Back from the Dead

by Bill Walton

  I had been out for only a few precious minutes. I didn’t want to overdo anything. So I turned and headed for home. As I came around the last bend, I was starting to slow down in front of our house. There on the far street corner were all the neighborhood teenagers—enjoying just another perfect San Diego summer day.

  When they saw me, they were stunned. “Bill! You’re on your bike! We haven’t seen you in forever, Bill! How’s your back? It must be feeling better, Bill! This is great, Bill! We are so happy for you! You’re riding your bike!”

  I was nodding and signaling acknowledgment, gratitude, and appreciation back to them. I was slowing down, pulling up in front of our house, getting ready to dismount.

  The fourteen-year-old boy who lived next door had a couple of beautifully fine California beach girls with him, all decked out in their bikinis, beads, and flowers. He apparently didn’t like the fact that everybody’s attention had momentarily shifted from him to me.

  So this young neighbor boy jumps up, grabs his Tony Hawk skateboard, and comes out into the street to put on a show and bring the focus back his way.

  Except he lost control on takeoff. And he plowed right into me. Knocking me off my bike and to the ground. Leaving me broken and helpless on the pavement, lying on the asphalt for a seeming eternity in my blood and tears.

  All the children ran. Just gone. Evaporated. Like dust in the wind.

  I looked back. My bike was broken.

  I reached down. My pelvis was broken.

  I reached back. My sacrum was broken.

  I was all alone. And I couldn’t get up off the street.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  Once in a While You Get Shown the Light, in the Strangest of Places If You Look at It Right

  All the Things I’ve Tried to Do But Only Did Half Way Please God, Don’t Let Me Die, There’s So Much Left to Do.

  With everything broken—again—I was back on the ground—one more time—and starting over again.

  But my spinal fusion and all of NuVasive’s hardware had held together through my crash. Initially that didn’t seem to make any difference. I couldn’t move due to the pain. Every breath I took. Every time I tried to turn over in bed. Every time I tried to get up and down. Every effort to get dressed. Every step I tried to take. Every movement that I tried to make. There it was. That burning, radiating, debilitating, excruciating, unrelenting pain was back.

  I could not differentiate the pain from the new bone fractures in my pelvis and sacrum from the nerve pain that Dr. Garfin had seemingly fixed in my spine surgery, now more than seven months gone by. I was back to using my walker. Lori started up with the Post-it notes—again, one more time.

  * * *

  I was back at the doctor’s office, the last place any spine patient ever wants to go. I told Dr. Garfin that I couldn’t do it all again. I just didn’t have it in me.

  He looked at me with those soft eyes, those eyes of someone who has seen so much, and has been here before. He asked me if I was familiar with Coach Wooden’s Pyramid of Success. I was in no mood to think back to those days. Back when I could run and play the game I loved. I was so mad, I didn’t even respond.

  He kept going—asking me if I remembered the foundation that Wooden had laid out for us all those years ago. I sat there with silent tears.

  He kept going. He laid out the fifteen human attributes and personal characteristics that make up the Pyramid. I silently nodded.

  He laid out Coach’s Seven-Point Creed. I had my head down. I couldn’t go on. But he did.

  He laid out the Two Sets of Threes and reviewed Coach Wooden’s maxims—none of which were making any sense at all to me now.

  He started into the tools that Wooden gave us to overcome the adversity that he knew would one day be needed—again, one more time.

  I finally looked up, and sadly, through the tears, said, “Please, what does any and all of this have to do with me? I just want all this pain to stop. I just want my life back. Why is this still happening?”

  Dr. Garfin looked right through me, with all my failures and limitations and the broken body, spirit, and life that I had and seemingly would have forever.

  He calmly and softly said, “Bill, I have two words for you here.”

  I didn’t want to hear it. Nothing made any sense anymore.

