Life Is Not an Accident (13 page)

It was the most humiliating experience of my life.

People were yelling out words of encouragement, some were crying, while others were whispering just loud enough as I passed
by about how I had thrown it all away. Many came over to say how I was in their prayers and touched my leg, which was outstretched at a 45-degree angle. And that part really added insult to injury. It's hard enough to blend in when you're in a wheelchair, but even trickier when you need at least four feet of clearance in front of you at all times because one of your legs is sticking straight out. One good Samaritan after the next yelled for people to clear a path so the “cripple” could get by. I once walked among these people with my head held high, proud to be me. Now I would've done anything to have been just another face in the crowd.

Group therapy in the beginning sucked. It was a constant reminder of how long the road to recovery was going to be. I couldn't help but look around the training floor, seeing people from all walks of life working their way back to full strength, in much better physical shape than me. Last summer, I was preoccupied with catching up to Kobe Bryant's conditioning, and now I'm comparing myself to some 63-year-old in a wheelchair working away on an arm cycle.

I had been out of the wheelchair and on crutches for close to five months when Jason decided it was time to take both of them away.

“Stand.”

“Stand?”

“Yes, Jason, stand.”

“I am standing.”

“No, stand with equal weight on each foot.”

I still had the brace attached to my left leg, so I didn't have control of my foot. I remember my foot just dangling as I softly placed it on the ground for the first time, trying to shift my weight over to the left side of my body. I screamed as a sharp jolt of pain shot through my back to my knee and all the way down to my foot. I
was certain all eyes were on me after I had brought this unwanted attention on myself, but it was probably all in my head. The truth is, everyone was fixated on themselves, striving to get better. After popping an Oxy to manage the sudden throbbing pain, I spent the next hour trying to put weight on that side while Jason stood behind me, his forearms under my armpits to hold me. He would rock me from side to side, and I would lean a little left as I squeezed my eyes shut, cringing in agony. Then he would quickly shift all of my weight back to my right side. After ten or so tries, I was drenched in sweat, completely spent. It took months for me to get to the point where I was able to stand on my own two feet again.

It was at some point during March Madness that Jason began to reteach me how to walk. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to move at all with my left leg trapped inside a bulky metal thigh-to-calf brace, one that must've weighed close to ten pounds. Much of the density from it was because of my ankle-foot orthosis, or AFO, a brace that was attached to my calf to keep the ankle stabilized. The metal plate under my left foot, which kept it flexed, also contributed to much of its weight.

As Jason walked me over to the parallel bars, my mind was racing with trepidation. All the hard work it had taken to get to this point, and now, after eight months, I was finally getting ready to take my first steps.

When I got to the parallel bars, I hesitated at first before parting with my crutches. I wanted this more than anything, but I wasn't sure if I was ready. I couldn't handle another setback. With Jason standing at the other end, I firmly gripped the bars, with my head down, staring at the floor. I counted the steps it would take to get to him. I don't remember how many, exactly, but I do know it left me in considerable doubt.

Jason reminded me that this was what we'd been working toward so hard these past several months, and that I wasn't a person to back away from a challenge.

But he was wrong.

I wasn't that person anymore. I was broken. It wasn't just walking I had to teach myself all over again. I needed to recapture the fighter in me. I just stood there without saying a word, hands squeezing the bars so tightly I could see the white in my knuckles. I became even angrier as I continued to question myself. The vexation quickly morphed into sorrow and pity. I was just standing idle, a shell of my former self. I started to cry.

Jason came over and put his arm around me, saying that everything would be okay and that I had nothing to be afraid of. He reminded me about one of my goals, and how much I'd looked forward to showing my son how to round first base one day. But in order for that to happen, this would literally have to be the first step.

“You can do this, Jason. I believe in you.”

In tears, I leaned all of my weight over to my right side and extended my left leg. I placed it softly on the ground while still keeping all of my weight on my back foot. Once my left foot was firmly planted, I took a deep breath and exhaled, preparing myself for the worst. Using my arms to hold myself up, I then took the chance.
No pain . . . no pain
, I pleaded with myself, and sure enough, when I shifted all of my weight onto my left leg to take a step with my right foot, it didn't hurt.

It was sore. But there was no pain.

I smiled through more tears, this time from joy, not fear. It was a milestone, for sure, but Jason, almost reminiscent of Coach K, wasn't interested in celebrating until the task was finished.

“Keep coming. Let's go, now.”

