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

by J. R. Martinez

  The fans were out in full force—at the airport, inside the grocery store, in the streets, on the beach.

  “We loved you on Dancing with the Stars!” they’d yell.

  “The whole island watches!” they’d shout. People approached us, took photos on their cell phones. Even the other tourists were agog.

  But we managed to put a wall of privacy around us and enjoy our time together, lying on the beach and playing around in the water.

  On our return to L.A. we found ourselves dodging paparazzi at the airport. The next morning I was still asleep in my bed when I heard Diana squawk: “What? Wait! Oh my God!”

  She was looking at her phone. “There are photos of us on the beach in the Cayman Islands in the tabloids!”

  We’d had no idea people were photographing us during our more private times. It hit me at that moment: I was a celebrity now. In a way it was cool, but all sense of privacy was out the door. My life was never going to be the same, at least for the foreseeable future. I’d have to conduct myself with care.

  One thing I understand about my fans is that they feel like they have been part of my journey—the people who watched me on All My Children were with me from the start, and those who tuned in every Monday and Tuesday to Dancing with the Stars saw me grow and helped me win. I’m not untouchable—I’m one of them. It’s because of my background, my blue-collar family, my military service.

  I’m so grateful to have had the opportunities I’ve had and the perks that come along with them. For example, in 2012 I was lucky enough to attend Super Bowl XLVI in Indianapolis, where the New England Patriots faced the New York Giants. There I saw pro athletes, such as Deion Sanders, whom I revered when I was growing up. I loved the Dallas Cowboys and was thrilled at the sight of him playing on my TV every week. At the Super Bowl, some guests were invited to play a game of flag football with various celebrities and former NFL players. One of my teammates was Sanders.

  And although I was just out there having fun, something really good happened on the field that day. I met former player Martin Gramatica, who does construction now. I introduced him to Dan, and Martin’s company partnered with Operation Finally Home to build a house for a wounded veteran in Tampa.

  How do you process this kind of life? I can understand now why a lot of celebrities get nutty. One minute you’re hanging out with your old friends and the next you’re playing football with your childhood idols.

  In October 2011 I was on the cover of People. It’s hard to explain how surreal it was to see my face smiling out at me—and everyone else—while waiting in the checkout line at the drugstore or picking up milk at the market. The very next month I was named as an honoree in the magazine’s annual feature, “Sexiest Man Alive.” This distinction triggered a wave of emotions in me. I reflected on the way I’d frequently viewed myself during the previous eight years—as someone whose scars defined him. To me, this magazine credit meant I’d grabbed the big win on behalf of everyone out there who has disfigurements, disabilities, or insecurities, showing the world a different kind of sexy.

  Sometimes the fame can have a downside, like when an overzealous fan wrote inappropriate comments on social media about Diana. I may be fair game, but my loved ones are off-limits.

  But then, most of us are susceptible to getting a little kooky over celebrities. Diana and I attended the Screen Actors Guild Awards in Los Angeles, which was a big show, red carpet and all. At the after-party, I almost bumped into comedienne and actress Tina Fey. I don’t have a thing for her, but I think she’s mad hilarious. But suddenly, standing there, I was so nervous I couldn’t even say hi. I instantly developed a crush on her.

  All night long, I was saying to Diana, “Let’s go walk by Tina Fey again.” I was goo-goo about her. “I want to make out with Tina Fey.”

  “Go ahead,” Diana said. “I’ll bet you can’t even talk to her.”

  I never did.

  Still, I wouldn’t trade my fame for the world—the good outweighs the bad, particularly when I get to use it for the right reasons. I don’t mean when Diana and I go out to dinner at a popular restaurant and get escorted to the front of the line. That’s nice for us, but shitty for everyone else. No, for me, it’s about the platform that allows me to bring attention to something important—especially my favorite cause. It’s icing on the cake when something funny happens in conjunction.

