Truth Doesn't Have a Side Read online

  Praise for Truth Doesn’t Have a Side

  If you want to understand Dr. Bennet Omalu, don’t look at the acronyms that come after his name or read the papers he’s authored; listen to his laugh. It’s the laugh of someone who possesses the freedom that can only come when you know that you are doing exactly what you were destined to do.

  Will Smith

  The name Bennet Omalu is one that many people may not be familiar with. But if you are a current or former athlete, a wife or a significant other of an athlete, or a parent of an athlete who competes or has competed in a contact sport that could produce concussions, his is a name you should know. His discovery of CTE gave a name to a cause of a neurological condition that many former athletes suffered from later in life. For many former football players like me, Dr. Omalu is our hero because he was that one person astute and bold enough to dig deeper in his neuropathology research to discover the cause of neurological ailments that may have affected countless former athletes long after the cheering stopped.

  Harry Carson, New York Giants (1976–1988), and a member of the Professional Football Hall of Fame, class of 2006

  Truth Doesn’t Have a Side is a critically important book. If you care about your brain or the brains of those you love, please read it.

  Daniel G. Amen, MD, author of Memory Rescue

  Dr. Bennet Omalu’s tireless pursuit of the truth is inspiring, and being able to relive his journey alongside him makes it all the more incredible. The world is a better place with doctors like Bennet Omalu in it.

  Giannina Scott, actress and producer

  The world craves elite examples of courage from selfless crusaders who genuinely care first about the needs of others. Dr. Omalu is that man, and his story will inspire you and challenge the sleeping hero in each of us!

  Ben Utecht, musician, former NFL player, and author of Counting the Days While My Mind Slips Away

  Truth Doesn’t Have a Side is a provocative, passionate, and enlightening discussion of football, forensic science, and religious faith. Dr. Bennet Omalu’s research has focused much-needed attention on sports-related brain injuries. Whether readers agree or disagree with Dr. Omalu’s dramatic conclusions, they will find his life story fascinating, highly informative, and truly remarkable.

  Dr. Cyril Wecht, forensic pathologist and medicolegal consultant; past president, American Academy of Forensic Sciences and American College of Legal Medicine

  Truth Doesn’t Have a Side tells the remarkable story of Dr. Bennet Omalu’s journey of perseverance in an imperfect world and his reliance on the absolute faithfulness of God. It is the story of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus.

  Father Carmen D’Amico, pastor of Miraculous Medal Parish, Meadow Lands, Pennsylvania

  ZONDERVAN

  Truth Doesn’t Have a Side

  Copyright © 2017 by Dr. Bennet I. Omalu

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  ISBN 978-0-310-35196-2 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-310-35254-9 (ebook)

  Epub Edition June 2017 ISBN 9780310352549

  All Scripture references, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American Bible, revised edition © 2010, 1991, 1986, 1970 by the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Washington, D.C. Used by permission of the copyright owner. All rights reserved. No part of the New American Bible may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  This book was written to inform the public and is not intended to give medical advice or serve as a substitute for medical expertise. Readers seeking medical advice or assistance should consult a competent and licensed medical professional.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover design: Curt Diepenhorst

  Cover photo: Mel Melcon / Getty Images®

  Interior design: Kait Lamphere

  First Printing June 2017 / Printed in the United States of America

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  To my wife, Prema,

  my daughter, Ashly, and my son, Mark—

  you are all I live for.

  I love you.

  Contents

  Foreword by Will Smith

  Preface: God Did Not Intend for Human Beings to Play Football

  1. My Father’s Son

  2. Child of War

  3. To Be Myself

  4. Answered Prayer

  5. “Heaven Is Here, and America Is Here”

  6. Welcome to America

  7. Through the Wilderness

  8. Land of Contradictions

  9. A Bold Gamble

  10. Finding Myself

  11. A Divine Appointment

  12. Prema

  13. A Game-Changing Diagnosis

  14. Nearly Over before It Begins

  15. The NFL = Big Tobacco

  16. “In the Name of Christ, Stop!”

  17. The Baton Is Passed

  18. Marginalized, Minimalized, Ostracized

  19. I Wish I’d Never Met Mike Webster

  20. Finding Life in the Wilderness

  21. Omalu Goes Hollywood

  22. Concussion

  23. From Doctor to Dad: What Will I Say When My Son Asks, “Can I Play Football, Pleeeaaaassse?”

  Afterword: “I Bet My Medical License That O. J. Simpson Has CTE”

  Appendix: Questions from Parents about Brain Trauma and Contact Sports, Especially Football

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Index

  Foreword

  I used to love football. Some of my fondest memories came watching my oldest son, Trey, stretch for the pylon beneath Friday Night Lights. He was a wide receiver; I was a proud dad doing my best to keep from running onto that field myself. That’s the nice thing about being a spectator: it’s easy, when you’re watching from the safety of the sidelines. One step forward, though, and the game—like life—has a way of hitting you in the mouth. But shock can be good for the system. Challenge yourself, and you’ll likely be surprised at what you learn. And what did I learn from playing the role of a Nigerian-born forensic pathologist in Concussion? I learned what it means to be American.

