Chapter 8 - Looking for Terry

I once had this great idea for a product: The Official Terry Bradshaw Jigsaw Puzzle. It would be an action photograph of me playing football, cut into fifty irregular pieces. Forty-nine of the pieces would fit together easily. But then you’d be left with one piece, and that piece would not fit the last open space. It would be a totally different shape. It would drive people crazy, but it also would be a pretty accurate representation of who I was in those days. The piece that didn’t fit anywhere. But that all began changing when I got the greatest break of my life. Actually, it was one of my ranch hands’ break.

One afternoon he had an accident in the barn. We rushed him to Baylor Hospital. His ankle had to be X-rayed. When the X-ray technologist came in—turned out she was the instructor for the hospital’s whole radiology program—I was stunned almost silent; she was the best-looking radiology tech I had ever seen.

I had gone through several years of therapy by this time. I had learned a lot about myself and why I repeatedly had made poor choices. But looking at this woman, it was clear some part of shallow Terry had survived. They wheeled my ranch hand into the X-ray room. I followed him and as I watched, I began asking her some questions. Tammy remembers it this way: “That was when we made eye contact for the first time. I thought, Those are the bluest eyes I have ever seen in my life. I can see all the way into this man’s soul. It was a nice feeling, but I dismissed it right away.”

Thank you, Tammy. Let’s review: My relationship history had provided wonderful material for my act but considerably less for my happiness. There were a lot of years when asking me how to have a good relationship would be like asking Christopher Columbus for directions. After three failed marriages, I hadn’t actually vowed I would never marry again, but I considered it highly improbable. I was good at getting married. I’d proved that. Staying married was a whole different thing. I was gaining on happiness. I had my beautiful daughters. I had a ranch I loved in Westlake, Texas. I was doing the Fox show with a team of people I loved, and I was continually getting requests to do interesting things. The only people who might have been rooting for me to get married again was the Association of American Divorce Lawyers.

It had taken me a long time to understand that I needed an abundance of love and laughter in my life, and I had both. There was something missing, though, and that was someone to share all the wonderful parts of my life.

But I was dating. And there was this beautiful woman standing just a broken ankle away. Admittedly, when we met, among the various parts I looked at was her left hand. There was no wedding ring on it. Three weeks later I called and asked her to have dinner with me. We had a nice dinner with friends of mine. Then I took her back to my house, where we turned up the lights and played shuffleboard. Shuffleboard is not a euphemism. It is a game and we actually played it. Then I kissed her good night, and she drove home.

And then I called her for a second date. She didn’t answer her phone or return my calls. As I learned in therapy, few things make a person more desirable to me than rejecting me. It fed directly into my feelings of self-worth. This woman is smart enough not to want to be with me.

It turned out, she told me later, that she was wondering if she wanted the hassles that came with dating a celebrity. Unlike a lot of other people, she did not especially like attention. She definitely did not need me. She was already a happy person. She had children and a job she loved. Instead, she wondered if she was strong enough and confident enough to be in that type of situation. She finally returned my calls and agreed to have dinner with me. The only reason she did, she told me later, was that her daughter, the beautiful Lacey, insisted, “Mom, answer that phone.”

And just like that, twelve years later we got married. Twelve years.

Right from the beginning there were pretty obvious signs that we fit together. Tammy had two pet ducks that followed her around the house. Everywhere she went they marched right after her, quacking happily. There is definitely something unusual happening when a guy with a pet goose meets a woman with pet ducks. Another significant thing we shared was a strong religious belief and deep faith. Sunday mornings in church knitted us together.

When we started dating, she knew little about me other than I was a famous former football player. One time she was in my house and just happened to notice that the number twelve was everywhere: It was hanging on the walls, emblazoned on the sconces, printed on the ashtrays, and in metal on the front gate. After about three months she asked, “What’s up with the number twelve?”

“That was my football number,” I explained. That was about the extent of our conversations about my playing career.

