  “You did not need to tell me all of this, but I am grateful you did,” I said, once again humbled by this woman. I never quite looked at her the same way again, for now I had seen her heart. She cared more for others than she did for herself—to such a degree that she sacrificed for them. This was a woman who was not afraid to love. When I first saw her, I thought she was cute, but now I saw a beauty I cannot describe. I took her to Western Union, where she wired money to her mom. After that, I stepped up my own care for her. If I noticed she needed something, I acted.

  • • • •

  About a year after first meeting Prema, we entered into a romantic relationship. I should have been thinking about marriage from the start. After all, I was in my mid-thirties when we started dating. Dr. Wecht had already been after me to get a life outside of work. I spent a lot of time with his family. Over and over, he told me, “Bennet, you need to get married and start a family of your own.”

  Dr. Wecht wasn’t the only person telling me I needed to get married. On New Year’s Day 2005, I called my family in Nigeria. Each one asked me about my plans for the new year. Then all of them, from my mother and my father down to my sisters and brothers, said, “You should think of getting married.” I got very frustrated. Finally, I turned to Prema, who was with me in my condo, and blurted out, “Are you ready to get married? Will you marry me?”