  In April 2012 I made it to the White House. The visit was in observance of the “Joining Forces” initiative to honor and support veterans and military families. I’d been asked to serve as a judge on a panel to determine grants for various veterans’ organizations. I’d be meeting the First Lady, Michelle Obama, and the Second Lady, Jill Biden. It was a crazy privilege, and I was so excited.

  Once I was admitted onto the grounds, I saw this guy Steve I know. He is the president of a veterans’ organization and, I have to admit, someone I’ve always wanted to impress. We began to talk and soon were ushered into the Diplomatic Reception Room, where we’d pose for photos with Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Biden.

  “I’m going to go to the restroom,” Steve said.

  “Do you know how to find it?” a White House attendant asked.

  “Yes, I know exactly where it is.”

  Wow, I thought, he knows exactly how to get to the closest restroom in the White House. He’s really a heavy hitter.

  “I have to go, too,” I said, so we walked together to the men’s room, chatting. The two urinals were a bit too close together for my comfort, so I headed into the stall and closed the door. We continued to shoot the breeze. I unzipped my fly and tried to do my business. To put it politely, for some reason I was only able to expel the smallest amount. In the now quiet of the restroom, all sounds were magnified. Oh Lord, I thought. I’m stuck here. Now Steve is going to think I wanted to come to the bathroom just to hang out with him.

  I closed my zipper and went to flush the toilet. I saw a little dial on the side of it. This was the White House—maybe it was a fancy way to flush the toilet. I reached down and turned it a little. I was appalled to see a stream of water shoot straight up at me, soaking my crotch before I could dodge. It was the bidet.

  I heard Steve announce that he was finished. I walked out of the stall and washed my hands, trying to look natural, as if I didn’t have a big wet spot on the front of my pants. If I were able to blush, my face would’ve been flame red. Steve and I walked back to the Diplomatic Reception Room. I didn’t look down. The aides told me that I’d be the first one to pose with Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Biden. When I finally received a copy of the photo in the mail, I was amused to see that the image showed all of us only from the waist up.

  January 1, 2012. I’d been asked to serve as the grand marshal of the Pasadena Tournament of Roses, the parade that precedes the annual Rose Bowl football game.

  Everything was over the top. They gave us a luxurious two-story suite. My mother and Diana’s parents were flown in first class. I received a hero’s welcome as I rode in a convertible along the parade route. It was the perfect beginning to an exciting year, and we were on the highest of highs.

  But at the end of the trip, while Diana’s parents were still in town, we learned that her seventeen-year-old sister, Lauren, who lived with her parents in Queens, had unexpectedly passed away.

  It was another cold reminder to me that nothing is forever. As great as the first-class treatment can be, it doesn’t bring back Lauren. This was the worst reality check anyone could ever receive. And it made me appreciate my mom even more, how she’d never gotten the chance to say goodbye to Anabel, the same way Diana’s parents hadn’t been able to say goodbye to their daughter.

  Diana was devastated by her little sister’s death. She began to look upon her pregnancy almost as a sign. While she didn’t believe that God takes a life to give a life, she felt that God knew he was going to take Lauren from us—and so this new baby would be a gift. Not to replace, but to ease the pain.

  And she has. On May 2, 2012, Lauryn
Anabelle was born. Anyone who’s a parent knows that the emotion surrounding the birth of a child is impossible to put into words. Fatherhood is something I’ve always wanted. But after I got injured, I thought it would never happen for me.

  When I was a kid and that third Sunday in June rolled around, I always wished my mother, “Happy Father’s Day, too, Mom.” Now I just want her to be able to enjoy the rest of her life and do what she wants to do, instead of what she has to do. I want her to have fun with her granddaughter and be able to come spend time with Belle whenever she wants. After eleven years, my mom’s relationship with Celestino has ended, and she’s thinking about what she wants to do next.

  As excited as I am when I behold my tiny daughter, there’s a lot of fear in me as well. I hope I do everything right with her, whether it’s changing her diaper today, fixing a scraped knee when she falls off her first bike, or helping mend a broken heart when some guy she’s dating does her wrong.