We never discussed being in a relationship. We just eased into it. Before Tammy there had been other women I had been attracted to, but eventually something would happen to remind me of previous failures, and I would panic and run. I was never good at telling a woman I was dating, “It’s over.” I couldn’t look at a woman and say, “I don’t want to see you anymore. This isn’t working for me.” I didn’t want to have a discussion about it. I didn’t want to have to explain it. My mind couldn’t handle that.

At least one time it was easier for me to get married than break up. So most of the time, rather than have a break-up conversation, my response would be to disappear. I did that several times to Tammy. Everything seemed to be great—then I was gone. For no obvious reason I wouldn’t call her for weeks. Tammy referred to it as being voted off the island. Maybe I was getting too close, too comfortable, so I needed to reassure myself that I was a free man.

But she had a special strategy for dealing with this: She would not call me. She wouldn’t chase after me. She wouldn’t call to ask, “What’s wrong?” Man, that bothered me. How could she do that to me? The truth is she was strong enough in her own high heels to know that if I chose not to be with her, she would be just fine without me. Not needing me was a big deal.

On occasion when that happened, she would consult with the pastor of First Baptist Church of Gainesville, Texas, Pastor Mark Dennison. He was a good friend to both of us and helped her get through those times. She also had continued working. On a day-to-day basis she was dealing with people going through difficult times, and that helped her to keep a perspective.

She once told me, “The way I talked myself through those times was remembering what happened when we were out in the pasture at the ranch. If I walked toward the horses, they would run away. But if I stood still, they would come to me. Every single time. I knew that if I chased you, that would scare you away. But if I stood there . . .”

Sound familiar?

But there was an additional issue we both had to deal with. If this book were a movie, this is where the threatening dum-dum-dum-dum theme from Jaws would start playing. Before we met, I had been diagnosed with depression, but as long as I took the medicine, things were good. But I didn’t always take it. And when that happened, my temper could surface. Tammy had names for that: the big ugly monster, the demon inside my head, or finally, Roy. The truth about me is that 95 percent of the time—maybe more if I’m being kind to myself—I am a really nice person. I genuinely care about other people and try to live my life being respectful of them and their needs. I would never knowingly say something or do anything to hurt their feelings. But that other percentage? Say hello to Roy.

Everyone who has been in my life for a period of time has met Roy, even if they weren’t formally introduced. Roy has been around for a long time and may have contributed to the failure of my marriages. I like to believe it was Roy who got into a fight with my brother, for example.

Tammy gave him that name. It was her way of separating me from these dark periods. Roy will hurt your feelings. Generally, he came to visit just a few days prior to me getting depressed. Most of those times it was because I had not taken the medicine.

Like most people with clinical depression, I learned how to hide it in public. As soon as the camera goes on, or if I’m with people, I’m Mr. Happy, life is great, couldn’t be better. No one knows what is actually going on inside me. But when I get home, behind closed doors, hello, Roy. Roy can be downright mean and abrasive. He can also cause me to make rash decisions that I might regret. It’s like I have this big angel on one shoulder and this nasty small demon on the other shoulder.

Fortunately, Tammy’s whole medical background helped her recognize Roy and deal with him. When I got nasty or stopped calling, she didn’t take it personally. If she had, she would have abandoned ship. But somehow she understood none of this was aimed at her. It was what was going on in my head. Giving it a name became a way for us to talk about it. Tammy might say, “It feels like Roy is paying a visit today.” Usually, I’ll deny it. That’s my job, but the awareness matters.

Accepting that mood swings can be caused by that chemical imbalance rather than being a dent in your personality is unbelievably important. Tammy got to know that this was not a forever change. Although there were times when she sighed and said, “I wish Roy would leave and Terry would come back.”

I’m not blaming Roy for every negative thing I’ve done. I am not someone who makes excuses. There are always a lot of competing factors in all of our lives that drive behavior. We all have our bad days, we all get tired, and when you’re a celebrity, when you spend a good portion of your life in public trying to be the person people want you to be, there are times it wears you down, and sparks can fly. Sometimes being ornery is just natural.

During those twelve years we dated, Tammy never used the M word. She never put any pressure on me. She never asked if we were going to get married. She just kept enjoying what we had when we had it. I was the one who talked about it. I would tell her that when we got married, we were going to do it in Hawaii. I told her that when we got married, these were the people who would be there. That when we got married, this was going to happen, and that was going to happen. It was always a very broad when. When was an undefined time. Without realizing it, that was my way of holding on to her.

