I hope to arrive to my death late, in love, and a little drunk.
—Atticus
Thomas Morstead, our punter, saw the changing of my life go down in real time. He was in the locker room with me when my cell phone rang. It was a 504 area code—a local call. I’d been back for about an hour after undergoing a medical test at the hospital. Earlier in the day, our doc, John Amoss, an internal medicine specialist, had listened to my breathing with a stethoscope and didn’t like what he heard. So much for the mere formality of a physical.
I could tell something didn’t sit right with him. Just to be safe, he said, he was sending me to the hospital for an echocardiogram—a test that checks how your heart’s chambers and valves are pumping blood. I’m all for being precautionary. “Let’s roll,” I said.
Well, now, back in the locker room, this local call must have been my green light. Only, not. As I listened to the voice on the other end of the call, Morstead would later say he saw my jaw drop, and knew instantly something was wrong. “It was scary,” he said.
It was the cardiologist Dr. Amoss had sent me to. “I don’t know how to put this, but these results, these were not what we were thinking or what we were hoping for,” he said. “I don’t know how to say this, other than to tell you you’re never going to play football again and we need to have you back here right away for more tests. We’ll call the coach and get it all squared away, but you need to know this is pretty serious.”
Hearing those words, it would strike me later, was like hearing “There was an accident and your mom didn’t make it” when I was twelve. You hear the words in plain English, but you don’t understand them, not really. It’s like you suddenly don’t speak the language. Later, I’d reflect on how a person’s life can change in a nanosecond. One instant, you’re a professional athlete; the next, you’re in a fight for your very life. One instant, you’re a carefree twelve-year-old at baseball camp; the next, your mom is dead, your dad is under arrest, and you’re essentially orphaned.
None of this struck me as Morstead watched me try to process this information. I was too busy being stunned. Waves of adrenaline kicked in; all I could hear was the loud beating of my own heart. I don’t remember if Morstead and I even spoke. He watched me wander out of the locker room and into the training room.
There, I sat across from head athletic trainer Scottie Patton and director of sports medicine Beau Lowery. They got the cardiologist on speakerphone. That’s when I first heard the term “aortic aneurysm,” a weakened area in the upper part of the aorta, which is the major blood vessel feeding blood to the body. An aneurysm can lead to a tear in the arterial wall that can lead to life-threatening bleeding.
I was still reeling as I made my way upstairs, to Coach Sean Payton’s office. It’s funny, the questions that first come to your mind. “Coach, should I wait to call my wife?” I asked. “She’s back in Philly, making the move happen. The tests I’m about to have, are they to gather more information about what this might be, or is it just to double-check? If we don’t know one hundred percent what this is, should I wait to call her until we really know what’s going on?”
You know what that is? Denial. I was looking for an escape hatch. We’re getting more tests done. Maybe this isn’t all that bad. Coach Payton, God bless him, knew what I was up to, even if I didn’t.
“No, the cardiologist says you’re done,” he said. “This is a serious problem. Call your wife. This is happening, Jon.”
This is happening, Jon. That was just what I needed: a verbal head slap. Coach Payton called the doctor. “Coach, not to put too fine a point on it,” the doc said on speakerphone, “but if we didn’t catch this and Jon were to play Monday night, there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance he’d have died on the field, before the ambulance could get him to me. One shot to the sternum, and this thing will rupture.”
Oh. My. God. It hit me: feet, meet edge of cliff. Sitting across from Coach Payton, I called Anni. The movers were scheduled to be at the condo in the morning—everything was out of the cabinets and ready to be packed up. She was in an Uber, heading to yoga.
Do I let her go to yoga and just breathe a little before hitting her with all this? Hmm. There was no way in hell that telling her in a couple of hours that I was in the hospital undergoing tests could possibly fly. No, better to dive in.
“Anni, I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said. “During the physical, they discovered something. I’m done playing football and I need emergency heart surgery. I’m on my way to the hospital now for more tests. I’m okay, but we need more information.”
“What did you tell me?” she shrieked. Without missing a beat, she ordered the Uber driver to turn around. He’d take her home to grab a few things and then on to the airport. She was on her way.
Meantime, I underwent another echocardiogram and a CT test with dye. Turns out, my condition had zero to do with diet or behavior. I was born with a congenital heart defect known as a bicuspid aortic valve, the valve that transports blood flow from the heart. It’s an inherited form of heart disease in which two of the leaflets of the valve fuse together in the womb. It is the most common cause of heart disease present at birth and affects between 1 and 2 percent of adults.