  But the most important thing is that she’ll always know that her dad is there for her. The best part for me will be witnessing all she becomes and grows into. From her first steps to her first report card to walking her down the aisle, I’m excited about all of it.

  One thing about being in the spotlight is having people come up to me because they’ve heard my story or read an article about me or watched me on television. Almost invariably, they say, “I don’t think I could’ve gone through that at age nineteen.”

  And almost invariably, I say, “With all due respect, what makes you think I was ready to go through that?”

  The truth is, no nineteen-year-old could imagine living through such an event. I don’t think any forty-five-year-old could.

  What I’ve learned in my life, and one of the reasons I decided to write this book, is that people need to understand and accept that everything we go through in life will prepare us for our own big explosion. In my case, it was an actual blast, but for others it could be a painful divorce, illness, job loss. No matter what, we are all going to face the unexpected (and the unwanted) challenges in our lives, and what matters is the way we cope.

  Back in 2004, when I first saw my old pals from my unit and I was so angry and hurt that they’d basically ignored me, I didn’t understand what that explosion had meant to them. I began to feel differently in 2010 when I started to work on this book and I reached out to some of the guys to get their version of events. Hearing them talk about that day in Iraq made me realize that a lot of them hadn’t reached out to me because they didn’t know what to say. Even years later, some still felt guilty, wondering if they could have done anything differently to protect their men.

  I’m very grateful when people share their stories with me, when they tell me that something I’ve said has resonated with or inspired them. And if there is a silver lining to my experience, it is that—the chance to show others that even during the worst of times, we can still maintain hope.

  One woman, a cancer survivor, told me that she never left the house without a wig, because she had lost all her hair from chemotherapy and felt embarrassed about the way she looked. She said that after meeting me, she went out minus her wig, and for the first time since her illness she felt proud of who she is.

  In 2011 I traveled to a high school in Los Angeles for a speaking engagement. Later in the day, I was able to meet with some of the kids, mostly members of the school’s theater group. One girl, a brunette with dark skin, started crying when I hugged her. I didn’t ask her for an explanation; I just held her. Then I stepped back and gripped both of her shoulders with my hands. “Whatever you’re going through—it will get better,” I told her. I hoped that it would.

  Later that year, when I was a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, I received a letter from this student, addressed to me care of the ABC offices in L.A. “Dear J.R.,” it read. “I just wanted to tell you that meeting you saved my life.” She wrote that she had cried in my arms that day because she had been at a low point. She had surrendered her life in her mind, and she had already figured out how, when, and where she’d reach this sad goal. But after hearing me speak, she’d put her plans on hold. Watching me battle week after week on Dancing had prompted her to rethink her own challenges. How awesome is that?

  Of course, I share a particularly vital bond with burn survivors. We’re tough people, and nobody in the world knows pain the way we do. Fortunately for me, I was able to meet one remarkable teen who inspires me as much as she says I inspire her. Her name is Jenna Bullen, and at age three she was burned over 95 percent of her body when a water heater ignited in her family garage. Jenna’s goal is to become a motivational speaker.

  In 2011 Jenna, who is from Oklahoma City, was a guest on Dr. Drew’s show Lifechangers. The producers had heard that Jenna was a fan of mine, so they had me tape a greeting to her that she viewed in front of the studio audience. What she didn’t know is that they’d invited me to the studio to surprise her that day. It was a magic moment when I came up behind the unsuspecting girl onstage to give her a big hug.

  After that, Jenna became my lucky charm. She came to Los Angeles to be my special guest in the audience of Dancing with the Stars. She helped me pay it forward when we produced a public service announcement together benefiting the Phoenix Society for Burn Survivors. Our aim was to get the word out about the resources and network of support for others like us.

  In 2009 I met Army Sergeant Joel Tavera, one of the thousands of service men and women who have been injured since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq began. Joel’s life-changing event occurred in March 2008, when a rocket blast burned more than 60 percent of his body, destroyed his right leg, disordered his brain, and caused him to have four fingers amputated. It also left him blind.