We came close several times. Once after another great weekend together, I told her I wanted her to go and look at engagement rings the next day. And seven days later, I called her again. It was a big, ugly monster I had to get past. There was nothing Tammy could do to help me with that except just let me be. Heck, it took me more than two years before I told her, “I lo . . . lo . . . lo . . . love you.”

But that definition of love mostly was still based on my old values. I was evolving, but I wasn’t there yet. Tammy still had a lot to teach me.

Throughout those twelve years, we dealt with a lot of challenges. For example, there were people who tried to break us up. I can’t say why. Maybe they thought they were protecting me from another heartache. Maybe they were protecting their own position in my life. But just like the plot of a bad cable movie, people actually did things to drive us apart. I didn’t learn the full extent of this until after we were married. But one of my employees told her bluntly, “I’m going to do everything in my power to keep him from marrying you.”

My mother was not supportive either. There were parts of my life she did not fully understand or approve of, as they went against her values. She was not nice to Tammy, but I never believed it was personal; she had been there for me in the hardest days and did not want to see me hurt again. That led to one of the more difficult times of my life.

My parents were staying with me at the ranch, and Tammy drove over from her house to play cards. At the end of the evening, Tammy got ready to drive home, but I asked her to stay with me. The next morning she got up and went to work—and after she left, my mother unloaded on me. She said it was disrespectful to her and to the religious values I’d been taught. She said some nasty things that triggered me.

This discussion got heated. Our voices got raised. “This is my house,” I shouted at her. “I’m a grown man, and I will do whatever I want to in my house.” This was the first time in my entire life I’d raised my voice to my mom.

Finally, I told my parents to pack their bags and get out of my house. My mother drew her hand back to hit me. Whoa! My dad knew I was right because he never said a word. They left, and I stood there watching them go.

It was awful, terrible. Incredibly, though, I actually felt good about it. In my mind I wasn’t choosing between my mother and Tammy. I was standing up to my mom, which was a big, big deal for me. It was liberating in an important way. With all my success, all the attention I get, I would never not be her little boy. Tammy did not need me to defend her. She had done absolutely nothing wrong—she hadn’t even won at cards—but it felt right for me to do that.

I didn’t hear a word from my parents for three days. I told Tammy what had happened after she left, and she felt awful about it too. Finally, my mother called and was her usual self: “Hi, babe. I haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?” It was just a normal conversation as if nothing had happened.

Unfortunately, her relationship with Tammy was always cool. There were times my mother just ignored her. Holiday dinners could be very difficult. Tammy was wonderful about it. She understood how hard this whole situation was for me and never made me feel guilty about it. There was no “What about me?” in Tammy. My mother was old-school and was not going to change. What could have been a deal-breaker instead became an irritation. Instead of breaking us apart, as she probably would have liked, my mother brought us closer together.

The hardest event we went through while dating was the death of Tammy’s son, Cody. That was an unimaginable tragedy. Tell me anything harder than dealing with the death of your child. Cody was twenty-three years old and working for the railroad. Earlier in his life he’d had a drug problem, but that was in his past. Unfortunately, one night he went out with a friend from those earlier days. They mixed whatever they mixed, took whatever they took, and Cody went to sleep and never woke up. For reasons no one will ever explain, Tammy woke up at four o’clock in the morning. She lay there, wide awake, then went back to sleep. She always wonders if that might have been her son, saying goodbye.

I was in Hawaii with my brothers and their wives when Cody died. What do you do to help in that situation? What’s the line between being supportive and getting in the way? At times, being a celebrity can be helpful. Not this time, though. This time it just got in the way. She told me to stay in Hawaii. Only later did she explain why to me: “I needed that time to be about Cody. I know when you’re in the room, people forget everything else, and emotionally, I could not have handled that. It’s what other people would have done.”