The walls of the aorta are typically strong enough to tolerate the stress of blood flow from the heart. Aneurysms—which develop in about half of all patients with bicuspid valves—occur when the walls weaken. As the weakened wall deteriorates, it leaves behind damaged tissue that grows in size, heightening the risk of a serious tear.
The aortic valve is supposed to be three centimeters. Mine? The size of a can of Coca-Cola. So that’s why time was of the essence.
“Did you ever have any symptoms?” the doctor asked.
“What’s a symptom?”
“Ever been out of breath?”
“Doc,” I said. “I’m a slow white guy. I was surrounded by these freaks of nature. I was always out of breath. I always had to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
“I can’t tell you for how long, but you’ve been working really inefficiently, Jon,” he said. “As you’ve been running, you’ve been losing blood—it’s been going back into the heart. So your body has had to work two or three times as hard just to maintain, let alone excel.”
Now the fatigue from training camp was starting to make sense. Or that time during our honeymoon, when Anni and I went swimming with sharks. She was underwater with them, but I couldn’t hold my breath for more than a few seconds before having to come up, gasping for air. “Man,” I remember saying, “I’m more out of shape than I thought.”
Until a few hours ago, I was a professional athlete. Now I was being told I need emergency open-heart surgery to repair or replace the valve and remove the aneurysm—and I need it within the next few days. How serious was this? Turns out, it was the same condition that killed Alan Thicke and John Ritter, and actor Bill Paxton died of a postsurgical complication from this very condition.
Meantime, the slightest movement could trigger an eruption. Don’t lift anything over five pounds. Don’t run. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t have caffeine. Don’t have sex. Just sit there. Find a surgeon and have this done. “If you were to play and got hit hard and your heart decided to take a couple of extra pumps,” the doc said, “that could cause a rupture.”
Well, hello, new life. Leaving the hospital, I’d just been told my life was in danger. Anni was on her way, but not with me yet. I was tempted to feel all alone and go to a really dark place. I could feel that familiar “why me?” narrative bubbling up.
But then, hitting the down button at the elevator bank, I saw it, sitting there, looking up at me from the most pristine floor you could imagine. A shiny, single penny. I had to smile.
Whenever they’d see a penny, Nonnie and Susan always said, it would make them think of Mom. So ever since I was a kid, I’d throw pennies onto sidewalks or streets in the hope that Nonnie or Susan or anyone who believed in pennies from heaven would find them. It was a way to keep Mom with us. As an adult, I continued to throw a penny whenever I got one, a silent kiss to Mom. So would Anni. So would my man Tim Mooney.
If you’d lived my life, you’d believe in signs, too, bro. Don’t tell me that penny on that floor at that time wasn’t a sign. How could I feel alone? Mom was with me.
The next five days were a blur. The Eagles and Saints worked out the football stuff. Even though I played a preseason game for the Saints, my heart condition meant that I’d technically failed my physical, so the trade had to be rescinded. My heart condition was a preexisting condition. That meant my whole contract—three years, $3.4 million—was null and void. It’s like I didn’t even know it, but I’d gone to the casino and, in one instant, blown millions.
And you know what? I couldn’t care less. There’s nothing that refocuses the mind, and reminds you of your priorities, like a life-or-death battle. And that’s what this was. It didn’t take me long to realize that in a way, I’d been preparing for this moment my whole life. Ever since I was twelve years old, I’d been learning how to discard distractions and just focus on the task at hand.
There was no time for panic or worry or fear. We needed a game plan. “We’re going to attack this like I’ve done my entire life,” I told Anni, which was easier said than done.
Particularly for Anni. We’d been married for just shy of three months. Life hadn’t just thrown her a curve ball, it had dropped a meteor on her. A couple of times, we both suffered panic attacks, dropping to the floor in our kitchen, shaking and hyperventilating. But I’d never felt so loved and cared for. She was with me every step of the way; we were there for each other. “We’ve got to get it together,” I said. “Because we’re going to get through this. We’ll be fine. Let’s find a surgeon, get in, get out. Let’s do what we do.”
I’m afraid I turned pretty ice-cold about it. Rather than process any of the events that were happening, I was just dead focused. I’m not sure it even really dawned on me that in a matter of days, I’d be having open-heart surgery. All I could think about was what was right in front of me: we’re going to find the best surgeon and medical team in the world, we’re going to have them do what they do, and this will go down in the next few days.
Nothing else mattered, except breathing and staying alive. I had to make out a will, but it was all a formality. I signed papers but didn’t read them. “Babe,” I told Anni, “this ain’t the game plan. The game plan is, we’re going to beat this and survive.”
