Alex Ko (7 page)

Dad’s cancer was returning.

Six months from now he would start to feel tired and achy again. In nine months, the doctors would confirm that his cancer was back, and it was worse this time. It had spread beyond his liver to his entire vascular system. It was in his lymph nodes and his blood vessels. There would be no second transplant. Once he was diagnosed, he was already too sick to get on the list. In fact, he was too sick for most treatments. His body, which seemed so strong as we pedaled our way through Iowa City on that July day, would give out all at once. By the time RAGBRAI came around next year, Dad was dead.

My family had a perfect summer, and we cherished every moment of it. Somehow, it seemed like both the longest and shortest summer of my life. In my memory, every day was sunny and warm. We did more than ever, but it ended far too soon. The days flew past us like birds in a flock: one moment you can see hundreds of them coming toward you, and the next just a few stragglers, struggling to escape the cold winds of winter.

But amid all the terrible things that were headed our way, something amazing happened—something I had wanted my entire life but thought would never occur. In the two brief months between my father’s second diagnosis and his passing, he gave me the greatest gift any child can receive from a parent: his blessing.

Chapter 7
The Conversation

D
ad had to be admitted to the emergency room just a week after we found out his cancer had returned. His body was shutting down, and he was too sick to be at home. From then on, he was in and out of the hospital virtually every few days. Mom took time off from work, and when it became clear things weren’t improving, she traded in her regular job with the ACT for a part-time teaching position. Money was tight, but time with Dad was more important. We visited him as often as we could, although there were many days when he was too sick to see us, or he slept through visiting hours. He was on a lot of pain medication, and most of the time when I saw him, we couldn’t really talk. I would hold his hand and sit next to him, or tell him about my day, or help bring a small glass of water to his lips, which were always dry. Mostly we would watch the news or read. But one afternoon, he told Mom that he needed to talk to me—just me, alone.

“Remember, he needs his rest,” Mom said as we stood by the door to his room. “If he looks tired, let him sleep. You okay to do this on your own?”

I nodded. Dad being sick had given me a terrible fear of hospitals. I hated the way they smelled, a mixture of sick and sterile, soap and medicine. I hated all the sounds: the beeping machines, the whispering doctors, the crying patients. But most of all, I hated thinking about my dad being trapped here by himself, not knowing when or if he’d be able to come home and see his family again.

“I love you,” Mom said, and kissed me on the forehead. “Be strong, for him.”

I opened the door.

In the big metal hospital bed, Dad looked small—smaller than I had ever seen him. It wasn’t just the weight he’d lost. It was as though the cancer had shrunk him somehow, or taken something from him. Or maybe it was just that he was surrounded by giant machines that monitored his heart, kept him hydrated, and pumped fluids into and out of his body. Next to all that metal, how could a person look anything but small?

“Mom said you wanted to talk?” I whispered. Dad’s eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling softly. As I stood in the doorway, I wondered if he was asleep. If so, I didn’t want to wake him. After everything he’d been through, he needed rest. And it was nice, for once, to see the lines of worry and fear gone from his face. In sleep, he looked like the Dad I knew.

“Alex?” he mumbled. His left eye peeked open. He squinted at me and rubbed his face. “Come in, come in.”

He sounded exhausted, as if even talking took too much effort. He was sicker now than he’d ever been, and we knew he didn’t have much time left.

“Help me with this,” he said, gesturing to a big piece of plastic connected to his bed by a chunky beige cord. “But watch out for the red button—that calls the nurse.”

I helped him use the remote to raise his bed so that he was sitting upright. Even that tiny bit of work made beads of sweat appear on his face. With a lot of effort, he scooted over to make room on the bed and gestured for me to sit next to him.

I clambered up onto the mattress, carefully avoiding all the medical equipment. I knew the machines were there to keep Dad healthy, but I couldn’t help but associate them with his sickness. I tried as hard as I could to pretend they didn’t exist.

“We need to talk,” Dad said. “And I want you to listen very carefully, because this is important. I know the last few weeks have been hard, but can you do that?”

I nodded. My heart fluttered in my chest. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to tell me, though I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it. But whatever he had to say, I told myself that I would be strong. We would get through this, like we did everything, as a family.

“I want to talk about your future,” Dad said. He grimaced as a wave of pain coursed through him.

Oh, no
, I thought.
Here it comes
. We were in a hospital—of course Dad wanted to talk about my future. He probably wanted to introduce me to his doctors so I could see what an awesome job they had. I felt bad, honestly: if I had never discovered dance, I think I would have become a doctor of some kind, and I know Dad would have loved that—though I also knew that he would love me no matter what I did. But you can love someone and still think they’re making the wrong choices.

But if he was feeling well enough to tell me what I should do with my life, then maybe—just maybe—there was a chance he might still recover. I settled into my seat, prepared to hear all about how my hands were “perfectly shaped” for a surgeon.

“Your mom and I aren’t going to be around forever,” Dad began.

“Did—” I started, but Dad held up his hand to stop me.

“I’m sick, Alex,” Dad said. My heart began to pound. He and I never talked about serious things like this. “Very, very sick. But even if the cancer went away tomorrow, none of us stays on this earth forever. There will come a day, hopefully many, many years from now, when your mom and I won’t be here to look after you and your brothers. I need to know that you’re going to be able to take care of yourself.”

