by Drew Brees
Between dealing with my parents’ split, my injury in high school, and the threat of replacement and benching in the NFL, I thought I’d faced a decent share of adversity so far in my life. I considered myself to be pretty tough mentally. But that was all child’s play compared to what lay ahead. I was about to face the most defining moment of my life.
Under the Knife
As soon as I left the locker room after the fateful game against Denver, I called Dr. James Andrews of Birmingham, Alabama, to talk about my injury. He’s known as one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country, especially when it comes to knees, elbows, and shoulders. There was no question about where I would go.
“Yeah, yeah, I figured you’d be calling me,” Dr. Andrews said in his Southern drawl. “I saw the play live on TV.”
Brittany and I flew to Alabama and stayed with her parents, Pete and Kathie Dudchenko, who happened to live in Birmingham at the time. If you ask Brittany, she thought my initial exam with Dr. Andrews would do more damage than the hit had done. He pulled, pushed, and rotated my arm every possible direction. From the corner of my eye I could see her cringing as if she were in physical pain herself. Dr. Andrews took a look at the results from the MRI, and his face was grim. “I’ll be honest. It’s a tough injury. It looks like your labrum’s torn pretty bad. I’m not quite sure about the full extent. There’s some rotator cuff damage too. I’m going to need to get in there and see.”
I swallowed hard. Was this the end of everything I’d worked so hard for? Then he added in his quiet, confident way, “But you came to the right place. Once I get in there, I’ll fix it all.”
“Are you going to be able to do this with just a scope?” I asked. If he used arthroscopic surgery, there was a possibility I could recover in eight months or so. On that schedule, if I pushed myself hard, I might make it back for training camp in July. If he had to cut, I would need another two months of rehab at the very least to rebuild the shoulder muscles that would be sliced through during surgery. Best-case scenario, I might be able to return midseason. Worst-case scenario . . . well, I wasn’t even going to go there.
“I hope so,” Dr. Andrews said. “But if you have significant cuff damage, I might have to cut.”
When he said the word cut, it was like taking another hit, just as powerful as the physical one that had landed me here. My mind raced with anxious thoughts. Will I ever throw again? And if I do, will I throw in the NFL?
“I’ll fix you up,” Dr. Andrews said. “But the surgery is just the beginning. The real question is how committed you are to the rehab. If you’re even going to have a chance at coming back, that’s what will get you there.”
The thought of the long road ahead was overwhelming, so I tried not to think beyond the surgery. That was priority number one.
Brittany sat with me before I went into surgery, and we prayed together. It was all we could do—this was out of our hands. Later she told me that as she sat in the waiting room with her parents, Dr. Andrews had her paged to the nurses’ station three times to let her know everything was going well. She said her heart sank each time because she thought he was going to tell her something had gone wrong.
As I was coming out of the anesthesia after surgery, a nurse came to check on me. Still groggy, the first thing I said was “Did he cut? How’s my rotator cuff?”
“Let me look at the chart,” she said. An infinitely long pause. “Yes. He had to repair the rotator cuff.”
“Oh no . . .” My heart sank. I pictured the doctor slicing through the muscle of my shoulder—my livelihood. Things were worse than I’d feared.
I was wheeled back to my room still in shock. Brittany and her parents came in. I tried to put on a brave face, but I was barely holding it together. Brittany gave me a kiss, and with tears in her eyes, she told me they didn’t have to cut. Being pretty out of it still from the drugs, I told her she was wrong and also that I thought someone had punched me because my eye was swollen. She laughed and tried to explain that it was probably from being on my side during the surgery, but I couldn’t make sense of anything. I was convinced this was the beginning of the end.
Dr. Andrews walked in and shook hands with everyone. Then he came to my bed and just stood there with a smile on his face.
“So you had to cut,” I said, wishing he’d stop smiling.
“Nope!”
I was shocked. “The nurse told me you had to repair the rotator cuff.”
“Well, I did, but I was able to scope it all. It took seven scope holes and eleven anchors in your shoulder, but we got it done.”
He explained that a normal labrum tear might require three or four arthroscopic holes and four or five anchors at most. In other words, my injury was highly devastating compared to most. But in that moment the doctor gave me a precious gift: hope. With God’s help, there was a chance I might make it back. I was ecstatic. So relieved. If I could have jumped up and kissed Dr. Andrews on the mouth right then, I would have.
Dr. Andrews beamed at me. The words he said next were a cup of cold water to a thirsty man.
“If I had to do that surgery a hundred times, I couldn’t have done it as well as I just did.”
Relief flooded over me. There are no better words you could ask to hear from someone who has just put you under the knife.
He tapped me on the chest. “Now it’s up to you, Drew.”
I spent the next two nights in the hospital with Brittany on a reclining chair beside me. She tells me I single-handedly prepared her for having babies after the way she had to take care of me postsurgery. I had always believed I was fairly ambidextrous, but it turns out I needed help with everything from putting in my contacts to brushing my teeth and bathing. And let’s just say there was a bedpan or two involved as well.