Here’s what’s great about Anni and me; actually, it’s what’s great about any loving relationship. We took turns picking each other up. When she felt panic, I was there to snap her out of it. And when she sensed that I was steering toward fear or doubt, she brought me back. “We’re going to get through this by talking to ourselves and not listening to ourselves,” she told me, quoting me to me, bringing me back from whatever nervousness I might have been feeling.
We started doing our due diligence. Between Google and the recommendations of the Saints, the Eagles, and a few friends, we compiled a list of surgeons. I was blown away by how many texts I received from throughout the NFL with doctor references and get-well wishes. Opposing coaches who I never thought even liked me reached out—like Coach Tom Quinn, the New York Giants specials-teams coach who kept his eye on me back when I played with those torn ligaments in my ankle under Coach Reid. “I loved playing against you,” Coach Quinn texted. “You’re a great competitor. I always knew that when we played you we would have to play our best. The game will miss you. If one of my guys had what you have, here’s the doc we’d send them to.”
Anni and I spoke on the phone to docs in Houston, Alabama, Los Angeles, and Cleveland. All sounded great. But in all these conversations, the name of another doc kept popping up. He had taught many of them the exact procedure I now needed. And it turns out, this badass regularly traveled the globe to teach others how to repair aortic valves and snuff out aneurysms. The best part? He was a Philly guy. Joe Bavaria was at the University of Pennsylvania, and, it turned out, he’d long been known globally as the father of this very surgery. The better-than-best part? Dude’s an Eagles fan.
When we got him on the phone, there were no pleasantries, there was no chitchat. He got right to the point. “Dorenbos,” he said, “I heard about this. I can’t tell you how excited I am that you called me. I’m just going to lay it out there for you. There’s nobody better than me at this. I’m going to tell you right now, if you were just having a valve replacement, yeah, there are a handful of surgeons in America you could go to, and you’d be fine. But if you want a valve replacement and an aneurysm fix? Get your ass on a plane, come to Philly, and let me save your life.”
I looked at Anni, and we both were tearing up. We’d found our man. “What’s the difference between God and a doctor?” an old joke asks. “God knows he’s not a doctor.” Well, Bavaria carries himself with what some might think of as a God complex. But I think of it as swagger, which is exactly what you want from a guy into whose hands you’re placing your life. Brian Dawkins’s alter ego needed its own locker? Damn straight. Because if you want to be that good at something, you don’t just study it. You become it. You want to be Dr. Bavaria? You become the baddest muthafucka with a stethoscope on the planet. You carry yourself with confidence, and others will have confidence in you.
I’m in, I told Bavaria. We quickly packed and were Philly bound. How to get there? Jeffrey Lurie already had that taken care of it. He’d called me as soon as the news broke about my condition. “Listen, Jon, you’ve got the use of my plane,” he said. “You have to go to Germany to get this taken care of? I’ve got you. Just say the word and it will take you anywhere in the world.”
“Well, actually, it’s going to be a lot more convenient than going to Germany,” I told Jeff now. We were headed back to Philly.
Thanks to Jeff, Anni and I were soon sitting across from Dr. Bavaria in his office at the University of Pennsylvania. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he was a superhero. He was tall, normal build, graying hair, sandy beard. More likely to be a familiar face at the farmers’ market or at the dog park. But that’s just it: extraordinary people come in ordinary packages every day.
I asked Bavaria, simply, Why? After all, he’s not only a cardiac surgeon, but the guy for bicuspid aortic valves and aneurysms. How does someone get to be the best in the world at that?
He laughed. “How does someone become an NFL long snapper and a magician?” he said. Turns out, he put in considerably more than his ten thousand hours, having performed more than six thousand open-heart surgeries, some four thousand of which were cardiac-valve related. Bavaria went to medical school after studying chemical engineering. An early mentor—his Ken Sands, if you will—was a cardiac surgeon.
“I thought it would be cool to be a heart surgeon,” he said. That’s when he noticed that mitral valves were being replaced all the time, but this procedure—aortic-valve replacement—wasn’t being done with any regularity. “I knew that was going to be my niche,” he said. “The world of the heart that nobody had really explored yet—that was going to be mine. So now I’m the guy, I do more of these than anybody, and I know more than anybody when it comes to exactly what you need.”
Field general that he is, Bavaria walked us through his game plan. “The number one goal is to repair your existing valve,” he said. “This is what I do. I’m an artist. It’s a delicate, elegant operation.”
