Life Is Not an Accident

by Jay Williams

  My patience had worn out by this point. We already knew what surgeries I would have to get, but now it was one disheartening surprise procedure after procedure.

  November 19, 2003

  Now, this one really sucked.

  My doctors determined that I would need a knee manipulation. The procedure was done under anesthesia to prevent my body from naturally resisting. With me unconscious, the doctors would be able to systematically, and progressively, bend the joint to tear it apart. It requires a massive amount of physical force—you can actually hear the scar tissue pop—and the joint quickly becomes more flexible.

  When I woke up from the procedure, my leg was clamped to a contraption called a CPM (continuous passive motion) machine. It would help reduce the chances of further scarring. For the week following the surgery, my knee was constantly being mechanically bent and straightened. After that, the goal of therapy became to maintain the range of motion that had been recovered during the procedure. Then there was the challenge of managing the pain that stemmed from the inflammatory trauma. It was understandable to everyone why I was taking two OxyContins per day and some Oxycodeine for short bursts of relief.

  By mid-December, I could bend my knee to 95 degrees. It was progress. But one afternoon I felt a pain I had never felt before in my knee. I quickly developed a fever over 100 degrees and was taken to the ER, where they discovered I had a staph infection that had created a hole the size of a silver dollar on the outside of my left kneecap. Doctors had to perform a scope to treat the infection. I was quarantined for a short stint. When I awoke after the procedure, I had a PICC line in my arm—a catheter for IV antibiotics that remained in my arm for five or six weeks. My physical therapy had to come to a halt to give my body time to recover once again. During those several weeks on an antibiotic drip, I lost about 10 degrees of range of motion in my knee.

  Our bodies are wired to resist—what medical experts call “muscular guarding.” I would need a specialized form of therapy. Jason Gauvin was the answer. Jason was in his mid-thirties at the time and had transferred to Duke from Stanford right around the time I arrived in Durham. He was an outstanding physical therapist, and an even better human being. I recall him confiding in me how the process was very difficult for him at times, since he essentially had to cause his patients great pain in order for their overall condition to improve.

  It wasn’t until February that I continued with my physical therapy out in the open. Up until then, I was really not in any condition to be rehabbing around others. But the real reason for staying behind closed doors was to keep the media at bay. After my parents talked me into leaving the house for the first time back in mid-September, I had shut that experiment down, outside of a few Duke-related events and such. My mom and dad and others in my inner circle thought it would be a morale boost for me to get back into the world.

  So there I was in a wheelchair on Frank Bassett Drive, with Chris Duhon guiding me through throngs of Duke football fans as we made our way into Wallace Wade Stadium. There wasn’t enough Oxy in the world to get me through that day. And I tried.

  It was the most humiliating experience of my life.

  People were yelling out words of encouragement, some were crying, while others were whispering just loud enough as I passed by about how I had thrown it all away. Many came over to say how I was in their prayers and touched my leg, which was outstretched at a 45-degree angle. And that part really added insult to injury. It’s hard enough to blend in when you’re in a wheelchair, but even trickier when you need at least four feet of clearance in front of you at all times because one of your legs is sticking straight out. One good Samaritan after the next yelled for people to clear a path so the “cripple” could get by. I once walked among these people with my head held high, proud to be me. Now I would’ve done anything to have been just another face in the crowd.

  Group therapy in the beginning sucked. It was a constant reminder of how long the road to recovery was going to be. I couldn’t help but look around the training floor, seeing people from all walks of life working their way back to full strength, in much better physical shape than me. Last summer, I was preoccupied with catching up to Kobe Bryant’s conditioning, and now I’m comparing myself to some 63-year-old in a wheelchair working away on an arm cycle.

  I had been out of the wheelchair and on crutches for close to five months when Jason decided it was time to take both of them away.

  “Stand.”

  “Stand?”

  “Yes, Jason, stand.”

  “I am standing.”

  “No, stand with equal weight on each foot.”

  I still had the brace attached to my left leg, so I didn’t have control of my foot. I remember my foot just dangling as I softly placed it on the ground for the first time, trying to shift my weight over to the left side of my body. I screamed as a sharp jolt of pain shot through my back to my knee and all the way down to my foot. I was certain all eyes were on me after I had brought this unwanted attention on myself, but it was probably all in my head. The truth is, everyone was fixated on themselves, striving to get better. After popping an Oxy to manage the sudden throbbing pain, I spent the next hour trying to put weight on that side while Jason stood behind me, his forearms under my armpits to hold me. He would rock me from side to side, and I would lean a little left as I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing in agony. Then he would quickly shift all of my weight back to my right side. After ten or so tries, I was drenched in sweat, completely spent. It took months for me to get to the point where I was able to stand on my own two feet again.

  It was at some point during March Madness that Jason began to reteach me how to walk. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to move at all with my left leg trapped inside a bulky metal thigh-to-calf brace, one that must’ve weighed close to ten pounds. Much of the density from it was because of my ankle-foot orthosis, or AFO, a brace that was attached to my calf to keep the ankle stabilized. The metal plate under my left foot, which kept it flexed, also contributed to much of its weight.