I made it all the way to the other side to receive my hug. I was physically drained, but emotionally recharged.

It was now time to learn how to balance myself without any assistance—no crutches, nobody holding me up, just me. I had to retrain my body how to find its equilibrium. A year earlier, I was rock solid in a defensive stance, trying to stop Michael Jordan. Now I had completely lost the ability to lift my left toes up in the air. This malady is called drop foot or foot drop. Either term is acceptable, but neither one is preferred! I couldn't stabilize my left ankle, which is imperative for balancing. Unable to pick up my big toe—something I still cannot do today—I was prone to falling over. Jason and I tried time after time, and at best, I was able to hold my balance only for a few seconds. Jason started to hold a stopwatch during our sessions to see how long I could stand on one leg. We practiced every day for weeks on end—until one day he came up with an idea that was a game changer.

Basketball had always been a positive force in my life, and Jason decided this was as good a time as ever. He grabbed a basketball and tossed it my way. I caught it and looked up at him in confusion. Before I could even ask, he said that he wanted me to continue to balance myself on my left leg and
just
focus on catching the ball with both hands while throwing it back to him as quickly as I could.
“Go!”

When the ball hit my hands, I felt like my former self. My athletic instincts took over. I was no longer worried about being unable to pull up my big toe or stabilize my ankle. My attention was squarely on the ball. I got lost in the game of passing the ball back and forth, at peace, for once, to be out of my own head. Then all of sudden, Jason caught the ball and didn't throw it back.

“Hold it!”

I brought my right foot down a few seconds later and took a deep breath. Jason stopped the clock, walked over, and showed me.

24 seconds
.

A much-needed breakthrough.

I was on my way.

My knee's range of motion was around 110 degrees toward the end of May, but I had started to have some serious pain on the outside of the joint. After going in to the Duke hospital for an MRI, it was determined that I had a small meniscus tear. A fifth surgery was needed.

May 7, 2004

Doctors performed a meniscus repair on my left knee and also provided me with the
gift
of one final manipulation to get me back to full range of motion. I had been hovering at the same mark for nearly three months, and this was the last attempt to get me to the finish line.

While I was recovering, the therapist told me that the swimming pool at the sports-medicine facility would quickly become my new best friend. To help me regain strength, the pool provided a less weight-bearing environment in which to do my walking and balancing exercises. A grown man in a pool with braces and full-body floaties was not the sexiest look, but my vanity would have to take a backseat. Each day, I was challenged to do as many laps as possible, with the hope that I would surpass the total from the day before.

I'll never forget one day in the pool when I was watching a woman doing laps. She had to have been at least 75 years old,
wearing a black one-piece, a white swim cap, and goggles as she moved maybe a mile per hour. My athletic instinct to compete kicked in. I entered the pool thinking to myself how I was going to crush this woman.
Take her down, Jay
.
She ain't shit.

My newly adopted rival was just passing me as I lowered myself into the water, and I was determined to catch up. At first I was making good headway, but I still found myself behind after the first two laps.

Then it was over.

My breathing got heavier by the second, and my eyes started to burn from the chlorine. Excuses. As she gradually started to pull away, I thought to myself,
Pick it up, Williams. You pick this shit up right now.

Trying to kick it into a higher gear, I watched helplessly as she made her first attempt to lap me. Just as I could feel her presence, she unnecessarily yelled out to caution me.

“ON YOUR LEFT! PASSING ON YOUR LEFT.”

We were the only two people in the pool.

“Old Lady Goggles” lapped me at least ten more times that session, then said to me on her way out, “It's okay. I remember my first time in the pool after my surgeries.”

I was exhausted as I smiled back at her, trying not to say anything rude in response but thinking,
Dammit, woman, I've been in the pool for months.

July 9, 2004

It had been over a year since the accident when I had my third electromyography (EMG) procedure. The doctor inserted a three-inch needle deep into my leg muscles while I was hooked
up to electrodes that would read the response of the muscle to the stimulation of the nerve. It sent a series of electric shocks up and down my leg while the doctor moved the needle around for added measure—not once, but 15 to 20 times. Being surrounded on the court by taller guards and huge big men, I'd always felt undersized, even at 6'2”. But when the doctor was testing every inch, my leg felt as long as Manute Bol's.

The third time was not the charm in my case. The nerve had still not fully healed. It had been over a year of horrendous pain stemming from the nerve-regeneration process, and I still had more to go, with no guarantee of a complete recovery. I was distraught.