It’s easy to write that I wish I would have been there. But I wasn’t. In 1988 the owner of the Steelers, Mr. Art Rooney, died, and for reasons that made sense to me at that time, I did not attend his funeral. I have long—and publicly—regretted that decision. In this situation, I respected Tammy’s wishes. Instead of being there physically, over the next three days we spent hours on the phone, day and night. I believe I helped her get through part of it. But I know that going through that experience brought us closer together.

We spent the next decade doing the Terry dating dance. At different times, we walked away from each other, but then we would come sprinting back. We traveled together, went to church together. I knew she was protective of me, and I had begun relying on her opinions. I loved her daughter, and she loved my girls. She learned how to play golf just well enough to be able to lose gracefully. We played the kind of silly pranks on each other that couples enjoy. Well, at least tolerate. Boo! Gotcha!

She had become my best friend.

I fought as hard as I could against anything more than that. Why ruin a great thing? Just the thought of risking marriage again was frightening. I was not going to get hurt again. Nobody was going to tie me down again. Okay, I knew she was the right woman, but I didn’t want the commitment. I didn’t want to lose her, but I didn’t know how to keep her. So I did what I had done several times before, but I did it the modern way: I broke up with her by email!

There are people who would describe that as the coward’s way out. Me, for instance.

Facing linebackers, facing producers, speaking to several thousand people—all that I had done without any problem. But Tammy? An email allowed me to escape without having to see the disappointment on her face and hear the hurt in her voice. It was short and simple. I just wrote, “I’m saying goodbye, for now.”

For now? The one thing I knew was that I didn’t know what I wanted. So I left the door open just a crack, a little tiny crack.

Among the many feelings I had after sending that message was relief. I no longer had to worry about letting Tammy down! And I reminded myself that this actually was the best thing for her. I wasn’t going to be able to commit, and I was taking up her life. Maybe that was good for me, but unfair to her. I was doing her a favor. That’s how nice of a person I was. She is a beautiful woman, I knew, and a wonderful, special person and would have no problem finding another man.

I don’t remember telling myself she would meet a better man. Those depression drugs were working, and I still had my ego, but she definitely would attract a lot of fine men.

Does this sound familiar?

We didn’t speak for three months. I missed her, but on some level, I still believed I was doing this for her. After three months, she told me, she finally accepted the fact that we were done for real and took down all the photos of us together hanging in her office. That day, literally that day, a man asked her out—and she accepted. It was time to move on with her life, she decided.

Also that day, and this is pretty incredible but absolutely true, I called her. After not a word for three months, hi, it’s me, Terry. She was surprised and remembers wondering, How does he know I let go today? Is someone spying on me for him? During that conversation I asked her to come to the ranch. She did not exactly jump at my offer. “Well,” she asked, “have you figured out what you want yet?”

I answered honestly, “I can’t answer that question.”

“Then I can’t.”

I asked if I could keep calling. I couldn’t let go but I didn’t know how to hold on either, and she said I could. It was an ornery time for me; there was a cage match going on in my mind between my fears and my feelings.

We spoke often over the next three months. Meanwhile, she had begun dating again. She actually met someone, a doctor. And he had invited her to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Before they sat down, they watched the traditional turkey games on Fox, and suddenly—there I was. Tammy remembers looking at me on the TV and thinking, I don’t want to be here. I want to be there.

I was having similar feelings. I called her the next morning, the very next morning, and once again asked her to come to the ranch. This time she said she would.

Eventually, we decided we wanted to be together on that island, although we did not define what being together meant. (Hint: marriage.)

Once again, I eased into it. She knew I was at least thinking about it when I gave her what she never expected: a golf bag with the name Tammy Bradshaw written on it. Boom! Only five years later I finally, finally, finally accepted the fact that this wonderful woman wasn’t going to hurt me. For twelve years, I thought, you’ve been messing around. I had already run my mom and dad off one time, been with her through the best and worst life events. My people at Fox and on the ranch loved her. The joke I tell is that I loved her so much I wanted to make her as miserable as I was because that’s what a relationship is—sharing the bad as well as the good.