  As Jason walked me over to the parallel bars, my mind was racing with trepidation. All the hard work it had taken to get to this point, and now, after eight months, I was finally getting ready to take my first steps.

  When I got to the parallel bars, I hesitated at first before parting with my crutches. I wanted this more than anything, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready. I couldn’t handle another setback. With Jason standing at the other end, I firmly gripped the bars, with my head down, staring at the floor. I counted the steps it would take to get to him. I don’t remember how many, exactly, but I do know it left me in considerable doubt.

  Jason reminded me that this was what we’d been working toward so hard these past several months, and that I wasn’t a person to back away from a challenge.

  But he was wrong.

  I wasn’t that person anymore. I was broken. It wasn’t just walking I had to teach myself all over again. I needed to recapture the fighter in me. I just stood there without saying a word, hands squeezing the bars so tightly I could see the white in my knuckles. I became even angrier as I continued to question myself. The vexation quickly morphed into sorrow and pity. I was just standing idle, a shell of my former self. I started to cry.

  Jason came over and put his arm around me, saying that everything would be okay and that I had nothing to be afraid of. He reminded me about one of my goals, and how much I’d looked forward to showing my son how to round first base one day. But in order for that to happen, this would literally have to be the first step.

  “You can do this, Jason. I believe in you.”

  In tears, I leaned all of my weight over to my right side and extended my left leg. I placed it softly on the ground while still keeping all of my weight on my back foot. Once my left foot was firmly planted, I took a deep breath and exhaled, preparing myself for the worst. Using my arms to hold myself up, I then took the chance. No pain . . . no pain, I pleaded with myself, and sure enough, when I s
hifted all of my weight onto my left leg to take a step with my right foot, it didn’t hurt.

  It was sore. But there was no pain.

  I smiled through more tears, this time from joy, not fear. It was a milestone, for sure, but Jason, almost reminiscent of Coach K, wasn’t interested in celebrating until the task was finished.

  “Keep coming. Let’s go, now.”

  I made it all the way to the other side to receive my hug. I was physically drained, but emotionally recharged.

  It was now time to learn how to balance myself without any assistance—no crutches, nobody holding me up, just me. I had to retrain my body how to find its equilibrium. A year earlier, I was rock solid in a defensive stance, trying to stop Michael Jordan. Now I had completely lost the ability to lift my left toes up in the air. This malady is called drop foot or foot drop. Either term is acceptable, but neither one is preferred! I couldn’t stabilize my left ankle, which is imperative for balancing. Unable to pick up my big toe—something I still cannot do today—I was prone to falling over. Jason and I tried time after time, and at best, I was able to hold my balance only for a few seconds. Jason started to hold a stopwatch during our sessions to see how long I could stand on one leg. We practiced every day for weeks on end—until one day he came up with an idea that was a game changer.

  Basketball had always been a positive force in my life, and Jason decided this was as good a time as ever. He grabbed a basketball and tossed it my way. I caught it and looked up at him in confusion. Before I could even ask, he said that he wanted me to continue to balance myself on my left leg and just focus on catching the ball with both hands while throwing it back to him as quickly as I could. “Go!”

  When the ball hit my hands, I felt like my former self. My athletic instincts took over. I was no longer worried about being unable to pull up my big toe or stabilize my ankle. My attention was squarely on the ball. I got lost in the game of passing the ball back and forth, at peace, for once, to be out of my own head. Then all of sudden, Jason caught the ball and didn’t throw it back.

  “Hold it!”

  I brought my right foot down a few seconds later and took a deep breath. Jason stopped the clock, walked over, and showed me.

  24 seconds.

  A much-needed breakthrough.

  I was on my way.

  My knee’s range of motion was around 110 degrees toward the end of May, but I had started to have some serious pain on the outside of the joint. After going in to the Duke hospital for an MRI, it was determined that I had a small meniscus tear. A fifth surgery was needed.

  May 7, 2004

  Doctors performed a meniscus repair on my left knee and also provided me with the gift of one final manipulation to get me back to full range of motion. I had been hovering at the same mark for nearly three months, and this was the last attempt to get me to the finish line.

  While I was recovering, the therapist told me that the swimming pool at the sports-medicine facility would quickly become my new best friend. To help me regain strength, the pool provided a less weight-bearing environment in which to do my walking and balancing exercises. A grown man in a pool with braces and full-body floaties was not the sexiest look, but my vanity would have to take a backseat. Each day, I was challenged to do as many laps as possible, with the hope that I would surpass the total from the day before.

  I’ll never forget one day in the pool when I was watching a woman doing laps. She had to have been at least 75 years old, wearing a black one-piece, a white swim cap, and goggles as she moved maybe a mile per hour. My athletic instinct to compete kicked in. I entered the pool thinking to myself how I was going to crush this woman. Take her down, Jay. She ain’t shit.

  My newly adopted rival was just passing me as I lowered myself into the water, and I was determined to catch up. At first I was making good headway, but I still found myself behind after the first two laps.

