First, I’m tired of calling my husband, Hubs. His name is Bob. He’s nearly died in the past few months, and I’m going to call him Bob. If some twat of a lawyer wants to threaten me because I call him by his name, so be it. My family has been through hell, and we’ve come out on the sunnier side of the tunnel. So, kiss my ass.
When Bob was diagnosed with lymphoma, and I thought he might die, and he thought he might die, I had to place my faith in the doctors and medicine to heal him.
Other people prayed. He prayed. Family prayed. Friends prayed. Strangers prayed. Maybe that helped in some way, but the thing that I saw heal my husband was the medicine. I saw the IVs of drugs drip into his veins, and I saw him get better. I saw the filled bottles of pills become empty, and I saw him get better.
I would love to be able to say that going through this process has strengthened my faith in God, but it hasn’t. It has solidified my faith in science.
Ten years ago, when my sister-in-law had lymphoma, some of these medications did not exist, and her journey was more difficult. Science changed that.
Sure, we can debate whether God made it possible for the scientists to develop the medications that healed my husband. That’s not really my point. I’m not trying to get that philosophical.
When this all started, I shared that I couldn’t pray. I still can’t. I thought that if Bob was healed, maybe I’d feel that joy of having a faith in God return, and I’d be able to pray again, maybe even for other people or other reasons. But, no. For now at least, it’s gone. I haven’t even decided if I miss it yet. It’s just not there.
EDITORIAL NOTE: I may need to change my stance. I just spent 4 1/2 hours moving furniture, mostly unaided by anyone with a penis as the one able-bodied penis owner present can't risk any injuries at the moment. (Fuck Cancer In The Eye.) Just as my back was mid-spasm from movie a 300-pound tv atop a 40-foot high perch, I hunched over a bag of unidentified crap when Lo, there was before me a bag of forgotten Easter candy. At first frantic rummage, it appeared to be all shit-candy, just Sweet Tarts and that crap Hershey's tries to pass off as dark chocolate. Then, I found it. The Holy Egg, still sealed shut in all its mismatched plastic glory. As I cracked it open in my shaking palm, a bounty of Jelly Belly beans spilled forth. As I shoved them into my pie hole, I looked to the Heavens and gave thanks.