"This May Help You"

Written By: Nanakwame Adjei-Brenyah
In Honor Of: Dennis Adjei-Brenyah

"Your father is radioactive," the doctor will say.

This will be after the P.E.T scan. “So don’t let him around old people or babies.” It will seem like a joke. He is an old person. You’ll feel like a baby.

“Okay,” you’ll say.

Lymphoma, in and of itself, will not make either you or your father better people. Use “lymphoma.” That other word is too… too something you can’t quite articulate. The one you’ll use, lymphoma, is more clinical. And by your logic, something more likely to pass.

When the panic comes you’ll try to remember: “Long game, it’s a marathon.” Wisdom you’ll get from a friend who watched their father taken by the same.

He was born in the Gold Coast; he is older than his country. You were born in Queens. And though you’ll remember that handshake that should have been a hug in the middle of that parade of tassels and gowns and academic jubilation, you will still feel a slow cleaving sorrow when the doctor says, “There’s about a fifty percent survival rate.” He’s been a doctor for a long time. He knows stuff: diffuse large cells, hemoglobin content, they’ll mean almost nothing to you. Fifty percent. Equal chances. Call it in the air. The neatness of it will make you sick.

You’ll discover you have so much family. You knew this, but you’ll discover them anew.

“God will see us though. God is faithful.”

“Thank you, Aunti,” you’ll say.

Marathon.

He won’t be able to eat. You’ll have to train yourself not to look pained when you’re around his new, hollow-looking body. Buy Glucerna® not SlimFast® because he’ll be diabetic. It will be expensive. Every part of this will be.

Suddenly, your father will be old-old. You’ll get a walker for free from the Ghanaian physical therapist in the hospital. “Don’t tell anyone,” he’ll say in English. He’ll be joking with your father in Twi about how limited you are, about how much you’re missing living exclusively in the language of an oppressor.

“Thank you,” you’ll say, as your father, will laugh, struggle to raise his arms and slowly turn his palms up to the sky in jest as if to say, “I tried my best.”

You’ll find your father is funny: He’ll make the infusion center waiting room squeal with laughter as he points to a television screen. “This is the worst part of all of this,” he’ll say pointing to Kelly Ripa and Ryan Seacrest. Even you will laugh. Find ways to laugh.

Eight hours in the chair. This bag will be fluid, that bag will be the real stuff. There’ll be a port in his chest for drawing blood out and putting chemicals in. There’ll be food and warm towels. There’ll be a personal television attached to a gray adjustable arm that hangs over him like a friend. Pace yourself. This is a marathon.

“I’m very glad you are able to come,” he’ll say.

You won’t know what to say back, but you’ll say something.