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cope with their new circumstances before confronting
the inevitable deluge of well-wishers and media.
Even at home, though, the reintroduction to Nowitzki
and Cuban left him vulnerable, so an hour of smiles with
friends begat a day of tears in solitude. “People that I’m
very close with, the first time they see me, it’s emotional,”
Bradley says. “It’s extremely draining.”T
HE DAY AFTER the reunion with Finley in Dallas, at
a rehab center 23 miles from the arena, two physical
therapists strapped a thick band around Bradley’s waist
and, in an intricate dance honed over time, wrestled him
out of his wheelchair and onto a padded table. They guided
him through a series of exercises that appear mundane butare, in fact, impossibly demanding. From a seated posi-
tion, bracing his own weight with one arm, Bradley low-
ered himself onto his side and then pushed himself back
up to a seated position. Bellows and grunts echoed from
his cavernous chest as Carrie and the therapists shouted
encouragement. He successfully pushed his body up from
the right side, but he struggled repeating the exercise on the
left, inhibited by a torn rotator cuff. “All hands on deck,”
says Matt Kawash, one of several therapists now charged
with learning how to manipulate a man so massive without
dropping or injuring him.
The Bradleys ended up at this outpatient rehabilitation
arm of Baylor Scott & White Health, just north of Dallas,
after Carrie called facilities across the country, searching
for one that could both accommodate her husband’s size
and provide the sort of athlete-focused training to which
he responds. While most patients come in twice a week,
Bradley was a Monday-to-Friday client this fall. And the
sessions, he says, left him yearning for three-a-days under
his old coach with the Nets, John Calipari, whose grueling
practices often left the center hobbled. Now, when his body
tires, the constant tingling in his arms and his torso—akin
to coming inside after playing in the snow—morphs into
painful spasms. A half dozen times per day, Bradley stops
himself mid-sentence to grit his teeth and wince.
He and his Dallas team set a clear goal: for Bradley to be
able to transition from a chair to his bed and back, without
assistance, an essential move in reclaiming life-altering
independence. “That’s something we all think is possible,”
Bradley says. “We’re not there yet—but we’re getting there.”
As he strains to improve himself, Bradley is determinedto find a means of helping others. Educating the masses
about bike safety is a priority: More than 800 Americans
die in bike accidents every year—including, last May, a
fellow 7-footer and Utahan, 64-year-old Mark Eaton, who
played 11 seasons with the Jazz. (No vehicle was involved in
Eaton’s accident.) What’s more, roughly 300,000 Americans
are currently living with severe spinal cord injuries.
Bradley understands that the strains on mental health—for
patients and for loved ones turned caregivers—can be just
as detrimental as physical impairments. To anyone facing a
battle like his, he wants to bring comfort and stability, just
as he once did for his new family. One neighbor in Utah
recalls Bradley asking aloud, “Why didn’t I die?” and says:
“I feel like he’s determined to find out what that reason is.”H
OME SINCE NOVEMBER, Bradley’s days now begin,
typically, in the middle of the night. Every three hours
an alarm rouses him, and he shifts his legs using straps
tied around his knees, rolling from one side to the other
to prevent bedsores. Around 9 a.m. a caregiver readies
him for the day, cleaning up any messes he may have
made overnight, ensuring that he has a bowel movement,
dressing him in a disposable brief and basketball shorts
by rocking him back and forth a dozen times to shimmy
the garments up. Then, using a contraption that resembles
a small crane, with a fabric sling on the end, the aide
moves Bradley from his bed into his wheelchair, another
15-minute ordeal. They will repeat these same steps, in
reverse, 12 hours later.
Bradley uses an $8,000 custom-made shower chair that
fits in his downstairs bathroom, but the process is so oner-
ous for Carrie that she bathes him only twice per week.
Occasionally she has had to help with bowel-movement
cleanup when her husband has an accident and an aide
can’t reach him. In such a young marriage, these are bound-
aries that Bradley wishes Carrie never had to cross, but
the line between spouse and caretaker has already blurred
irrevocably. They visit a therapist together, and separately,
trying to navigate scenarios that neither of them couldSHADOW OF HIMSELF
For Bradley, one of the hardest parts of
post-accident life is reintroducing himself to
the world. “It’s extremely draining,” he says.SAYS BRADLEY: “I DON’T KNOW HOW I CAN EASE
THE BURDEN OF ME.”
HE HAS CONSIDERED ONE WAY TO SOLVE THAT—BUT HE “CAN’T
EVER IMAGINE MYSELF ACTING ON THOSE THOUGHTS.”S H A W N B R A D L E Y