I wasn’t working much at the time, so there were no more 6:30 set calls in the mornings. I’d lost my ride, not having driven race cars since MCI had gone under. I was a young guy with money and a great girlfriend. It was party time—until I could no longer deny that it was heading to a place I most definitely did not want to go. In the past, I had always been able to snap back to my professional self when there was work to do—I never fooled around with work, ever.
Still, I wasn’t doing anything productive with my days. In fact, I was sleeping away plenty of my days because my nights were so active. I was pretty aimless, and that was not good. I liked to have purpose, a reason to jump out of bed every morning. I thrive on goal setting and structure. I had no goals besides having a good time; conversely, everything that had kept me in line in the past was no longer there.
Having Naomi live with me was a huge move, one that in retrospect I am not sure either one of us really thought through completely. We hadn’t taken into account the kind of strain it would cause for her to move to a new city where she didn’t know anybody. We were no longer courting in London; she wasn’t visiting for five days; this was now her permanent life. We were both settling into a regular daily pattern. The novelty of life in a new country wore off for her, and the adjustment was tough. On both of us.
I was pushing the recreational habit hard—drinking, smoking cigarettes, and becoming irresponsible in a number of ways that were just not me. Skipping commitments here and there . . . being late . . . not returning calls . . . not being where I said I’d be . . . blowing friends off. At the time I felt these were all small things, and for a long time I found them easy to justify. It was insidious, actually. But I’m not the kind of guy who can kid himself for long. I realized pretty fast that I was going to do permanent damage to my relationship with Naomi, not to mention my career and reputation, which I had spent so many years creating and building. I hadn’t blown anything up yet, but this messing around had to stop. It was a humbling realization.
It was a hard pill to swallow, if you’ll excuse the expression. It’s always difficult to admit you’re wrong, admit you’re weak, admit there’s something you can’t handle—that you’ve made a mistake. I had been taking care of myself and making my own decisions since I was seventeen years old, and most had turned out well. It hurt my pride to admit failure and defeat. But make no mistake about it, my excessive partying had to stop.
All the goals that I had set for myself as a young man, I had attained. And I hadn’t bothered to set new ones. That was a big mistake. But one that I would rectify.
Indianapolis Motor Speedway
46222
I had no ride but wanted to stay involved in the racing world, so when I got a call from the Indy Racing League, I listened to their offer. Buddy McAtee asked if I wanted to meet with Bob Goodrich at NBC and talk about doing some color commentating for the IRL. I met with Bob and we explored the possibilities, and then ABC offered me the job. At that time in 2001, another Hollywood writers’ strike was looming, which was supposed to cripple the industry and bring show business to a screeching halt. I remembered the last strike, so when I got this offer, I figured why not? I should stay busy. How long could it take, anyway? Fourteen races? No big deal.
So . . . I joined the team and became a color commentator. I am here to say that while it was fun, and an excellent learning experience, I had absolutely no idea of everything that went into being a color commentator, or any sort of broadcaster. I had never done anything like that in my life, and it was much more difficult than I could have anticipated. I have a tremendous amount of respect for all those guys, as that was one tough job. I sat in the booth with well-known broadcasters Bob Jenkins and Larry Rice, while Jack Arute and Vince Welsh were the pit guys, giving viewers’ reports from the pits.
The entire time I was broadcasting two guys were talking to me, one in each ear, giving constant updates and information and direction. Meanwhile, I had to process what the other hosts were saying, while following the action and holding up my end of the commentary. When you’re a pro, it all looks and sounds very natural; trust me, it’s not. It’s a hard freaking job!
By far the best part of the whole experience was getting to call the Indy 500 with the legendary Al Michaels. As much fun as I had that year, however, it was indisputable that I was not a broadcaster . . . nor did I want to be. The memories were priceless, and I was glad I did it, but I was relieved when the season ended and I could return to my regular job. Of course, the writers’ strike that everyone had been fearing never actually materialized, so I really should have been working instead of broadcasting. However, I would never walk out on a commitment, and being allowed to sit in the booth, calling races, will remain a very cool memory for my entire life.
Best of all, since I was hanging around the paddock that whole year, when the IRL was thinking of bringing the Indy Lights racing series back, they thought of me. Kelley Racing called and asked me to campaign a car for them in what would now be called the Infiniti Pro Series. The series was being rebranded to highlight Infiniti, their big engine sponsor.
Now this was my kind of racing offer—a fantastic opportunity. Of course I agreed!
Outpost Estates
Hollywood Hills
90068
Excited about my new racing opportunities, I had nearly six months to fill before race season started so I returned to Toronto to do a couple of quick movies for my friend Peter Simpson. Then, while working on these short projects, I wound up signing to do a few more quickies. I was spending so much time there that I finally just bought a condo and lived in Toronto for six straight months.
While staying in Toronto with me, Naomi decided to pursue a dream she’d been nurturing for quite some time—to study to become a professional makeup artist. Since her teenage years she had been fascinated with cosmetics; she was the girl who always loved making up her friend’s faces. What she really wanted to do was learn how to do special effects makeup, a very complicated art. It was a natural profession for her, given her interest in arts and painting and sculpting. She took advantage of my time parked in Toronto and enrolled in the Makeup School. She was completely occupied with her classes the entire time we were there and got officially certified—first in her class!—just as it was time to head back to New York.
