THE WAY IT WENT DOWN: ONE IN A MILLION LUCK

People ask what it’s like to almost die, and I tell them, hey, I was seven, I don’t remember. But I do. A little bit. It was like going away. Like visiting the edge of another place I was preparing to move to. It felt like hovering above the world, a little bit, and the memory, my memory of it (which must be false) is of a POV floating over my bed. Of seeing myself in the bed. Little, bald, sick and grey, with my parents in chairs, watching me. Cancer is a bitch that way. Cancer will eat anyone it can, up.  

Anyway, wherever that other place was, I never went. Something happened. A turnaround. Remission. Restoration. One in a million luck. In two months I was out of the hospital, in nine months my hair was back. In a year, my life was normal again. Well, except for dad. Dad was gone.

Now, this is what ruins the story for people. Just flat ruins it. The happy ending is supposed to have all the bells and whistles. The dad, the mom, the tearful return home. But it wasn’t like that. 

The first day I recall feeling better — feeling myself for the first time in some time — was the day my dad disappeared. Just gone. Now, the question is, was he a bad dad? No. I say. A druggie? I laugh at that. Nope, I say. A deadbeat? Heck no, I say.

My dad was…my dad. A scientist. Worked for the government. Always home. Always reading to me. Gifts. Kisses for my mom. Money in the bank. A good guy. A solid guy. Which made his vanishing even more baffling. But of course, we had a lot to be happy for, too. It was a confusing time. I remember my mom crying and I thought she was happy, but now I know she was also weeping because my dad was gone.

I kept asking for him, but as the life came back into me, those questions slowed down, and then stopped. I parroted my mom who said, We need to move on, love. Love of my life. Lovey. We need to look ahead. Eventually I did. Life fell into fill the gaps. Dad was gone and I...stopped caring. 

Later, in my late teens, I read about how he embezzled two and a half million dollars from DARPA and is a fugitive on the books being hunted by the FBI, and I remember thinking — I wish he had given us that money.

Of course, I feel guilty about that now. 

Did I think it was strange that my mom wanted nothing to do with doctors after that? A little, but it was also relieving, in a way, after years of living in hospitals. Did I think it was weird that my mom didn’t really want to find my dad? Kind of? I guess. A bit. 

Did I think it was strange that my mom forbid me from getting blood drawn? I don’t know. I thought it was a phobia, maybe? I felt fine. I was fine. Life was fine. 

I saw dad again for the first time in 14 years today. He was just…there. Older. Thinner. Bigger beard and weird-looking glasses. And...smaller. 

He stepped off the subway like he had just stepped out of my hospital room yesterday. He stood there smiling while I felt my cheeks being pulled up, again and again and I couldn't catch my breath.  

“Heya, peanut.”

Just like that. Ok. So. Long story short. Dad gave me a shot. He wasn’t supposed to give me a shot. It was a special shot. A classified shot. But without that shot, I would be 17 years dead now. Without it, I would have gone to that other place all those years ago. 

To get this shot, dad had to…do things. Break the law. Become a fugitive.  He told my mom. Gave me the shot, and then couldn’t stick around. People might ask questions. He took the bullet and left. He saved me. He was a good dad. 

Is. Is a good dad. 

Is.

Last month I got my blood drawn. I made a mistake. I started thinking about a future. About kids. I wanted to know what the sickness did to my body. Was I okay? I wanted to know. I needed to know. 

Mom’s insistence on avoiding doctors and blood-drawing was a long-faded memory by then. I should have listened. I should have, I-

Anyway, dad came back to tell me he loved me. That he did this all for me. That he never stopped watching me. That the people he took the shot from had seen my blood work, that they would be coming for me. Soon.

“Okay peanut? Listen. Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says, and when he turns and goes up the steps, waiting for me to follow, I see the gun tucked into the back of his pants. But he's my dad. 

I follow.