  Then it was over.

  My breathing got heavier by the second, and my eyes started to burn from the chlorine. Excuses. As she gradually started to pull away, I thought to myself, Pick it up, Williams. You pick this shit up right now.

  Trying to kick it into a higher gear, I watched helplessly as she made her first attempt to lap me. Just as I could feel her presence, she unnecessarily yelled out to caution me.

  “ON YOUR LEFT! PASSING ON YOUR LEFT.”

  We were the only two people in the pool.

  “Old Lady Goggles” lapped me at least ten more times that session, then said to me on her way out, “It’s okay. I remember my first time in the pool after my surgeries.”

  I was exhausted as I smiled back at her, trying not to say anything rude in response but thinking, Dammit, woman, I’ve been in the pool for months.

  July 9, 2004

  It had been over a year since the accident when I had my third electromyography (EMG) procedure. The doctor inserted a three-inch needle deep into my leg muscles while I was hooked up to electrodes that would read the response of the muscle to the stimulation of the nerve. It sent a series of electric shocks up and down my leg while the doctor moved the needle around for added measure—not once, but 15 to 20 times. Being surrounded on the court by taller guards and huge big men, I’d always felt undersized, even at 6’2”. But when the doctor was testing every inch, my leg felt as long as Manute Bol’s.

  The third time was not the charm in my case. The nerve had still not fully healed. It had been over a year of horrendous pain stemming from the nerve-regeneration process, and I still had more to go, with no guarantee of a complete recovery. I was distraught.

  The doctors decided we would wait a few more months to see if anything improved. After five more agonizing months, there were still no signs of recovery. The next step was a tendon transfer to relieve my drop foot.

  December 7, 2004

  I would have my ninth operation in 18 months. This time, the procedure required cutting a tendon located on the inside of my left foot and reattaching it to the top of the foot. I was hoping for a Christmas miracle.

  And I got it.

  Three months or so following the surgery, I was finally able to pick up my left foot two to three inches off the ground. It was just enough for me to clear my gait while walking without having to hike my hip up. Keeping this coordination going while just walking around was daunting, to say the least. The idea of mastering the process at the pace it takes to be a point guard in the NBA was next to impossible.

  I HAD AN unbelievable team of doctors and therapists who worked with me for countless hours each day. They were as invested in my well-being as I was—sometimes way more—and every one of my victories was a victory for them as well. They listened to my fear and frustration, but instead of letting me wallow in my inadequacy, they reminded me that my recovery required determination. Jason didn’t just focus on the physical rehabilitation during our sessions; we talked about how things were really going. Our dialogue was focused on who I was, not on what I had done or hoped to do. He was always concerned with what head space I was in.

  The challenge for those around me was that I was unable or unwilling to express how much pain I was in psychologically. The more that people close to me wanted to know how I was feeling, the more pressure I felt to spare them my distress. I usually responded with a simple “Just gotta keep fighting” or “I’m taking it one day at a time.” All sorts of generic, bullshit lines. I’d quickly change the conversation: “I’m okay—how are you?” Here I was, surrounded by people putting their lives on hold for me, waiting for some miracle that might never come. I didn’t want to show any mental weakness, and I internalized a lot of my emotions. But Jason seemed to recognize this right away. There was something redemptive about our connection.

  I had to trust that my therapists and doctors knew how to help my body heal. I needed to be patient with my body and believe that I would come through to the other side. I am forever grateful to them for pushing me through the pain—emotional and physical. They never let failure be
an option.

  10

  Complications

  Cheating had become the norm during my short stint in the NBA. If you’re a professional athlete on the road and you’re not being promiscuous, it’s because you’re actively trying not to be. Sleeping with my college girlfriend’s roommate was one thing, but the league was a different ball game. One of the many ways the life of a pro athlete is seductively warped is seeing how many women want to be with you. The sheer availability of casual sex will test any man’s desire to be faithful, and from someone as young and inexperienced as I was, it called for a level of strength and self-denial that I couldn’t summon at the time, or didn’t want to.

  The process wasn’t that difficult, because the road map had already been preapproved and laid out. All you had to do as a rookie was piggyback with one of the veterans who knew how the game was played.

  The team charter lands in City X at 11:00 P.M. The veteran already knows where to go and who to go with as soon as we touch down. After arriving at the team hotel, the veteran and his crew take off for an evening out. You arrive at the club at 12:30, already attracting attention when you walk in the door because of the crew’s abnormal height and authentic platinum and diamond jewelry. Chatter begins and heads turn as security escorts your crew to the VIP area, which is ideally located in a section of the club where women can easily spot you and your buddies. After “tipping” the security guards off with $100 apiece, you now have a blockade of massive men around you not letting anyone penetrate the circle. Five security guards only attract more attention, which is better for your crew in the long run because it makes you look that much more important than you really are. Random guys make attempts at saying hello but are held at bay while you are scoping out the scene, seeing who is deserving of your time. Cocky . . . yeah, I know.