As my film projects were wrapping up, I made a quick trip to Los Angeles for several meetings. I met with Anthony Edwards at his production company on the Paramount lot and read for Tony and his partner, Dante Di Loreto (later to be the big-time television producer of Glee). I was going for a part in their new film Die Mommie Die!, starring Charles Busch and Natasha Lyonne, along with a very interesting group of performers. I landed the role and was asked to return to L.A. in June 2002 to begin shooting.
I also had a meeting with my agent, who pointed out that I’d been in New York for quite a while. “It’s probably time for you to return to L.A. You’ve been gone for so long, everyone has pretty much forgotten what you look like.” I had to agree. I thought that I should probably start looking around at houses. I put the Tribeca condo on the market and called my friend Fred Henry, a real estate broker in L.A.
Fred took me to see a few properties and we looked at a 1928 Spanish home in the Hollywood Hills that was just right. The house was in a very desirable neighborhood called Outpost Estates, a hillside community of 450 ’20s-style homes. The area was popular with actors and entertainment industry people, and I’d often dreamed of owning a house there someday. Built into the hill, the home’s garage was on the street level, with fifty-two steps leading up to the front door. I put in an offer immediately.
Production on Die Mommie Die! turned out to be an unbelievable experience and resulted in a campy, funny cult classic. I was in L.A. shooting the movie for the month of June and began the racing season for Kelley, then raced back to Toronto as soon as production wrapped. I helped Naomi sell a bunch of stuff, then we packed up the few things that were left and shipped t
hem to our new home in L.A. Our good furniture and everything else we owned was still in the New York condo, which we were showing furnished to attract prospective buyers. We didn’t have anything for the new house and we pretty much walked in the door to our new home that July with only two suitcases.
By this time, I was halfway through the racing season, driving the Kelley racing entry in the Infiniti Pro Series, and everything was going quite well; I was in third place overall and had been consistently running up front. I had to fly east for a race, so I looked around the empty house and told Naomi, “I’m just going to this race in Kentucky. When I get back, hopefully everything we shipped should be here, and we’ll deal with this empty house. See you on Sunday night, after the race.”
Kentucky Speedway
41806
The air was heavy and damp on that humid day in the middle of summer 2002 in the South. At the halfway point in the official season, I was third in line for the championship. I was driving my Infiniti Pro Series car, which is basically a 200 mph open wheel oval car, for the Kelley Racing Team. It looked like an Indy car but was a little bit smaller and a little bit slower.
We drivers took our regular warm-up laps, very standard, when somebody blew an engine. As usual, workers ran out and put down something called Quick Dry on the track. It soaked up all the oils and antifreeze and fluids. Usually, it zapped any moisture and blew away in an instant. Because of the weather that day, the Quick Dry didn’t blow away immediately.
Practice time was almost over; I’m not sure why they even sent us back out for more laps. Still, we returned to the track, and as I was coming out of turn one, a wheel touched the Quick Dry. I mean, barely touched it, and boom, I was in the wall at 187 miles an hour. It was over in an instant. The curtain came down, and I woke up three weeks later.
Although I was awake and talking during much of the next twenty days, I have absolutely no memory of it. Three weeks of my life were gone, and I will never get them back. Of course, I certainly heard plenty about them from friends and family.
AFTER THE WRECK, I was airlifted to the University of Kentucky Medical Center to be stabilized. I was bleeding out so fast that medical staff met the helicopter on the roof of the hospital with bags of O negative and immediately made transfusions to keep me alive. The seat belt that crossed my neck had sliced my carotid artery, so I was blowing blood seven feet in the air. There was a real danger of me bleeding to death before they could get me inside.
Jim Freudenberg, the Kelley Racing team manager, called my father in Canada from the hospital and said, “You need to get here, now.” He hung up and made the same call to Naomi, who was unpacking boxes in our new house. They were freaking out; the first reports on the news erroneously stated that I had died, causing a media sensation. My mother had seen my death announced on a news crawl across the television as she sipped her morning coffee and was devastated as she frantically called my sister in New York. There was general panic among my family members as they all scrambled to catch flights from their various locations.
The two days were incredibly tense as doctors and nurses worked around the clock to stabilize me. As the staff worked heroically on me, there were two moments when I died on the table. Literally, flatlined. There was some concern I would have to have excess fluid drained from my brain, but fortunately that turned out to be unnecessary. A tube was installed to drain excess fluid from my lungs. I had a separate oxygen tube down my throat at all times to sustain me. Unconscious and with a broken back, I was fed intravenously from a bag of white goo packed full of nutrients to keep me alive.
Naomi, carrying Swifty, had been the first to arrive on a flight from Los Angeles. She was horrified when I emerged from intensive care. My eyes were protruding like tennis balls, and my nose was literally ripped off my face. They had pulled it back and tacked it down temporarily, but it looked monstrous. She tiptoed around to sit at my bedside, gently holding my hand and saying my name. I didn’t stir.