Working My Way out of the Sling
I was told at the beginning of rehab that if everything went smoothly, it would be eight months before I could play again. And I wouldn’t feel totally “normal” for two years. Except for my ACL tear in high school, I had barely gone a day of my life without football—I couldn’t even imagine eight months. But I knew I couldn’t focus on that huge obstacle right now. As it was, getting through each day was going to require a minor miracle. A good friend of mine once told me that each morning when you wake up, think about winning the day. Don’t worry about a week from now or a month from now—just think about one day at a time. If you are worried about the mountain in the distance, you might trip over the molehill right in front of you. Win the day! That was great advice to remember at a time like this. For the next eight months, I’d need all the endurance I could muster to face each grueling nine-hour rehab routine.
Each morning at 7:30 my father-in-law drove me to rehab. My sessions always consisted of a lot of stretching, range-of-motion exercises, manual resistance exercises, and eventually some light weights as I progressed. Even now, almost five years later, I still do a lot of the same exercises for my shoulder as I did back then. Only now, instead of rehab, it is “prehab.” I use the exercises to prevent injury and maintain strength for all the little muscles in my shoulders and back. Those exercises would pay big dividends for me in the future.
After my morning session, I would eat lunch with the physical therapists and the other guys who were there for rehab, or Brittany would come down to eat with me on special occasions. Then I was at it again for my afternoon session, which didn’t end until 5:00. Brittany or my father-in-law would pick me up; then my mother-in-law would cook me dinner and I’d collapse into the La-Z-Boy. The great thing about the home-cooked meals was that Brittany and her mom made sure all my food allergies were taken into consideration. Whereas I tended to let that slip from time to time, they were like drill instructors, making sure I was taking my vitamins and only putting things in front of me that would agree with my body and help me recover the fastest.
I still needed help with even the most basic tasks. I was starting to get better at brushing my teeth and putting in my contac
ts, but Brittany cut up my food, helped me bathe, got me dressed, and changed the ice in a machine that was strapped to my arm. I felt like a child again—I couldn’t drive and I couldn’t button my own shirt, let alone toss a football. As someone with a fierce independent streak, I had a hard time relying on other people to do everything for me. But it was the only way I would recover.
The first two months were excruciating. On top of the constant pain, I barely slept. I couldn’t roll over on my right side. Brittany would sleep with her hand on my arm because I twitched so much that she was convinced I was going to throw my arm around in my sleep and tear out my anchors. A lot of nights the only way I could get comfortable was to scrunch up in a chair in the living room. La-Z-Boys may be great for watching TV, but sleeping in one for a couple of months gets old fast.
I have always been a very goal-oriented person, but looking ahead to an eight-month rehab was daunting. It was overwhelming to think it would be so long until I was healthy again. I was afraid the days would become monotonous and I would drive myself crazy. I had to find a way to conquer this by setting short-term goals that would eventually lead up to the ultimate objective. Each smaller accomplishment gave me confidence and momentum on my way to the next challenge. Before I knew it, I would be on the field again.
I remember walking in to rehab the first day after surgery, feeling spry and ready to take on the world.
“Okay, Doc, I’m in this sling. How long until I can get out of it?”
He looked at me for a moment. “Four weeks, I’d say.”
“All right, I’m going to beat that.”
Once I’d zeroed in on that goal, I wouldn’t let my attention be diverted to anything else. Two and a half weeks later, I took off the sling.
I had started stretching and doing exercises the day after surgery. I was just as determined to heal as I’d ever been to win a game, but I also knew how important it is to find balance when you’re in rehab. I needed to push myself and do as much as I possibly could, but at the same time I had to listen to my body and realize I had been through a traumatic injury. If I pushed too hard too fast, I could pop an anchor, and I’d be worse off than before.
After the surgery, Dr. Andrews handed me over to one of the best physical therapists in sports medicine: Kevin Wilk. God gets the ultimate credit for healing my body, but as far as human beings go, Kevin deserves the kudos for my comeback. Kevin and I were pretty much locked at the hip for six months. At every stage of my recovery, he was able to read the situation, and he knew exactly how far to push me. He knew what I could and couldn’t do, and if it was too soon or just the right time for the next step. I applaud him because he was dealing with a patient who wanted to push the envelope as far as possible. Somehow he figured out a way to balance my desires with a dose of realism.
The day after surgery, Kevin showed me basic pendulum swings. This is where you bend forward and let your arm hang and then move it slightly in a circular motion. It seems hard to believe now, but even that small exercise was painful and felt very awkward.
Most days I was able to stay positive and cling to the hope of suiting up in my Chargers uniform again. But other days I wasn’t so sure. There was no guarantee the surgery would work, and even if it did, no one knew if I’d be able to play at that level again. In January I watched the playoffs on TV, like any other spectator. I was miserable. It wasn’t just the pain in my shoulder and my arm or the confinement of my La-Z-Boy prison; it was the mental anguish of watching those guys live out their dream while I was questioning whether I’d ever be out on the field again.
It was a lonely time—away from home, far from my teammates, miles from Qualcomm Stadium. There was an upside to the loneliness, though. In the midst of this sequestering, there were no distractions. I was forced to focus all my energy and attention on getting myself back to being the best I could be.