I wanted to surprise her. So I carefully arranged this big, beautiful event with music and flowers . . . and who am I kidding? The night before my daughter Rachel was getting married, Tammy and I were passing in the hallway at the ranch. I stopped and told her, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, we’re gonna get married in Hawaii next Tuesday. For real this time.” We weren’t going to announce it, so I added, “We’re just going to do it and tell everybody afterward.”

“Okay,” Tammy said calmly, but later she told me she was thinking, Okay, we’ll see about this.

I wanted to keep it secret. At least I thought I did. We went to Rachel’s wedding, then flew to Hawaii, stopping in LA because I had to do a couple of interviews. I found myself introducing Tammy to people as my fiancée, adding, “We just got engaged.”

I think that’s when Tammy began taking it seriously. She called her daughter, Lacey, and said, “We might get married in Hawaii this week.” Apparently, Lacey laughed. “No, really,” Tammy insisted. “I think maybe it’ll really happen this time.”

Tammy continued to doubt we were actually getting married until our preacher, Mark, showed up. Mark had been through so much with both of us, I knew he had to officiate the ceremony. Flying him to Hawaii and the cost of the license were the only expenses. It was a beautiful ceremony at sunset in the backyard of our house.

Seconds later reality set in: Tammy and I were married. I was married for the fourth time. I remember thinking, Wow, what in the world was I waiting on? I was totally at peace knowing I had finally married the right woman. I had broken the cycle of marrying the wrong people for the wrong reasons. I could take a deep breath.

When the ceremony was over, we celebrated by taking a picture of us spelling out L-O-V-E with our hands. Tammy did the L and the O; I did the V and E. We spelled it right the very first time, too, so maybe I should have sent a copy of that picture to Hollywood Henderson?

It had taken a pastor, a psychologist, a psychiatrist, and a medical diagnosis to enable me to get to that place. Along the way I also sat down and had a few conversations with God in which I was honest about myself. I don’t think God was embarrassed, but I didn’t especially like admitting my faults. But it all came together. Tammy became my wife that afternoon, but she was already my best friend. The fact that my best friend also happens to be a beautiful woman did not hurt our friendship.

By the time we got married, we were pretty much doing everything together. I never would have believed that I would say this, but I would rather play golf with my wife than with anybody else. We have fun together, and I can always win a few bucks. Believe me, you know you truly love your wife when you can be honest about your handicap.

It took me some time to accept the idea that a good marriage is a partnership. Before Tammy and I were together, I had always had someone I could rely on to put my decisions into action—go ahead and sell the cattle, or let’s buy more cattle—but I didn’t have anyone other than David Gershenson who I really trusted to make those big life decisions. To protect me. I didn’t know how much I needed a Tammy until I had one.

It wasn’t easy for me to give up that control. She never asked for it. But more and more I found myself depending on her, trusting her judgment, knowing she was protecting us.

Having Tammy in my life did not cause Roy to go away. Depression doesn’t work that way. But she learned all the signs that he was getting ready to unpack for a stay. She says she can see it in my eyes. Who knows? But when she does, she’ll ask me if there is something we need to talk about. Or did I forget to take my medicine? “Hey, babe,” she’ll say, “I kinda feel like Roy is here today.” And then she’ll stand back and let the wave wash over me. And her . . .

This is reality: You are never going to play quarterback in the NFL. Chances of you replacing one of us on the Fox show are pretty slim. But chances are reasonable that your life might be touched by clinical depression. be you, but someone you care about. Knowing about it, understanding it is manageable, and knowing that it does not prevent a person from leading a happy life can make a huge difference.

This is the way it works in our life: In spring 2026 Tammy and I were moving into the new house we had built together. I designed the outside; she did the inside. It was a big job, and we were under a lot of stress. Then I got a steroid injection to deal with back pain—it’s okay, I wasn’t playing that Sunday. So because of the shot, I neglected to take my usual antidepressant medicine. Tammy saw Roy peeking around the corner, but I told her I was fine. I was great.

A day later we sat down and I enthusiastically laid out my plan for our future. I had already called the real estate agent, I told her, and I had called the banker, and we were gonna do this and that and sell that and this. I could almost see Roy smirking. I know now that he is my own personal version of the insurance company character Mr. Mayhem.

