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32
Fifteen Months later
There was no morevacation at Big Bear. There was no wedding in Vegas. There wasn’t really even lobster Benedict because I hadn’t tasted one drop of that hollandaise, feeling as overwhelmed with emotion as I’d been. The call from Dr. Chidozie had been both the joy we needed and the fear we’d held back.
Drake and I had headed back the next day, and he’d immediately begun chemotherapy. I now knew the true meaning of the saying “it’s always darkest before the dawn.” Drake had to die to live. He had to kill the bad to make way for the good.
It was harder than we could have imagined. But it also made me realize just how insignificant outer beauty was. Drake had never looked more precious to me in those days. I’d wanted to touch every part of him constantly. He was such a lover, he let me. I was sure he hadn’t always wanted me caressing his neck or cheek or kissing him everywhere, but I couldn’t take my hands off him. He’d been a gift I’d always wished for and couldn’t believe was mine.
Watching him go through chemo, lose his precious curls, vomit, and emaciate had felt counterproductive. But thank God it wasn’t.
After the chemo, he had his transplant. Waiting for someone to live was more even more tortuous than waiting for someone to die.
Myles’ efforts changed the face of the national bone marrow registry. He’d been able to mobilize a vast number of black and multiracial donors. I was sure he hadn’t been the first one to try, but his letter proved that many more things were genetic than we thought. Drake’s inner poet may just have been passed down through genes:
Dear Reader of This Email,
I wrecked countless lives. Ruined an immeasurable amount of happiness. And abandoned my son. I have not been a good man in my lifetime.
But redemption is always within our grasp. The question is, are you going to take it?
A few days ago, my son and I reunited, much to his irritation. Our reunion should have been filled with awkward apologies and stuttering hugs and smiles, catching up on the past. Instead, I learned that he was terminally ill. No, he wasn’t there to make peace. He was there because, even though he would have rather died than take my help, he loved two women more than his pride.
Drake needs a bone marrow donor.
It was explained to me that Drake was unlikely to live because he was multiracial. My first instinct was: yet another damn way they’re keeping the man down. But after spending some time angry, I realized offering my opinion wasn’t going to solve the problem. I did more research to find that there just aren’t that many black and multiracial folks registering to donate bone marrow.
This plea isn’t just for my son. It’s for our community. It’s for my redemption and yours. It’s for the redemption of equality. If you want justice, you have to take it. But the world is designed in a way that we often forget you only get as much as you give.
Become a bone marrow donor. Do something that can genuinely save a life.
If I save one life, it doesn’t erase my past. But it’s a stepping stone into a new future. It’s a foundation on which I can build today. If you want to make a difference to one person, or a difference to healthy outcomes for our people, get tested to be a bone marrow donor.
Below are the details of an organization that will help you register. You might just save my son. And maybe one day, I’ll save yours. We have to work together. A rising tide raises all ships.
God bless,
Myles Owens
Myles’letter had been met with an outpouring of donors, and it was a person from that tsunami that had ended up being Drake’s bone marrow donor. Myles hadn’t directly saved Drake, but he was part of the team that had. Nothing great was every achieved alone.
“Tellme I’m getting the sign off,” Drake said before even saying hello to Dr. Chidozie as we walked into the doctor’s office.
“You’ve been asking that every day for two months,” he replied.
After Drake’s transplant, it was important he didn’t get ill. He’d stayed in the hospital for about two months initially, and we’d been holed up at my house for over a year now. Though it had been incredible in some ways—Drake had about three albums written now, and I’d finally had the time to learn to play the drums—we missed real life. We missed being around people.
Moreover, we had a hope for something that was time-boxed.
Drake stood, rather than sit. The last three appointments, he’d refused to sit in the chairs of Dr. Chidozie’s office. As if somehow proving he was able to stay upright was the basis for the doctor’s decision.
Dr. Chidozie flicked through an iPad screen. “Let’s find your blood counts, shall we?” He stopped swishing his finger. “Ah. Here it is. Let me just…” He took reading glasses down from his head and positioned them on his nose. “Uh-huh. Mmm. Interesting.”
I knew immediately from his body language that this was Dr. Chidozie’s way of joking. It had to be good news. Drake, on the other hand, tapped his foot and ran fingers along his scalp where he now sported a shaved head. He smoothed his palm over his chin in anticipation.
“Well, Drake.” Dr. Chidozie looked up, took off his glasses, and stood with his hand outstretched. “I think I can bid you farewell. We can finally have some peace and quiet around here.”
Drake glanced at me, a wide smile spread across his face. A few sharp breaths went in and out, audibly, like when an athlete prepped for a race. Or when a man didn’t want to cry but wanted to.