If the valve couldn’t be repaired and had instead to be replaced, Bavaria explained, he’d need us to make a choice before the surgery: Do we want a mechanical or a cadaver valve? If mechanical, I’d be on blood thinners for the rest of my life. If cadaver, we’d likely be back in another ten or fifteen years for more open-heart surgery, but I wouldn’t be on any blood thinners. That sounded like the way for me: I could just go and live for a decade.
Once that was decided, into the hospital I went for a day of testing. And then it would be go time. How long would I be in surgery? About four hours, Bavaria said. Let’s do this, I said.
Here’s a word of advice: the night before you’re undergoing emergency open-heart surgery, do not—I repeat, do not—Google your procedure. If you do, you’ll see them literally sawing open a chest. It doesn’t look like fun.
Susan had flown in, as had Krissy and Anni’s mom, who’d been on a trip to Spain. Tim Mooney was there with us every step of the way. Susan was scheduled to leave in two days for Australia with two of her girlfriends—the trip of a lifetime. She wanted to cancel her plans, but I said no way. “You’ll see that I’m okay after the surgery, and then you’re going on that trip,” I said.
We also had a surprise visitor: my brother, Randy, appeared out of nowhere in my hospital room. We’d drifted apart in recent years. I was touched he’d show up for me.
That night, I FaceTimed with my buddies and held Anni tight. Funny, it never even occurred to me to reach out to my dad. I’d been so focused on the game plan, all I could think about at the eleventh hour was touching base with the people who had been in my life all these years.
Come morning, that’s when the fear hit. Anni and I were both crying when it was go time. She walked with me and held my hand as the orderlies wheeled me to the OR. Finally, we got to the end of a long hallway, which was as far as she could go with us. We kissed. Said “I love you.” And then we rounded that corner; when I turned my head and could no longer see her… that’s when I lost it. That was the worst feeling. Not seeing her. The fear and the dread, rising up in me.
Then, all of a sudden, the beeps got louder, the room got colder, and the ceiling got higher. I was in the OR. To my left, I noticed the saw and the scalpels and clamps. This is happening, Jon.
Now the anesthesiologist leaned over me. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
“Just tell me what island you want to go to, and you’ll have a helluva vacation,” she said.
She put the mask on me. I took it off. “I don’t want to go to an island,” I said, getting teary-eyed. “Take me back to my wedding day. The best day of my life. I don’t tell my wife good-bye. I tell her, ‘I’ll kiss you soon.’ That’s where I want to go.”
She touched my shoulder and I lowered the mask. The last thing I remember is closing my eyes and seeing myself dip my wife on the beach in Cabo.
What was supposed to be a four-hour surgery lasted more than ten. Bavaria would later say that my sternum was the hardest he’d ever had to crack. He had to stand on a stool to get enough leverage.
When he came out to speak to Anni, her heart dropped. Just imagine: she’d been waiting ten hours for a surgery that was supposed to last four, and now the doc approached—and he wasn’t looking happy.
“I need to speak to Anni alone,” he said to Susan, Krissy, and Tim Mooney. Mooney later told me he instantly thought: Oh my God. Jon died on the table.
What he didn’t know was that Dr. Bavaria was just being compliant with hospital confidentiality laws. And that upset look on his face?
“I couldn’t save the valve,” Bavaria told Anni, beating himself up, like the true artist he is.
“Is Jon okay?” she blurted out.
“Oh, yeah, he’s fine,” the doc said. “But I couldn’t repair that damned valve.”
The anesthesiologist came out to walk Anni through what would be a slow return to consciousness. In a small percentage of cases, patients don’t wake up. Annie would sit with me and talk to me and rejoice in small miracles, like when she felt me squeeze her hand after she’d asked me to. My girl pretty much lost it when the anesthesiologist told her that before going under, “Jon said he never tells you good-bye. He said he tells you he’ll kiss you soon. Well, he’ll be kissing you soon.”
Slowly, I started to wake up, ever so groggily. Mooney made a crack about Eagles GM Howie Roseman saving my life—had he not traded me, my condition might not have been discovered. I don’t remember, but there’s some disagreement among those who were in the recovery room as to whether I raised a middle finger or a thumbs-up in response.
I’ll never forget lying there, hooked up to the defibrillator machine. The nurses would put an ice chip on my lips every five minutes or so. Ice chips have never tasted so good. Private planes, the NFL, Ritz-Carlton suites… none of it mattered, or would matter ever again. I just remember biting those ice chips and holding Anni’s hand. It’s all that mattered. It was a strain to speak. “We alive, baby,” I managed to say to Anni. It would become a common refrain between us.