Tammy listened. She didn’t argue, even though what I was proposing was an extreme change. As she said later, she didn’t see any of this coming. She didn’t try to fight with me, or argue with me, but slowly we worked through it. I took the medicine. By the next morning, we put Roy in the back seat. Tammy told me once that she was wondering after all these years if the medicine was still effective. Now we knew, and we knew for sure.

We just kept growing closer. We loved doing everything together. Golf, fishing, raising horses, traveling, cancer treatments, everything. Okay, maybe we didn’t love that cancer part. In 2021 I was diagnosed with early-stage bladder cancer. I had some symptoms, got examined, and was diagnosed. It was discovered early, so right from the beginning, the prognosis was good. We decided not to talk about it publicly. With so many other people in the world going through similar situations or even worse, we thought it would be selfish to draw attention to me.

Tammy was next to me through every part of it, holding my hand, asking the right questions, explaining the answers, managing my treatment. Because of her medical background she was able to explain things in a way even I could understand. They’re gonna do what? To my what?

I was never scared. As a Christian, my attitude was, if I go, I’m okay. I know I’m going to heaven, to a peaceful, restful place. Knowing that is reassuring. But I wasn’t in any hurry to get there. If I stay, I get to enjoy my family, my people at Fox, my kids, my grandkids, my horses, my birds, my dogs, and my Tammy. I had full confidence I was staying. I was treated at Yale University Medical Center, and to be honest, there was more discomfort from the treatment than from the disease.

Bacille Calmette-Guérin (BCG) is an immunotherapy medication. I had six weekly BCG treatments at the hospital. It works really well, but the treatments are uncomfortable. A nurse grabs hold of your penis, numbs it, then slides a tube up to make sure the BCG reaches your bladder. Hey, if just reading about it makes you uncomfortable, imagine me lying there.

Tammy was on the other side of the curtain, telling me it was okay. Sure it was okay for her. She was on the other side of the curtain.

It was humiliating lying there exposed like that, but there was nothing I could do. There are no penis socks in BCG treatments.

Normally this entire preparation took only a few minutes. I had a different nurse for each of these procedures. One week an inexperienced nurse came into my room. She was training in this area and was not as skilled at the insertion. It took her about fifteen minutes just to get the catheter into my bladder. The entire time her head was about two feet from my penis, and she was staring at it intently. Here’s another opportunity for you to insert your own do-it-yourself joke. Usually my natural instinct in most situations is to find some humor in it, but that didn’t seem possible while a total stranger was standing there holding me in her hand until we finished.

When she finally got done, she sighed, leaned back in satisfaction, and told me, “Okay, Mr. Bradshaw, I’ll stand up and turn my back, and you can pull up your pants.”

Wait—now you’re embarrassed? Apparently, this young woman was able to separate business from pleasure.

My regular checkups confirmed the cancer was gone, although I would never say that out loud. I’m not superstitious, but why take a chance?

A few months later I started having spasms in my neck and shoulder. Neck, shoulder, and back issues are not unusual for a football player who was sacked almost four hundred times. Some of those hits were exceptionally hard. For example, in October 1976, Cleveland Browns defensive end Joe “Turkey” Jones picked me up, turned me upside down, and began drilling for oil with my head. This was one of those traffic-stopping sacks. I was knocked out cold. I had to be carried off the field on a stretcher.

The Browns suffered too. They were assessed a fifteen-yard penalty for unnecessary roughness! Those officials sure showed them. X-rays showed I had bruised my spine, and I missed a few games. The injury was literally a pain in the neck.

Considering all the injuries I had suffered during my career, I was not especially concerned by some neck and shoulder pain. I knew I had some arthritis in my neck, and I sort of assumed that was causing this current pain. As I had done many times before, I would get a shot to relieve the pain, and it would be gone. But Tammy insisted I get an MRI to make sure that’s what it was. I didn’t believe that was necessary, but it was easier to make her happy than ignore it. Getting an MRI for me was like kissing my kids. It would be impossible for me to calculate the number of X-rays or MRIs I have had in my life, so this was nothing unusual.

Until I got home and Tammy said, “I need to talk to you. You have to sit down.”