The doctors decided we would wait a few more months to see if anything improved. After five more agonizing months, there were still no signs of recovery. The next step was a tendon transfer to relieve my drop foot.

December 7, 2004

I would have my ninth operation in 18 months. This time, the procedure required cutting a tendon located on the inside of my left foot and reattaching it to the top of the foot. I was hoping for a Christmas miracle.

And I got it.

Three months or so following the surgery, I was finally able to pick up my left foot two to three inches off the ground. It was just enough for me to clear my gait while walking without having to hike my hip up. Keeping this coordination going while just walking around was daunting, to say the least. The idea of mastering the process at the pace it takes to be a point guard in the NBA was next to impossible.

I
HAD AN
unbelievable team of doctors and therapists who worked with me for countless hours each day. They were as invested in my well-being as I was—sometimes way more—and every one of my victories was a victory for them as well. They listened to my fear and frustration, but instead of letting me wallow in my inadequacy, they reminded me that my recovery required determination. Jason didn't just focus on the physical rehabilitation during our sessions; we talked about how things were
really
going. Our dialogue was focused on who I was, not on what I had done or hoped to do. He was always concerned with what head space I was in.

The challenge for those around me was that I was unable or unwilling to express how much pain I was in psychologically. The more that people close to me wanted to know how I was feeling, the more pressure I felt to spare them my distress. I usually responded with a simple “Just gotta keep fighting” or “I'm taking it one day at a time.” All sorts of generic, bullshit lines. I'd quickly change the conversation: “I'm okay—how are
you
?” Here I was, surrounded by people putting their lives on hold for me, waiting for some miracle that might never come. I didn't want to show any mental weakness, and I internalized a lot of my emotions. But Jason seemed to recognize this right away. There was something redemptive about our connection.

I had to trust that my therapists and doctors knew how to help my body heal. I needed to be patient with my body and believe that I would come through to the other side. I am forever grateful to them for pushing me through the pain—emotional and physical. They never let failure be an option.

C
heating had become the norm during my short stint in the NBA. If you're a professional athlete on the road and you're not being promiscuous, it's because you're actively trying not to be. Sleeping with my college girlfriend's roommate was one thing, but the league was a different ball game. One of the many ways the life of a pro athlete is seductively warped is seeing how many women want to be with you. The sheer availability of casual sex will test any man's desire to be faithful, and from someone as young and inexperienced as I was, it called for a level of strength and self-denial that I couldn't summon at the time, or didn't want to.

The process wasn't that difficult, because the road map had already been preapproved and laid out. All you had to do as a rookie was piggyback with one of the veterans who knew how the game was played.

The team charter lands in City X at 11:00
P.M.
The veteran already knows where to go and who to go with as soon as we touch down. After arriving at the team hotel, the veteran and his crew take off for an evening out. You arrive at the club at 12:30, already attracting attention when you walk in the door because of the crew's abnormal height and authentic platinum and diamond jewelry. Chatter begins and heads turn as security escorts your crew to the VIP area, which is ideally located in a section of the club where women can easily spot you and your buddies. After “tipping” the security guards off with $100 apiece, you now have a blockade of massive men around you not letting anyone penetrate the circle. Five security guards only attract more attention, which is better for your crew in the long run because it makes you look that much more important than you really are. Random guys make attempts at saying hello but are held at bay while you are scoping out the scene, seeing who is deserving of your time. Cocky . . . yeah, I know.

Soon the floodgates open as eight girls arrive at your booth. Ten bottles of Dom follow with sparklers as people stare in awe. If you aren't satisfied with the talent at the table, you tap the security guard on the shoulder and point to someone else you want him to bring over.

The guard walks over to the lady, points you out while telling her that you would like to chat with her and buy her a glass of champagne. She then gathers her friends and everyone comes over to your section. As the music continues and the champagne flows, either a number is going to be exchanged or a move to leave is going to be made. By the time the end of the night rolls around, enough headway has been made that the conversation usually ends up continuing back in your hotel room.

Depending on city ordinances, I would get back to the hotel anywhere from 2
A.M.
to 6
A.M.,
usually tipsy or drunk. The night would lead to casual sex. Sometimes the girls would stay over until the morning, sometimes they wouldn't. I never made any promises to anyone and always justified my actions thinking that I wasn't married yet and was just having fun.