I read my Bible often during this time and explored my faith at a deeper level. God was up to something in my life. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but I trusted him and believed that better days were ahead. I believed that when you give it your best and commit the rest to him, he will work wonders in your life. And right then, I needed a miracle. As long as I continued to do things the right way, good things would happen. I firmly believed that.
Before I knew it, I was ready to tackle my next goal. The moment I got out of the sling, I said, “So what’s next?”
“Well, the next thing we’ll work on is full range of motion. That will take you about nine weeks.”
“Okay, I’m going to beat it.”
I had full range of motion in six weeks.
I was starting to feel more like myself. “Now when can I start throwing?”
“Well, that’s at four months. We can’t fudge that one. You gotta let it heal.”
I told him I understood. But I still beat that by about three and a half weeks. I’d always been competitive—why stop now?
Every Wednesday I met with Dr. Andrews. It became my goal to have him look at me and say, “You’re ahead of schedule.” But he was always careful to add, “But you’re not healed yet.” That was his classic line. He knew how much I was chomping at the bit. He said I would get to a point when I felt like I could go out and do anything—and that was the most dangerous time. My body was still in the critical stages of healing, and if I got reinjured, I’d be back to square one . . . but with even more scar tissue.
Looking for Someone to Believe in Me
In February, a little over a month after my surgery, negotiations began for the next season. I was waiting for the Chargers to make me a long-term offer, as A. J. Smith had promised. Dr. Andrews gave the Chargers his report. After several weeks of therapy, I was hitting my short-term goals and feeling pretty good about next season. I still had a long way to go, but I was making progress and was way ahead of schedule.
Through my agent, I finally got the news I’d been waiting to hear: “We’re going to offer you a long-term deal.” But as the terms of the contract unfolded, I grew more and more disappointed. The deal they were presenting was basically equivalent to a backup quarterback’s salary. There were incentives in the deal to put me at a starter’s salary, but who was to say I was going to even get an opportunity to compete for the job? It wasn’t about the money; what hurt the most was the underlying message. They were saying, Yeah, we’ll sign you; we’ll bring you back. But you’re no longer our guy. We’ve moved on to Philip Rivers.
I know that football is a business, so I try to never take negotiations personally. But it was obvious to me from the get-go what their vision was. And it hurt a lot. Yes, the Chargers had offered me a long-term contract. But it wasn’t a contract that told me they wanted me to stay. Now, I’m a pretty confident guy. I have a strong belief system and a solid faith. But when you play a team sport, you need others to believe in you too. And I wasn’t feeling that support from San Diego right then, at the moment I needed it most.
I knew Coach Schottenheimer believed in me. Brian and Cam and a lot of the guys on the team believed in me. Many of the fans believed in me too. I had downplayed the injury to the media and tried to paint the picture that it might have been a tough break, but I was a tough guy. I wanted everyone to know that I was one of those people who might get knocked down but comes back stronger. Still, management and ownership had their doubts. They might have respected my work ethic and the way I approached the game, but when it came to the question “Who can lead us to a championship?” they didn’t feel like I was their guy. That feeling was worse than any hit I’ve ever taken in a football game.
The worst part was there was only so much I could do to get them to see the truth about me. I could point to the 2004 and 2005 seasons. I could remind them that I was still a young player with my best years ahead of me. I could tell them I wasn’t a quitter—that I was going to take the adversity and turn it into an opportunity to come back better, for my sake and the team’s. But it was tough to convince them of this when my arm had
just gotten out of the sling and my shoulder was held together with steel anchors.
The minute I got that first offer, I knew I wasn’t going back. Negotiations went back and forth for the next two or three weeks and my agent did his best, but deep down I knew that my era with San Diego was ending. It was a difficult truth to accept—it was hard to let that dream die.
I wasn’t the only one who struggled when things ended with the Chargers. Brittany was really hurt by the process, especially knowing how much I had given to the organization. She probably took it twice as hard as I did. She cared about me, and she knew what this was doing inside me. Her protective instincts kicked in, and she wanted to do whatever she could to defend my honor and encourage me.
That’s one thing I love about her—she is as fierce as a lioness protecting her cubs when it comes to the people she loves. If the Chargers didn’t want us, fine. We’d go someplace where someone did. What meant the most to her was not where we lived but being with people who believed in me as much as she did. When something major happens to a player—like an injury or a tough loss or a move to another team—people tend to focus on how it affects him and his team. But the truth is, the player’s family is impacted even more. We as athletes are somewhat immune to the drama because we see it all the time, but our families aren’t used to it and always take it the hardest.
Brittany and I had planned on starting a family during that off-season, but when I got hurt and the Chargers’ offer didn’t come through as we’d hoped, there were suddenly a lot of unknowns. Where would we wind up? Where would we live? Would I get a long-term deal so we could settle down somewhere, or would it be a temporary situation where we couldn’t put down roots? How far would we be from family and friends? We knew God had a plan, and this felt like a sign that we needed to put our dreams for children on hold for a little longer.