“I’m not sitting down,” I told her firmly. “The last time a woman told me to sit down she said she didn’t love me anymore.”

Tammy still loved me, but she told me the doctors found a 2.5-centimeter mass in my parotid gland. There was a tumor under my jaw on the side that wasn’t hurting. That wasn’t what we were looking for or expecting. The truth is we never would have found the tumor if Tammy hadn’t insisted I have an MRI. Luck. Thank you, Turkey Jones, and all the hundreds of other players who sacked me.

Typically, 80 percent of parotid gland tumors are benign. It took almost three weeks before it was diagnosed as Merkel cell carcinoma (MCC), a rare and aggressive type of skin cancer. Approximately two people in a million are diagnosed with it each year. Usually, by the time it’s found, it’s already spread. We found it very early. Thanks, God. I owe You.

I’m a naturally competitive person, but being diagnosed with two totally different cancers in less than a year seemed a little excessive. I responded very calmly, and I began wondering what my epitaph would say.

I’ll be honest, this time I was frightened. That’s an unusual feeling for me. As broken, banged up, and bruised as I’ve been, I was usually in good health. I’d always been able to deal with broken bones and concussions. I’d never been a heavy smoker and never abused drugs. I was always in good shape, although there was a time I chewed tobacco. Loved my Red Man. And way back in my mind, I’d always feared that I’d die from a cancer. Cancer was the enemy. I’d beaten it the first time, so now cancer had a rematch, and this time it was angry.

Throughout my whole life I’d been knocked down, but I’d always gotten up. Always. I took great pride in that. Getting up after being knocked down—in football and in life—was a theme I returned to in my speeches. In addition to being sacked hundreds of times, I got hit and knocked down many, many more times. The fact that there was no statistic for that doesn’t mean there wasn’t pain. But, still, I always got up. Despite being knocked unconscious multiple times, I only missed four games.

I’d also been diagnosed with ADHD and clinical depression, and I built a successful career and a happy life. I’d been divorced three times, but got it right the fourth time. I had business setbacks but kept trying, and eventually I created one of the more successful horse operations in the industry.

I did all that because whenever I was knocked down, I got up. But this time, though—this was a tough one. Tammy was her usual supportive, everything’s-going-to-be-great self, my rock, but having spent ten years heading a radiology department, she was familiar with this situation. She’d seen similar cases and knew what the outcome could be. So even while this was going on, I thanked God for putting her in my life. This time I knew my wife wasn’t going to leave me stranded to figure it out on my own. She wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, she took charge. We were together whatever happened. They removed twenty-seven lymph glands from my neck, and then I had six weeks of radiation.

Going through this a second time in such a short period was mentally exhausting. It took all my resources to fight through it. I understood why people might give up. That’s the message I try to deliver in those motivational speeches: Get up. Bad things happen to all of us. But winning starts by getting up.

We didn’t make any public announcement about this diagnosis either. But one Sunday on the show, we were walking through a demonstration and boom! I lost all my energy. It all hit me, and I had to lean on Howie for support. There was considerable reaction from the audience, and a lot of people wondered what had happened. The majority hoped I was okay.

So the following Sunday, I felt I had to address it. I reminded viewers that I’d run out of breath, causing people to ask what was wrong with me. I explained my two battles with cancer, then concluded, “Folks, I may not look like my old self, but I feel like myself. I’m cancer-free. I’m feeling great. And over time, I’m gonna be back where I normally am.”

Michael Strahan responded gracefully, as he always does, saying, “Everybody here, we know what you’ve been going through. You are the ultimate teammate, and you know we love you, and you hold the show together. . . . We’re just so happy you’re here and cancer-free. And I think you got to give a lot of hope to a lot of people out there who are going through something very similar. But I’m also curious why it took this for people to ask what’s wrong with you, after all?”

Then Howie smiled and added, “You know, some of us have been asking that for several years now.”

