Against All Odds: My Story (2 page)

All of Mr. Norris's profits from this book will be donated to KICKSTART, the organization he founded to help young people develop self-esteem and positive values through the martial arts. For more information, contact:

Chuck Norris
Top Kick Productions
18653 Ventura Boulevard, Suite 751
Tarzana, CA 91356
www.chucknorris.com

CHAPTER 1

A WAKE-UP CALL

I
could tell that something was wrong the moment I caught my security guard's eye. I was in Washington, D.C., seated on the dais as a special guest of the newly elected President of the United States, George W. Bush. About five thousand of the president's friends—many of whom had played key roles in helping George W. Bush get elected—were in attendance, the men decked out in tuxedoes and the women in extravagant evening gowns. The first Presidential Dinner of the new administration had been a happy, gala affair, and I had enjoyed the evening immensely.

At about 10:30 PM, the President and First Lady said good-night and had exited the room, and I was getting ready to follow suit. I stepped off the platform, shaking hands and greeting each person as I made my way through the crowd. The room was filled with friendly faces, so it struck me as odd when I noticed my security guard, Phil Cameron, frowning and motioning in my direction. I knew something must be seriously wrong, or Phil would never interrupt me on such a momentous occasion. I wedged my way through the well-wishers until Phil and I were standing side-by-side.

“We've had an emergency telephone call, Mr. Norris. Your wife is in the hospital; she's going into preterm labor.”

“What? That can't be! Gena is only twenty-three weeks along; she is nowhere near the thirty-eight weeks of a full-term pregnancy!”

“I don't know anything about that, sir. All I know is that she told me to contact you as soon as possible.”

I rushed to the phone and called the hospital. The operator connected me to Gena's room, and when she answered, I could tell that she had been crying.

“Sweetheart, I'm so sorry I'm not there with you. Are you OK?”

“I'm fine, but I needed to get to the hospital right away. They have to surgically close my cervix to save our babies.”

I could tell by the quiver in her voice that Gena was trying desperately to hold her emotions in check.

“Carlos, I'm scared,” she admitted as she started to cry. “I'm scared for our babies.”

“Honey, I'm calling the pilots right now. I'll be by your side just as fast as the jet can get me there.”

We were expecting twins, a boy and a girl. Gena and I had already seen them on the ultrasound machine in the doctor's office, watching excitedly like two young kids ourselves as our babies moved around, bumping into each other in Gena's crowded womb. We'd even named them already; our little girl we named Danilee and our little boy, Dakota.

The pregnancy had been horrendously difficult for Gena. She'd given birth twice before, so she knew the ropes when it came to being pregnant. But carrying these two “miracle babies” had been a heavy load from the beginning. At several points along the way, we'd come close to losing the twins, or Gena, or all three of them. A beautiful yet tough woman, Gena had withstood several highly unusual medical challenges that threatened to end her life, or those of our babies. Had she not been mentally and spiritually strong, and in such excellent physical condition prior to becoming pregnant, her body might not have been able to endure the strain.

When the invitation from the President's office had arrived in our mailbox several weeks earlier, Gena and I were excited about attending. But as the event drew nearer, we realized it might be dangerous for Gena and our babies to be flying across the country from California to Washington, D.C., especially in light of the complications we'd already experienced during the pregnancy. We decided it would be best for Gena to remain at home, and I'd take my brother, Aaron, along with me, and our good friends, Dennis Berman, a successful Dallas businessman who had agreed to be our children's godparent, and John Hensley, the former head of US Customs. Phil Cameron, my personal protection officer, who often accompanied me to events where I'd be in large crowds, had flown ahead to Washington a few days earlier to make sure the details of my trip were in order.

The four of us flew to Washington on a private chartered jet the day of the event. Phil joined us at the Pentagon. We were ushered out to the Pentagon Promenade, where we were greeted by the Air Police honor guard, and I received an achievement award from the Air Force for being an outstanding airman. They also made me an honorary Air Force recruiter. We posed for a photograph on the Promenade, in the exact spot where 9-11 terrorists would crash an airliner a few months later. We spent the remainder of our afternoon touring the Pentagon, having lunch with several generals, and enjoying a fascinating visit with Secret Service Director Brian L. Stafford. We planned to return to California the following morning.

Prior to the Presidential Dinner, the new President and First Lady, Laura Bush, and I posed for a special picture to commemorate the occasion. Ever gracious, the president thanked me for my support and for being a friend of the Bush family. It had been a day to remember, and I could hardly wait to call Gena after the dinner to tell her all about it.…

But now Gena was lying in a hospital emergency room in California. Suddenly what really matters in life came into clear focus. In a moment, with one sentence my entire priority list had been altered.