Guys would even arrange nights like this during the actual games. A ball boy would write a note, pass it to a woman and her friends in section such and such, and that night we'd party. Some players had regular hookups and just stayed at the hotel, ordered room service, and called it a night, while other guys loved to go out and “hunt.”

Times when I would see players pull up to the team charter before a road trip and kiss their wife and kids goodbye would break me. They'd jump on the plane, spend the next ten days with two or three women, come back home, and greet their family as if nothing ever happened.

And who's to say I wouldn't be doing the same once I had a wife and kids of my own?

With the exception of some brief breakups here and there, Noelle and I were seeing each other pretty much throughout my entire first year in the NBA. She would find text messages on my phone from other girls, hear from random friends that I was messing around with this one or that one, and use other various means to expose my philandering ways. She was no fool. Noelle and I were close to calling it a day at the time of the accident, but I asked Kevin to reach out to her anyway. I didn't even give it a second thought. And within 24 hours of taking his call, she was there. I always wanted her around, but now I needed her more
than ever. So when she arrived, her presence brought this tremendous warmth, which helped lift my spirits. Once again, we reunited, and that gave me a piece of happiness to hold on to at a time when I felt like I had lost it all.

One of my favorite days before my accident came late in December of my junior year. I had just dropped 38 on Kentucky at the Meadowlands, but that wasn't why I was on cloud nine that night. After the game, we were officially on Christmas break, so I left from there with Noelle and her parents to go back to their hometown. It was an hour's drive to Freehold, and Noelle and I sat in the back of her dad's car, trying our best to catch up after not seeing each other for the past few months. The long distance was taking its toll on both of us. She had this whole other life playing for the women's basketball team at Wagner University and traveling all the time. And I was completely consumed with my career at Duke and all that was to follow. She knew how much buzz I was getting at the time, but all she cared about was how I was doing—off the court.

Later that night, at a house party thrown by someone she knew, I pulled her outside to the backyard for a conversation. I told her that I loved her and that I wouldn't let anything get between us. I saw myself marrying her one day and I didn't want us to give up. I then said I would do anything she wanted to make this work. She looked at me for a brief moment without saying anything and then told me to:

“Take a hit of my blunt and do 15 jumping jacks.”

I did as instructed.

“Now scream as loud as you can how much you love me.”

And I did that, too. We just laughed the night away and thought this was the beginning of the rest of our lives together.

I
T IS STILL
safe to say that the tenth of September 2003 marked the most difficult birthday of my life. While I was done associating myself with the number 22 on the court—perhaps forever—it was time to come to grips with what my life had come to at . . . 22 years old. I had envisioned what this year of my life was going to be like on the court, having just started to figure things out, but instead here I was lying in a hospital bed in a rented home in North Carolina, wallowing in my sorrow, wishing to be alone.

Noelle had come down from New York City to be there with my parents, Laurie, and Kevin as we “celebrated my special day.” They bought a cake with rich vanilla frosting and 22 candles. Everyone was so cheerful as they walked into my room singing Happy Birthday with the candles lit. I was so high on Oxy that I must've thought it was the Fourth of July. I knew my family was so happy that I was alive to see 22, but at the moment, with 22 individually lit candles staring back at me, all I wanted was to not have survived the crash.

I was so weak that it took me three tries to blow out all the candles. I'd always had such a strong upper body, but now I had the frame of a ten-year-old child. The scene was sobering: my face was emaciated, and my skin was dry and tight against my cheekbones.

My dad had always been a strong man. After kissing me on the head, he grabbed my hand while I stared at him, crying with shame and guilt. “God has a purpose for you, son,” he said. “I've thanked Him for keeping you here every day since that day.”

His words moved me that night. I hadn't been thankful. It was the first time since my recovery began in Durham that I
recognized how much of a martyr I was being. I was truly blessed to have such great people willing to do whatever it took to help me through this dark and twisted journey. Later that night, while sitting in my wheelchair on the porch with everyone, I just couldn't stop staring at Noelle. One minute she was a bartender in midtown Manhattan, and the next she was spending her days and nights with me five states away. Only a special kind of love could explain why someone would drop everything to come to the aid of her helpless 22-year-old boyfriend who couldn't find the strength to do anything except feel sorry for himself.

What am I waiting for?
I asked myself.

Later that month, I made the decision that marrying Noelle was what I wanted to do. Not being able to do much on my own, I turned to Laurie for her help and swore her to secrecy. I knew my parents would be livid if I told them I wanted to get married at such a young age, not to mention only three months after my horrific accident.

