Kevin Sorbo - True Strength: My Journey from Hercules to Mere Mortal--and How Nearly Dying Saved My Life

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Table of Contents

WITH THANKS TO GOD.

FOR MY WIFE, SAM,

who helped me find the words to write this book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

LIFE IS A CONTACT SPORT, requiring teamwork for a successful game. Similarly, this book would not exist without the efforts of a dedicated lineup, for which I am eternally grateful. They are, in no particular order:

Robert Frost, for the discernment to choose the playing field that wanted wear.

Ardis and Lynn Sorbo (Mom and Dad), for the coin toss.

All of my doctors, especially but not limited to Dr. Robert Huizenga and Dr. Franklin Moser, without whom I would have had to forfeit the game.

The crew, cast, and producers of Hercules, especially Rob Tapert, Eric Greundemann, John Mahaffie, George Lyle, Michael Hurst, and Bruce Campbell for being my tireless teammates, allowing me to selfishly rely on them to carry the ball when I was too weak to go it alone.

Dr. Philip Stutz, Dr. Tony Norie, Steve Rosenbaum and Lee Goral, who gave me a new playbook and helped me improve my game.

Jennifer Gates and Todd Shuster, for being our cheerleaders (mine and the books.)

Katie McHugh, Jonathan Sainsbury, and Lissa Warren, for their coaching.

Donna Ruthe, for her insights and analysis.

My wife, Sam Sorbo, for keeping my head in the game.

And lastly (but by no means least), my kids, Braeden, Shane and Tavia, for the tackle practice, popcorn, and everything else.

INTRODUCTION

SUDDENLY I WAS AWAKE.

Dont move.

The words seemed to come from inside my head, low and emphatic.

What was that incessant, droning sound? I was falling backward, but I was not moving.

Dont move.

I flexed my toes, balled my fists, and counted the tubes in my arms and in my groin, remembering the strict instructions not to reposition myself no matter what, because I might bleed out. Thats right... bleed out.

It was coming back quickly now. I had blood thinners coursing through my arteries. Something in my arm, no, shoulder, had sent several hundred blood clots down my arm. When they reached an artery too small to pass, they stuck there, blocking any fresh blood and suffocating my flesh. My fingers had slowly turned bluecold and tingly.

We were attacking back. Heparin, the clot-busting, blood-thinning wonder drug would set everything straight againI hoped. My arm throbbedprobably the drugs healing effects. I flexed and folded the fingers on my left hand again, lifting it a few inches off the bed to get a look at it. My fingers still felt swollen, but at least they didnt look as blue. I turned my hand and it started to tingle.

I put it down carefully. I did not want to bleed out. Just like in Ghost-busters , I knew It would be bad.

Something was stabbing between my eyes and pooling behind my headan excruciatingly bright heat. That ceaseless noise wasnt helping at all.

I glanced around me as best as I could without moving my head too much. Yep, I was still in the ICU, with my new friends, a collection of medical machines, ticking away, hanging over the bed to scrutinize my every heartbeat.

But just as I focused on the IV, the heart monitor next to it disappeared . What?

I looked carefully, trying to see the monitor in my periphery. No luck. So I refixed my gaze on the heart monitor directly. There it was, doing its jobI presumed.

Apparently, my new blind spot was with me for the long haul. Shit.

I closed my eyes and felt... worse. Lightning strikes flashed through the darkness. How was that even possible? Then the dizziness hit, and every small movement generated a new, awful sensation. I was falling, spinning, freezing, floating. Nausea rolled on my tongue like a ball bearing.

Thats right: Dont move.

The bed was a dingy in rough seas. Oh, no! I realized, Im not supposed to move. How am I going to throw up?

Thats when it hit me how hungry I was. How many days had it been? At least three. I heard the ICU nurses in the hallway, talking, joking, laughing. One of them yelled to the other one, who mustve been walking away, Yeah, thats what she said!

Huh. Is there nothing original anymore, ever?

Dont move.

Oh, Lord, how I wanted to get up and just walk out of there. My ass was killing me. My back ached, even the skin on it was tender, and my legs were angry for lack of use. I could just feel my muscles slipping off my bones. For the athlete in me, this was torture, but the doctors assured me that this treatment was the only way to save my arm, and even that was still uncertain.

What would I do without my left arm?

Luckily, right then came another wave of nausea to distract me from my speculations. How can a person feel like puking when there is nothing in there? I flexed my feet to give my legs a small release. Boy, that got me even dizzier.

I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl, but there was nothing amusing about it. I just wanted some peace and quiet, to go back to sleep. I wished, for the thousandth time, that the nurses would shut off that infernal generator. Its relentless humming was driving me crazy.

And thats when it finally dawned on me: The sound was coming from inside my head. It was that smoldering, wet heat at the base of my skull. Intrinsically, I knew that this was the real problem.

And all the rest of this, the tube in my grointhe one crossing through my heart to deliver the clot-busting medicine directly to my shoulder and arm, the reason I was not permitted to movewas simply a distraction. It was an effective diversion, for now. Look at that tube. I pondered with incredulity the precious plastic passing innocuously through my heart, even as my heart kept beating. But the impartial tube, the faithful heart, the treacherous shoulder, the angry throbbing arm, the tingling hand and blue fingers, even my deceitful eyesnone of those sinister concerns could compete with what was happening in my head. My brain was the thing.

I understood. Although the end had not yet come, I was teetering on the brink of complete destruction. So I clung clumsily to the distractions of my circumstances in the ICU of this famous hospital. And while I examined this new life, the old one flashed in my memory: playing football in the snow in our front yard with my neighbors, driving alone for the first time in my 67 Ford Mustang, riding the subways in Paris. It all seemed so surreal and fast. Fear is an extraordinary artist, stimulating the mind to reminisce, as if to divine where fairytale meets horror novel.

Through it all I couldnt help but think: What did I do to deserve this?

PART I

DEMIGOD

MINNESOTA BOY

YEARS AGOnot long after Id first moved to Hollywoodmy good friend Tony The Head Federico arranged for us to play golf with Joe Pesci. I was a nobody actor and was thrilled. Plus I was (and still am) a golf nut.

So it is Tony (Italian), my buddy Rafe Battiste (Italian), and Joe (yep, Italian), and me. We meet and greet on the first tee, hit our shots, and start walking down the fairway together. Joe is not quite average heightI have close to ten inches on himbut he has an intimidating manner and a strong, irresistible confidence about who he is.

I am walking next to him. Joe squints up at me, and with his clipped, heavy New Jersey drawl (sounding much like the characters he plays), demands, Sorbo? What the fuck is Sorbo?

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