“Call the pilots, Phil. Tell them that we're leaving right now!”

“Yes, sir.”

I wanted to get to Gena as soon as possible, so as soon as Phil could rouse the pilots, I wanted to be in the air.

I said my good-byes to the remaining dignitaries still at the gala while Phil contacted the pilots. Between shaking hands, smiling, and offering best wishes, I'd glance in Phil's direction, waiting for his signal that told me we were on our way. It didn't come.

Instead, the look on Phil's face told me that he wasn't pleased. “I've got the pilot on the phone,” Phil said, “but you may want to talk to him.” Phil handed his cell phone to me.

I took the phone and said, “What's the problem?”

The pilot spoke haltingly, “I'm sorry, Mr. Norris, but my copilot has had a beer, and I'd prefer not to fly tonight.”

“What? What do you mean, you prefer not to fly?”

“Well, we really weren't planning on going back to LA tonight, so I didn't think it would matter for him to have a drink. But since he did, it's against regulations for us to fly tonight.”

I was furious, but I knew the pilot was right. Under different circumstances, I might even have appreciated his integrity and truthfulness. After all, the pilot could have easily deceived me; he didn't have to tell me. I'd have never known that his copilot had taken a drink, and in light of the emergency back home, I might not have cared!

“How soon can we leave?” I asked.

“Not before five-thirty tomorrow morning,” the pilot replied.

“Five-thirty!” I looked at my watch. It was only eleven o'clock.

There was nothing left to do but try to find alternative transportation. Aaron, Dennis, John, Phil, and I hurried back to my room at the Ritz Carlton Hotel. We tried desperately to get a commercial flight out but to no avail. We called every place we could find, hoping to hire another private plane in D.C., but the earliest we could get another crew to depart was at three-thirty.

Pacing back and forth in the room, my mind raced with the obvious contradictions. I felt so helpless. I had been a six-time World Karate Champion; I had starred in more than twenty-three motion pictures in which I had played a hero; I had more recently starred in
Walker, Texas Ranger
, my own television series, for eight years, again playing the hero; yet there was nothing I could do to help my wife.

I had earned millions of dollars over my lifetime. I'd been a friend to several presidents, yet all the money in my bank account couldn't help me now. My friendships with men and women of influence were not enough.

There was only one person to whom I could turn. I prayed, “Oh, God, please take care of my wife and our babies.”

Phil gave me his cell phone to call Gena at the hospital to tell her that we'd been delayed. I was able to reach her, but she was so distraught and groggy, I could hardly discern a word she said. Gena was able to communicate to me that she was going to be operated on at eight o'clock the following morning. Apparently, the doctor had presented a bleak scenario as he explained to Gena all the things that might go wrong. I told her that I'd get home as soon as I could. I tried to encourage her; we prayed briefly over the phone and said our good-byes. “I love you, Sweetheart. I'll be with you soon.”

Our bags were packed and sitting right by the hotel room door, ready to go. I was too frustrated to sleep, so the guys and I stayed up all night, talking, pacing, praying, and ticking the minutes off the clock.

At five-thirty sharp we were rolling down the runway. The moment our plane landed in California, I bounded down the steps and raced to the hospital, arriving around ten o'clock Pacific Time. Gena was already in the recovery room.

As I stepped inside the room, I saw Gena lying in bed, covered by a crisp white sheet. She looked so pale and fragile. The woman whom I had grown to depend on in all facets of my life now seemed so frail. I leaned over and kissed her gently. “Baby, I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you.…” I started to apologize. “I'm never going to leave you again!”

“You're here now,” she said. “That's all that matters.”

I looked at the woman who loved me so much that she was willing to step into the valley of the shadow of death to give birth to our children. The doctor had said that if we could keep Gena in bed for the next ten weeks or so, he felt sure that the babies would be fine. Gena's commitment to do whatever was necessary for the benefit of her children reminded me of another woman of tremendous faith, my mom. My mom had gone through awful travail trying to bring me into this world. In fact, like Gena and our babies, my mom and I had to struggle against the odds to survive.

CHAPTER 2

MIXED MOTIVATORS

M
y mother, Wilma Norris, was only eighteen years of age when she gave birth to me, after enduring an exhausting seven days in labor! She went to the hospital on Sunday, March 3, and I was not born until the following Sunday. Several times during the difficult delivery, the doctors feared they were going to lose her or me—or both of us. Finally, in the early hours of March 10, 1940, I weighed in at six pounds, eight ounces. But Mom's concerns were far from over. Something wasn't right. My skin color was all wrong!