  I met Joel during one of my trips to BAMC to visit troops. I immediately fell in love with his attitude, his sense of humor, his outlook for the future, and his plans to give back to others. I promised his family that I’d follow him everywhere he goes, and I have. Joel and I have become great friends and talk about everything from recovery to life opportunities to our old days in the Army. In between visits, we text like a couple of teenagers. Joel is another person who gives me as much as I give him.

  I increasingly think that housekeeper in the ICU was right when she said that someday I would find out why this accident happened to me—perhaps no time more so than one night in the fall of 2010. I’d hopped into my truck with Romeo, who goes practically everywhere with me, and gone to get something to eat. I’d just gotten back into town and was exhausted. I was really looking forward to relaxing in front of Monday Night Football.

  I stopped for gas on the way home and, while I was filling my tank, Romeo somehow leaned against the lock on the inside of the truck door. With a click, he’d locked me out. I didn’t realize it until I tried to get back in.

  “Oh no!” I wailed.

  I peered through the glass and there, on the console, were my keys and my phone. I spent a few fruitless minutes trying to sweet-talk Romeo into unlocking the door—yeah, I know, but I was desperate. None of my loud baby-voice entreaties of “Come here, buddy!” caused him to miraculously develop language skills. He wagged his tail furiously and barked, but he wasn’t able to make the connection.

  Thanking the skies for small favors that I still had my wallet, I went into the shop and bought some Doritos and a Gatorade and asked for my change in quarters for the pay phone. I borrowed the phone book and looked up locksmiths. The first two I called told me it would be at least an hour-and-a-half wait. The third one said he could be right over.

  A few blessed minutes later, this skinny Latino guy, with the drained look of a person who’s been working too much for not enough pay, showed up. But he took on a new energy once he realized that he knew me from All My Children, and we got to talking. He told me he and his wife were having issues, but they had watched videos of me speaking and that had inspired them to take their own tough times in stride. I shared some of my own challenges with him, and be
fore you know it, I had to remind him that he’d come to unlock my truck.

  “Let me go get my tools,” he said.

  As I waited for him to return, the driver’s door swung open. Implausibly, Romeo had unlocked the truck door! This is where my faith comes in: I believe that whole event happened for a reason. I didn’t really need to watch the game that night—I needed to be out there, at that gas station, talking with that locksmith.

  And the hits just keep on coming. On the Friday after Thanksgiving 2011, just a few days after the finale of Dancing with the Stars, my cell rang. I was at a lunch meeting with my literary agent.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Is this Mr. Martinez?” a woman asked.

  Yes, it was, I told her.

  “Please hold the line for a call from Defense Secretary Leon Panetta,” she said.

  I held the line.

  A moment later Secretary Panetta came on. “Congratulations on your victory, Mr. Martinez,” he said. He thanked me for speaking up on behalf of the troops and invited me to visit him the next time I was in Washington.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I’ll be there next week,” I said.

  And that’s how I found myself at the Pentagon, where I was welcomed like a conquering hero in an institution full of them. As I was escorted through the maze toward the secretary’s office, men and women in uniform flowed out from every direction, slapping me on the back and congratulating me.

  I was introduced to Deputy Defense Secretary Ashton B. Carter and Army General Martin E. Dempsey, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. General Raymond Odierno, the Army chief of staff, joked with me about Dancing. “I bet your fan base in the military gave you an extra edge to triumph over the Kardashians.”

  Never would I have imagined, back in 2002 as a nineteen-year-old private, that one day I’d be sharing a few yuks in the Pentagon with senior military leaders.

  Finally it was time to see Secretary Panetta. I walked into his office, met his eyes, and did a little cha-cha step toward him. We spoke for a minute about the show and my victory, and I joked about showing him some dance steps. He politely declined. Then he thanked me again for speaking up for our troops overseas.