  He continued. “Bill, Coach Wooden spent fourteen years working on those fifteen building blocks in his Pyramid. He moved things around. He massaged, pondered, and reconsidered it day after day after day, always trying to get it just right. He has so much in there: industriousness, enthusiasm, friendship, loyalty, cooperation, intentness, initiative, alertness, self-control, commitment to the team, skill development, physical fitness, poise, confidence, and competitive greatness.”

  I told Dr. Garfin that I knew all this stuff. That I had lived it. That I had memorized it. But still I was hurting—again. And everything was broken. And nothing was working. And all he or anybody else had for me was words.

  Dr. Garfin had been there himself before. With the calm serenity of someone who has seen so much, who has done so much, he slowly and methodically soldiered on.

  “Bill, I’ve got two words for you. Years after Coach Wooden finished the Pyramid, he went back and added two external words at the top. And that is the medicine that I have for you today. Just two words, Bill—Faith and Patience. Do you believe? And are you willing to put in the lifetime that this is going to take?”

  And then he was silently off to his next patient—who had his own broken body, his own broken spirit and dream, his own broken life.

  * * *

  The ticking of the relentless metronome and the turning pages of the calendar have now brought me here to today—a today when I am all better. Today, I have no pain. Today I take no medication. I had no idea what life was like without back pain. What has happened to me is a miracle.

  And how do you ever even begin to thank the people who have saved your life, who have given you your life back?

  All because of people like Dr. Garfin, Dr. Daly, Dr. Wagner, Bruce Inniss, Coach Wooden, and the countless others who spend their lives trying to help others live theirs better. Today, I have the great fortune of good health. That is a privilege. With privilege comes responsibility and obligation.

  During my long, hard climb back, I reconnected with Rolf Benirschke, a lifelong friend and former NFL kicker for our Chargers who, after his own near-death battle with ulcerative colitis, has dedicated the last thirty years of his life to his Great Comebacks project, supporting patients with Crohn’s disease, ulcerative colitis, and colorectal and bladder cancer. With Rolf’s and NuVasive’s help, we have started our own program, the Better Way Back, to help spinal patients and the entire world of spine health understand the possibilities for a new life ahead and to begin the eventual climb back up and into this great game of life one more time—just as I’ve been able to do.

  Today, I spend hours, every day, on the phone, face-to-face, and online, working for and with NuVasive’s Better Way Back program trying to help people who are going to kill themselves because their spine and bodies simply hurt too much. Every day, I talk people into putting the gun down and taking a step back from the edge of the cliff. I am an ambassador and advocate working constantly with doctors, hospitals, insurance companies, government regulators, policy makers, medical-device manufacturers, the FDA, the IRS, and any and all players in this huge world of people who are trying to make a difference, to save lives, to give life to people who think there is nothing left to live for, and who ultimately think that they’d be better off dead.

  I’ve also now had the chance to become a volunteer for the Challenged Athletes Foundation (CAF). We buy wheelchairs, prosthetics, and adaptive sports equipment for people who don’t have arms and legs so that they can participate in the game of life through sports. We provide friendship, mentoring, programs, and leadership to people who are struggling. Some of the groups of people
that we help are veterans coming back from our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, blown up and thinking that their lives are over; or young children who have been born with a serious birth defect or health crisis—children who never had the chance that so many of us too often take for granted; or people who have been in a terrible accident and lost their health and parts of their bodies, and are now faced with a seemingly impossible climb on an insurmountable mountain.

  I know that road all too well. Among my myriad of problems, I am always sick—sick of something or somebody. But I now know that I can always go to a CAF event and I’ll be better when I leave. Participation in sports, being part of a team, and music are my medicine. The CAF allows me to immerse myself in all of those at the same time, and to be there with all my teammates who are also trying to rebound and rebuild. We are all challenged athletes. Some of you just don’t know it yet.