One thing I was never concerned about while fighting cancer was my appearance. The good news was the therapy couldn’t cause me to lose my hair. I’ve always taken pride in my physical appearance, and I have those everyday looks that people don’t actively object to. I’m smart enough to walk into most rooms with Tammy, so nobody is looking at me anyway. But when I started taking steroids for my rheumatoid arthritis, I just blew up. They made me look like an offensive lineman, and nobody wants to look like an offensive lineman. Even offensive linemen don’t want to look like offensive linemen. I didn’t like that at all. It was embarrassing. I had never weighed more than 230 pounds in my life, and I was a bloated 260. My jacket size went from forty-four when I was playing football to fifty-two. Believe me, you know you’re in trouble when you have to buy plus-sized mirrors.

One day Tammy and I were in a Kmart in Hawaii. Unlike some celebrities who seemed to be protected by an invisible aura, I’ve got more of an invisible magnet. People are always coming over to say hello, shake hands, and have a brief conversation. Sometimes it’s a stretch when someone says, “Don’t you remember? We met twelve years ago when you were walking out of a movie.” But most often, they simply want to say, “Hey, Terry, how’re you doing?”

Mostly, I enjoy that. I enjoy being able to make people smile. It’s in my DNA to talk to people. Usually I respond, “Doing good. How’re y’all doing?” But this time when we were in Kmart, I responded, “Well, like you can see I’m a little puffy now. That’s because I’m taking steroids for my arthritis, and I’m a little embarrassed . . .” And then I went into some detail about it. Poor guy stood there with his mouth open. He had come into the store to buy detergent, and instead, he got Terry Bradshaw’s full medical report.

A little bit later Tammy and I were walking into the local Target, holding hands as we always do, and she stopped me. “Honey,” she said, “I know you don’t realize you’re doing this, but every time somebody asks you how you’re doing, you give them your whole medical history. You’ve done it a bunch of times. It’s not necessary. People love you for who you are . . .”

She was right, of course, so naturally I denied it. “Am I really doing that?” I asked defensively. “I’m sorry, babe. I promise, I’m not doing that again.” I meant it too. Then we went into Target, and as we walked an aisle, a man approached me, extended his hand, and said with a welcoming smile, “Hey, Terry. How’re you doing?”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, I’m on steroids for my arthritis,” I complained. “That’s why I’m so puffy. Look here . . .” I literally pulled up my pants leg and rolled down my sock so he could see the ring from the elastic on my leg.

A lot of wives might have been upset, but Tammy just shook her head in disbelief. That’s the me she knows. No surprises. This is what she taught me: That’s what real love is. Putting up with all those little irritations, putting up with Roy. We never have real arguments. We don’t even have many disagreements. We talk incessantly about everything.

Impossible as it sometimes seems, I’ve learned what makes a marriage work. Tammy and I understand and accept each other and forgive easily. We know that whatever the result, even if we don’t like it, the intention was always good. For example, Tammy and I were driving to church when we received a text from our pastor. He wrote that he’d taken his wife to play golf “with the clubs Terry gave us.”

That piqued her interest. She was wondering, He gave him a set of women’s clubs? She asked, “Terry, did you give away my golf clubs that were sitting in the barn?”

The realization hit me instantly. “I don’t know,” I fudged, shrugging my shoulders for emphasis. “I just gave away whatever clubs were in there.” I’d actually done it without thinking. I’d given away several sets of my own clubs. Honestly, it didn’t occur to me her clubs were there too.

Tammy got mad. But there was no yelling; she remained quiet. I realized what I’d done. I’d given away the clubs with her name on the bag. But she knew that was me being me, again. I did it impulsively, without considering the consequences. I was just trying to make some good people happy. She patiently explained to me, “Listen, those clubs were kind of special to me. Just so you know, when you give away things that are mine, it makes me intensely angry.”

I got the message. I was singing in the church choir that morning, and when we were done, I sidled up to the pastor and had a few words with him. Then I went over to Tammy and whispered, “I got your golf clubs back.”

A lot of people who survive an illness will tell you how it changed them, how it caused them to appreciate life more. I honestly can’t say that’s true for me. I already knew how fortunate I’ve been. My life has been an interesting journey, and even through the difficulties, I’ve appreciated every minute of it. I can’t wait to wake up each morning to find out who I’m going to be that day!