  If you want to understand Dr. Bennet Omalu, don’t look at the acronyms that come after his name or read the papers he’s authored; listen to his laugh. It’s the laugh of someone who possesses the freedom that can only come when you know that you are doing exactly what you were destined to do. It was that laugh—not the accent, the body language, or the medical jargon—that I knew I had to capture if I hoped to do justice to Dr. Omalu and his legacy. And while many will cite his discovery of CTE as his lasting contribution, I choose to point to his fearlessness in the face of derision, exile, and skepticism. That courage is what is quintessentially American about Dr. Omalu: when everyone thought him a kook, a fraud, or worse, he persevered and held fast to what he scientifically knew
to be true, at great personal and professional risk. Life punched him in the mouth, but he kept fighting. He endured that initial shock in order to bring closure to the grieving families of so many whose deaths would have otherwise gone ignored or misdiagnosed.

  I still love football. Ironically, I have Dr. Omalu to thank for that. While Trey wore a helmet and pads and Dr. Omalu wears a white coat, they have something in common: day after day, they fought, yard by yard, to attain something they knew they deserved—a touchdown, or the truth. And what’s more American than that?

  Thank you, Dr. Omalu, for reminding me why I love this game, and this country.

  Will Smith

  Preface

  God Did Not Intend for Human Beings to Play Football

  Wherever I go, people ask me one question more than any other: “Dr. Omalu, is it safe for my child to play football?” The answer is simple. “No. It is not.” I believe God did not make human beings to play football, especially children. Full-contact football is not safe for children, nor do I believe football can be made safe for adults. Of course, an adult can weigh the risks and rewards of playing and make the decision for himself or herself. Children cannot do so, for their brain, mind, intellect, intuition, and understanding are not yet fully developed. As a society, we recognize this fact and do not allow children to smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, or engage in other high-risk activities. We do this to protect children from themselves until they have the maturity to weigh the risks and rewards and make an informed decision for themselves. That is why I believe no one under the age of eighteen should be allowed to play football. Period.

  Should adults play? I do not think so, but that is their decision. However, before any adult steps onto a football field, they need to understand that nothing protects the human brain from the force of impact experienced in full-contact sports. God did not design us for such impact. He did so for other animals. The woodpecker has a built-in shock absorber to protect its brain as it bangs into the side of a tree. Woodpeckers can play football safely. Humans cannot—not even with the latest state-of-the-art equipment. Helmets protect the skin and the skull and keep the skull from fracturing, but no helmet can ever provide complete cushioning for the brain.

  Why does this matter? The brain, unlike most other organs that make up the human body, does not have the capacity to cure itself. Broken legs heal; neurons do not. When brain cells are damaged or die in both concussive and sub-concussive hits, they are gone. That is why I believe football can never be made safe, at least not in anything approaching the form of the game today.

  • • • •

  The next question I am asked is, “Why are you so against football? Why do you hate the game?” I plead innocence. I do not hate football. I have nothing against the game itself. My wife, Prema, grew up in Kenya and never saw an American football game until she moved to this country in 2001. Almost immediately she was captivated by the beauty and elegance of the game. I must admit, it is a beautiful game, albeit a violent beauty. When I see the sport through her eyes, I can see why so many millions love the game. It is a wonder to behold when it is played at a high level.

  But I did not learn the game by watching it on the field or on television. My introduction to football came when one of the greatest players to ever play the game came to me, hoping I might be able to find the answer to why he died far too young and why he suffered so much torment the last years of his life. People thought he had lost his mind because he had lost his memory and frequently could not remember his way home. Mike also battled depression and other mood disorders. By the time I met Mike, he was addicted to drugs, had lost his intelligence, and could not hold his thought or engage in complex reasoning. In the end, he was bankrupt and homeless.

  When Mike Webster died, people used respectful terms to describe his playing career, yet there was an underlying, almost a mocking tone that questioned why he made so many poor choices that ruined his life after he retired from football. I heard these people describe his life as tragic and a waste. Then I met Mike Webster on the autopsy table. When I met him, I knew I had to find the answers for the problems that plagued him. This was my calling, my duty as a fellow human being made in the image of God.

  My search for answers and justice for Mike Webster introduced me to the game of football. Before I ever watched a single play on the field, I observed the toll the game takes on the human body, especially the brain. Mike Webster suffered from a completely preventable brain malady called Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or CTE. I say preventable because if Mike Webster had never played football, he almost certainly would still be alive today, and the two of us would never have had reason to meet.