  At the CAF, we ride our bikes, with a purpose. We are driven to changing lives, one turn of the crank at a time. My bike is the most important thing that I have. It is my gym, my wheelchair, and my church all in one. My bike represents everything that I love and believe in. My bike is a combination of science, technology, engineering, the team, discipline, organization, repetition, goals, practice, preparation, and so much more. My bike gives me freedom and independence. My bike is my ultimate tool and friend—it allows me to go places that I cannot get to on my own. Now, through the CAF, every turn of that wheel represents a difference in somebody else’s life, a difference that some folks can no longer make for themselves.

  Early on, I was off with the CAF for one of their signature events, the Million Dollar Challenge (MDC), which is a dream to annually raise a million dollars or more by riding our bikes down the coast of California from San Francisco to San Diego over the course of a week. We stop for the night along the way in Santa Cruz, Big Sur, Pismo Beach, Santa Barbara, Santa Monica, and Dana Point, before rolling into San Diego.

  One hundred riders, and an incredible support team, and we’re off.

  This was going to be a really big challenge for me, still only eighteen months after my spine surgery, which, in the world of spine health, is the blink of an eye.

  The night before we started, at the orientation in the hotel in San Francisco, the CAF asked me to say a few words.

  I spoke about my health challenges, particularly with my spine reconstruction. I tied in the anticipation of a big ride, challenge, and event, with being part of a special team, and everything I had learned about the climb from Coach Wooden and the Grateful Dead. I weaved in the story of me stealing Coach Wooden’s Lucky Penny and how I thought I was finally breaking free from that curse. I sang selected lyrical phrases of “The Wheel” throughout. You’ll have to ask the audience if any of it made any sense.

  Then we got to ride, and every time we stopped during the course of our trip, other people on our journey would quietly come up to me and express their sadness and sorrow for my predicament—with the Curse and all. And then they would reach into their pockets and pull out a small coin, present it to me, and say that hopefully this replacement coin might do the trick in helping to break the Curse.

  As we rolled down the coast, I accumulated quite the collection of new lucky coins, including one that I am never without to this very day. It came from Chris Self, who had been severely injured, losing his leg fighting for us in Iraq. He gave me one of his Special Forces coins after I nearly got him killed again, this time when I got us lost and everything got away from us. Chris and his tandem teammate, Gil, who had been blown up in Afghanistan, ill-advisedly followed me off-course for some extra and most beautiful mileage on the ocean side of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. When I missed a turn, we ended up in the urban jungle and traffic nightmare of San Pedro and Wilmington. As we were navigating the gridlock, Chris and Gil got out in front of me, where they were hit and run over on their special bike by a negligently out-of-control car driver who was making a forced left turn in way too much of a hurry—going who knows where.

  The earlier riding, farther north, was fantastic, but the weather was awful. It was bitter cold, wet and raining, and windy. And on the second day, the weather got even worse. It was now freezing, the wind was gale force, and the rain was coming down sideways. I’d decided that we needed some songs to get us through, picking out Jerry Garcia’s “Mission in the Rain” and Bob Dylan’s “Chimes of Freedom.”

  So we’re with a small group, rolling through the farmlands of Monterey County heading toward the incredible splendor of Carmel, Pebble Beach, and the 17 Mile Drive—on our way to Big Sur. When and where everything should have been perfect, it was simply miserable, as the weather could not be worse if we were in Antarctica—or Portland, Oregon, or Bristol, Connecticut.

  With the terrible conditions, people are crashing, going down all over the place. Flat tires are slowing everybody down, and it is all just awful. I’m trying to teach our group the lyrics to “Mission in the Rain”—“some folks would be so happy to have just one dream come true.” When they were thoroughly confused and dispirited from the disastrous conditions, I shifted to “Chimes of Freedom”—“and for every uptight, hung-up person in this whole wide universe, we gaze upon the chimes of freedom flashing.” I was trying to pick things up, but nothing was working.

  And it was all getting worse—if that was even possible. We were blue from the cold. We were soaking wet. We were battered, bruised, cut, and covered with mud, muck, fertilizer, manure, and worse. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet.

  I kept asking myself, “What are we doing? Why are we out here in this miserable mess?”