And this is it
, I thought. Next he’d tell me that dancing wasn’t a secure career, and I needed to find something dependable.
And maybe he’s right,
I thought. Maybe I was just setting myself up for a life of struggle and heartbreak. But it was
my
life, and dancing was the thing I wanted to do with it.

“Dancing . . .” Dad paused. I stared down at the bed because I knew what was coming, and it made me sad. I didn’t want to argue with him, and I knew he had my best interests at heart. But couldn’t he see that dancing was all I ever wanted to do? That dancing was the thing I felt
called
to do? I couldn’t look him in the eye and listen to him say it was wrong when it felt so right.

Dad’s big warm hand cupped the back of my head, lifting my face up to look at him. He was smiling—a genuine, giant Dad smile, the kind I hadn’t seen on him since the cancer returned. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Dancing is the thing that matters most to you in the whole world, isn’t it?”

It was as though the entire room had gone still. All I could hear was the hushed whirring of the machines around us. Even my heart seemed to be holding its breath.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Then that’s what you’re supposed to do. I believe God gave you a great gift, and you’re going to use it to become the best dancer in the world. Do you hear me? The best.”

I was so shocked, I couldn’t think. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if Dad had told me he was going to become a dancer himself.

“Dad, do you . . . really? I—”

I wanted to say thank you, and that I loved him, and that I had never felt so happy in my whole life, but all the words got tangled around one another and I couldn’t get them out.

As I fumbled, Dad started laughing. It was a small, careful laugh at first—the kind you hear in hospitals, where people are afraid of waking someone up, or hurting themselves. But soon it grew, and I couldn’t help but join in. The next thing I knew the two of us were laughing tremendous big belly laughs.

“Stop, stop!” Dad said, half gasping for breath. “I’m a sick man, you know!”

But that just made me laugh harder, like I was laughing out all the stress and tension of the last week in one great big burst. I felt light, like I weighed nothing. I wanted to get up and dance right then and there!

When Dad finally got his breath back, he held up his hand to get my attention again.

“But,” he began, and I froze.
But what?
I wondered.

“But you need to make some changes,” he continued. He looked at me seriously, and I could feel something shift between us. It was as though we were talking adult to adult. I was still his son, but I was also my own person, and Dad was talking to both versions of me at the same time. I needed to be more of a grown-up now—for him, for Mom, for Matt and John, and most importantly, for myself.

“This dancing that you’ve been doing—the competitions, the classes, the jumping around—it needs to stop. I don’t say this to hurt you, but it’s not serious.”

Not serious? Now I was confused.

“The basis for all dance—all serious dance—is ballet,” Dad continued. “If you are going to be a real dancer, a
professional
dancer, you have to put all this other . . .
aerobics
aside. From now on, you will study ballet, and you will become the best ballet dancer, like Baryshnikov, because you have it in you.”

“Ballet?” I said. I’d only ever taken a few lessons in ballet. I liked it, but . . .

“Ballet,” Dad said firmly. “Everything comes from ballet. And we need to find you a new studio. You need to study with the best, because you will be the best. Remember that,” he said, and pointed at my head. “If you want to be the best, you must always study from the best.”

Something wet splashed against my hand, and I realized I was crying. I felt like Dad had seen me—the real me—for the first time. I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing him and hugging him tightly.

“Be careful,” he whispered.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said, tears running down my face. “And I promise, just you wait. I’m going to be the best ballet dancer you’ve ever seen.”

I just hoped that he lived to see me.
Please God
, I prayed,
let us keep him long enough that I can perform for him. Let me make him proud.

“I know it, Alex,” Dad said. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, before the nurse came and I had to leave. My mind was spinning, but I felt . . .
right
. Suddenly there was a certainty in my heart that I was on the path God intended for me.

But I had no way of knowing all the strange, awful, and awesome places it was going to lead me over the next few years. . . .

Chapter 8
A Beginning, and an End

D
ad stayed in the hospital for a while that time, and when he came back, he was a different person. He was still my funny, loving dad, but now the cancer had gotten ahold of him, and it never let go again. He got skinnier and skinnier. When he was awake, he spent most of his time on the couch talking to our minister, Pastor Lee. They spent hours together every week. Sometimes I stayed and prayed with them, but more often I sat in my room with the door open so their conversations would drift in. I wanted to hear their voices, but not the words: no death, or heaven, or sickness, just the comforting sounds of two of the most important men in my life talking. Sometimes, I could almost forget what they were talking about. But it always came rushing back eventually.

I was itching to intensify my study of ballet. I wanted to show Dad that I’d taken what he said to heart, and I knew time was short. Michael offered ballet and technique classes, but her studio focused on competition and jazz dancing. If I wanted to be the best dancer I could be, I needed teachers who specialized in ballet. After all, I wouldn’t expect a math teacher—even a brilliant, talented genius of a math teacher—to help me with my writing. In dance, it’s the same way. It isn’t enough to have a
good
dance teacher. You need a good dance teacher who concentrates on the right kind of dance.