So Laurie drove me to the Southpoint mall, about 20 minutes away from where I lived. I was on a mission to buy a ring, but just as with the Yamaha R6, I opted out of doing any research in advance of making a purchase. I would know what to get as soon as I saw it. This process was the only thing that kept me upbeat during the hardest of days.

We ended up spotting Fink's Jewelers while Laurie was pushing me about in my wheelchair. And just trying to get into the store should have been a sign to roll the other way. The doorway had a lip that neither Laurie nor I could get the wheelchair over. Multiple employees rushed over, picked up my wheelchair with me in it, and placed me right in front of a display case. Not embarrassing at all.

I quickly became overwhelmed with how many options I saw and was also very ignorant about the details of what I was even looking for. An older saleswoman approached me and seemed to take great joy in the process of helping me figure it out while pulling out ring after ring. Of course, she started with the most expensive ring after a couple of people had recognized me making such an inconspicuous entrance. Although I wasn't sure what I wanted, I quickly declined the ones I didn't want. After I said no to nearly every ring in the store, the woman told us she had one more option in the back. When she returned, I saw her holding a red box with gold trim, and I knew exactly what was inside. It was going to be a Cartier ring, and I hoped I'd really like it. As she opened the box, my eyes grew wide at how beautiful a ring it was.

“Perfect,” I whispered to myself while she talked about the craftsmanship, the number of carats, all of those details that meant nothing to me. I could see that ring on Noelle's finger as we grew old together. Without even asking the price, I just said, “I'll take it,” and handed the clerk my credit card. I had already prepared myself for a big price tag, telling myself,
This is your soulmate, and who cares if you spend $10
,
000 on a ring? You have the money. Do it.

It wasn't until Laurie handed me the receipt to sign that I learned the price was five times what I had thought it would be. I signed the receipt in a matter of seconds and the purchase was made.

Riding back to my house, I started to panic thinking about how I would explain this extravagance to my parents. They received copies of all my bills and had been questioning my spending from the day I got into the league. Not consulting them on a decision as momentous as this one would most definitely leave them homicidal. So I decided not to say a word. I remember convincing myself that it was my call and my call alone to
make. I was spending my own money, and this was something I wanted to do for my future wife.

The next time Noelle came down to visit was in early October. In an effort to try and get some fresh air, I suggested that she and I have a picnic at Duke Gardens. Because I hadn't really thought the process through—seems to be a common theme here—Noelle had to literally navigate my wheelchair up hills and through dirt to get to a shady location that was suitable for our feast. I didn't have a perfect scenario in mind, and as she unpacked the bags of food, I impulsively pulled out the ring. I called her name and she turned.

Noelle
,
I know I haven't been the perfect man, and for that I am sorry, but I want us to start a new chapter. I want us to be real. I need you by my side for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?

I had never seen her smile as brightly as she did then, and I had never felt as good as I did the moment after she said, “Yes.”

When we got back to the house, we announced our engagement to my mom and dad. They stayed silent while we talked, then expressed their thoughts. They were baffled about the timing more than anything else. They were certain that now wasn't the time for such a colossal life decision, that I couldn't know what I truly wanted, especially considering that only a month before I had tried to take my own life. I was not in any place to make sound decisions.

My mom pulled me aside about twenty minutes after we entered the house, in tears that were clearly not from joy. “Just stop with all this movement for a while and be still,” she begged.

But I couldn't stop.

I've always been a restless person, and I just couldn't let another day pass where all I did was sulk. The next step was moving my fiancée to Durham to live with us under the same roof. When
I announced this to my parents a couple of days after we got engaged, things went from bad to worse. Up till then, they were able to refrain from lashing out, but this update caused a ripple effect. The tides grew stronger and all hell broke loose.

There are two sides to every story. There were things that my parents had seen from Noelle that raised red flags for them. Years later, my mom told me stories of when she would be cleaning the house while Noelle just lay in bed watching movies. Or when she was cooking dinner and Noelle never even offered to help, sitting at the table waiting to be served.

I wasn't hearing any of it at the time. I was convinced that my parents had it out for Noelle. They didn't want our relationship to work and would try anything to sabotage us if given the opportunity. My mind—though it was overtaken by painkillers—was made up, so I decided to hold my ground. Noelle was by my side, and she could do no wrong in my book.