  I looked to my right. There was my friend Tommy, with the biggest grin on his face, having the time of his life. I looked to my left. There was Brad. He was even happier. Tommy looks at me and yells out, “Come on, Bill . . . We’re riding our bikes . . . Here we go! The coast of California . . . ‘Mission in the Rain’ . . . One dream, Bill. One dream, one time!”

  Brad took it up. “Let’s go, Bill. Ring the chimes of freedom. We’re right there, far between sundown’s finish and midnight’s broken toll. Come on!”

  I looked back to Tommy. He has one arm.

  I looked back to Brad. He has one leg.

  I realize—as the rain’s flying sideways into my face—that I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world, and there’s no place I’d rather be.

  * * *

  I have learned over time, and the hard way, that health is everything—the most basic element in our goal to be happy. It’s rivaled only by love. It is hard to be happy in life without being happy in love. I’m lucky—I now have both, when forever I thought that I would have neither.

  My wife, Lori, bless her, embodies all the goodness in the world that I am constantly searching for. Lori has done so much to help me and others. Through fifteen years of training service dogs, she has given much of her life so that others can have a better one. Every day I’m amazed to have her in my life, right here, within arm’s reach.

  Our boys, too, have grown all the way up and embarked on amazing lives, starting families of their own. I miss them more than words can tell, but they’re out there chasing their own dreams now and building their lives. One of the things that I am most proud of as a dad is that the boys seem to genuinely like each other, and appear to be happy for each other’s successes, as different and varied as all their lives are.

  Christopher, the youngest, got married first, on July 12, 2008. He made a point of telling us that while he was always the youngest and the last, he was going to be first here. He married Gina, from Orange County, his college sweetheart and captain of the soccer team at San Diego State. Chris and Gina got married at the big, huge Immaculata Church at the University of San Diego—ten minutes from our house. High on a hill, the church offers some of the best views of all of San Diego—from downtown, across the sweeping vistas of the bays and ocean, to Point Loma, and all the way north to La Jolla. It was beautiful and very formal. And they even let me play in the band at the
reception. Today Chris and Gina have three children, Olivia, Chase, and Parker. They live near Gina’s family in Orange County.

  Adam was next to get married—to Tracy, on July 12, 2010. Tracy’s a native angel from San Diego. Adam said that since he and Christopher had been born on the same day, albeit six years apart, it was Adam’s responsibility that he and Tracy get married on the same day as Chris and Gina did, this time two years after Chris. Adam and Tracy got married in Hawaii, at Olowalu—a sacred point jutting out into the ocean on the leeward side of west Maui, in the shadow of the West Maui Mountains. It was fantastic—one of the most perfect places I’ve ever been. We had the best time, even though I’d initially put up a fuss about having to fly out so far so soon after my spine surgery. We stayed at Don Nelson’s incredible beachfront compound in Paia. The day after the wedding I was up with the sun, and then after wading into the ocean I climbed on my bike and rode the thirty-six miles up to the top of the Haleakala Crater. The numerous climate zones that I passed through were minimal compared to the emotional ones. It was long and hard, but I made it. And now, every time I’m in Hawaii, I make a pilgrimage to the wedding site, calling out to Adam and Tracy and reporting back that all is well—and how proud, lucky, and happy I am for them. I also try to get back on that really big mountain, on my bike, every time. Adam and Tracy now live thirty minutes north of us, in Encinitas, with a daughter, Avery, and her new little brother, Patrick.

  Then it was Nathan. He married Ali, from Grafton, Wisconsin, about thirty miles north of Milwaukee. We flew in, as did a lot of other people from around the world. Nate has been on the move since leaving home for Princeton—and people showed up from all of his stops along the way: New Jersey; France, where he played professional basketball; Africa, where he worked for the United Nations; Wall Street; Boston, and the Celtics, where he worked for a while; Stanford, where he graduated from Phil Knight’s business school; and Los Angeles, where he works these days in the world of high finance and lives just a few turns of the cranks from the beach in Santa Monica.