Luke Perry happened to be working in Nashville when the news broke about my accident. He was the next to arrive. When Luke came in my room, he got right in my face and said, “Who am I? What’s my name?” Everyone waited for a response. “Who am I? What’s my name?” he repeated a little louder this time. I finally responded. “Coy L. Perry,” I whispered. My throat was dry and had been damaged by the breathing tube they had used to resuscitate me.
The doctors and nurses all looked confused, until Luke informed them that Coy was indeed his name . . . his real name. . . .
They then all looked more than a little relieved, as this was more brain function than I had shown in the previous two days. I was starting to show signs of stabilizing. It wouldn’t be long before I would be moving on to the doctors who would be tasked with putting my broken body back together.
Rehabilitation Hospital
of Indiana
46254
I was unloaded from another helicopter, once again put in intensive care, and prepped for back surgery. Dr. Terry Trammell, renowned surgeon and now retired, was probably the best in the world at putting race car drivers back together again. He was a genius, and he’s the one who undertook the delicate operation to put my spine back together. Two rods plus twelve screws in the back; the surgery was absolutely brutal. It was also quite dangerous, as he had cautioned my father and Naomi beforehand. There were no guarantees but, fortunately, it was determined that I had come through with flying colors—no paralysis. I was one of the lucky ones.
Very shortly after the surgery, I woke up in the middle of the night, calling for Naomi. She and my sister, Justine, rushed to my side to ask how I felt. I looked at them and said very clearly, “I saw the devil.” “And what happened?” they asked. “I embraced him,” I said. “Then I pushed him away.” The words were so eerie and cryptic from someone who had pretty much awoken from the dead that they completely freaked out. They called the doctors and wrote down the phrase to ask me about later; but it was my deep unconscious responding.
After ten days in the hospital, I was moved to the Rehabilitation Hospital of Indiana. RHI is the phenomenal facility where I was faced with major rehab. They have many of the finest surgeons and physical therapists in the world on staff. At some point after my arrival, I woke up one day and asked where I was. Naomi patiently explained where I was and what had happened to me, for probably the tenth time. I’d asked and been told the details many times and had held full conversations with several people. However, I hadn’t been present for those. This time I was really awake for good. I was back from dreamland, and I was one hurting guy.
I was on some major heavy-duty painkillers, and I could feel them slowing down my mind. A few days later I called Dr. Scheid and Dr. Trammell to my bedside and said to them, “I am on so many drugs, guys, I don’t know how I’m really doing. I’ve got to get off all these painkillers.”
“That’s not a good idea, Jason,” they said.
“Just take me off everything . . . and then we can establish a baseline of exactly where I’m at. I’m not even sure what really hurts!” I said. Somehow, I talked them into it, and the drugs were slowly withdrawn over the next four hours. Once they were out of my system, I wanted them back. Quick! That was a very uncomfortable hour, particularly for my back. My feet, though wrecked, were completely bound up in casts, so that wasn’t the worst, but my back—the pain was excruciating.
I was sweating and in complete agony when they resumed painkillers, though at a greatly reduced dose. They slapped a transdermal patch on me, and in a few minutes the relief flooded through my body. I had established a baseline all right! It hurt like hell! My brain was still scrambled from the concussion, but now it wasn’t also clouded by so many drugs. I felt much better on lower doses. I was ready to start the healing process.
The day of my accident had been a bad day all round for the Kelley Racing Team. One of the guys from our team got run over in the pits, broke his pelvis, and wound up in the same rehab facility as I did. As I got str
onger, I used to laboriously get out of bed, get myself situated in my wheelchair, and roll over to visit him, to see how he was doing and talk about racing.
I was highly motivated and trying hard to get out of the hospital. My day was filled to the brim. I’d wake up in the morning and have breakfast. Then a physical therapist would come and we’d head to the gym for exercises and therapy. Next I had speech therapy, which I very much needed. I couldn’t speak clearly; in fact, I was slurring my words like the victim of a minor stroke. Patiently, laboriously, we worked on my speech and pronunciation every day.
In the afternoons, I had intensive cognitive therapy. My therapist would ask me to remember three words—say, cat, hat, and red. Then we would speak for two minutes. When the two minutes were up, she would say, “What are the three words I asked you to remember?” Try as I might, for a good while I could not even recall one of them. She spent a great deal of time encouraging me, explaining how my brain was capable of amazing feats. It would remap itself. My brain would search out and find new routes to take to bypass the damaged parts. I needed to read, and do logic problems, and play memorization games, but besides that, all I could do was wait and let my brain heal.
I had never been much good at waiting. I had a heart-to-heart one day with Dr. Trammell. “What kind of healing process should I be expecting?” I asked him.
“If you stop smoking right now, your spine—and the other bones—will heal in one year. Your bones should be as hard and sturdy as they were before the accident. If you resume smoking when you leave the hospital, you can expect the entire healing cycle to take three years—oh, and your bones will never be the same.”
Jason Priestley Page 15