  So what do I have against football? Why do I hate the game? I do not hate it, but I hate the toll it takes on those who play it. Does that mean I am against football? No, not if you mean I am against adults exercising their God-given right to choose to play football. If someone knows the risks and chooses to play, God bless them. However, I would never play, and I would never allow my children to play, and I encourage my friends not to let their children play. My outlook might be very different if Mike Webster had been an anomaly, but he was not. I believe there is a very good chance that every person who plays (or has played or will play) in the NFL will suffer from some degree of CTE. Not everyone will suffer to the degree Mike Webster did, but some will be worse.

  • • • •

  The next question people ask is not really a question. It is more an accusation, hurled at me in anger. “Who are you, an outsider, an African—not even an African American—to cast such a cloud over America’s most popular sport?” When I first published my findings on the impact of football on the human brain, I was attacked. The National Football League accused me of falsifying my research. Some claimed I practiced voodoo, not medicine. The onslaught of attacks against me and my character grew so intense that I eventually lost my job, my dream home, and nearly everything I had worked so hard to achieve. Even today, my work is marginalized, and my role in bringing football’s “brain crisis” to light has been dismissed.

  “Who are you?” is the underlying question, the accusation, that follows me wherever I go. Does it follow me because of the color of my skin or because of the nation of my birth? Perhaps. But whatever the reason, I welcome the question. Who am I indeed? I’ve asked the question myself. Why was I the one who first discovered CTE in the brain of an American football player? Why was I the one who pulled back the curtain on the NFL’s dirty little secret and forced it to deal with questions it sought to hide for many years?

  Believe me, my life would have been much simpler if I had never met Mike Webster. I was living the American dream and counting my blessings every day to have such a wonderful life. I might have had to wrestle with the question of whether or not a child should be allowed to play football, but that would have been a personal decision for my wife and me in regard to our son and daughter. No one else would have cared about my opinion on the question, nor would I have felt qualified to give one.

  But all that changed the day I met Mike Webster. It changed again when movie director Peter Landesman entered my life, and even more when Will Smith came to see me as he prepared to play me in the movie Concussion. Now I am the man people want to ask whether or not their children should play football. Why do they ask me? Who am I to answer such a question? That is why I am writing this book.

  I never sought this life. God placed me here. I believe all that brought me to this place came as a direct result of the hand of God leading and directing my life. Who am I that the One who created the cosmos would bother with one so small? The answer is much larger than football.

  Chapter One

  My Father’s Son

  My father grew up an orphan. His father was a fisherman from the Igbo tribe in southern Nigeria. One day, my father’s father drowned for no known reason. At least that’s what his wife was told. They could not tell her how he died, and his body was never recovered. She never beli
eved he drowned. My grandmother was convinced her husband had been murdered, since the circumstances surrounding his death were very suspicious with so many unanswered questions, but no one listened to her. No one investigated. “He drowned,” she was told. “You must accept it and move on.” She could not accept it. She needed answers, but none ever came. Finally she became so angry and frustrated that she just ran away, leaving behind my three-year-old father and his one-and-a-half-year-old sister, Nwanedo, to fend for themselves. My grandmother eventually reentered my father’s life, but not for decades.

  With no one to care for them, my father and his little sister ended up wandering the streets of the town of Enugwu-Ukwu, begging for food. Ironically, my father’s father gave him a name that expressed optimism and hope for the future. In the Igbo tribal culture, as in many parts of the world, names are given because of their meanings. A name conveys a blessing to the one who hears it. My father’s name was Amaechi, which means, “I may be down today, but no one knows what tomorrow may bring!”

  My grandfather’s prayer was answered, for, as divine providence would have it, the local Roman Catholic priest, a missionary, noticed my father and his sister and took them in. He asked one of the leaders of the local church to take care of my father as a foster child, while another family took in his sister. Because of the kindness of the priest, my father began attending church and eventually became a Christian. My father’s new family allowed him to go to the local school run by the Catholic missionaries, probably at the insistence of the priest who found him on the street. My aunt was not so lucky. Her family did not send her to school, nor did they treat her well. Later in life, she ended up financially dependent on my father for her most basic needs.

  Even with the privilege of pursuing an education, life was very hard for my father. His foster family never considered him a son. They treated him more like a servant, which was not uncommon for orphans in the 1920s in Nigeria. Every day, my father worked from morning until night, doing chores, helping cook the meals and clean the house, and attending to all the needs of the master’s children—even though my father was a child himself. But that was not all. When I was old enough to understand, my father showed me the scars on his face and body where he had been physically abused by his foster parents and their children. He also experienced a great deal of emotional abuse. Many days, he ran out the door to school hungry because there wasn’t enough food left for him after everyone else in the family ate. A firm slap on the face or a hard knock on the head awaited him every time he did what children do—like spilling water accidentally on the floor.