story and illustrations by Ian McDowell

I’m not the sort of atheist who refuses to say grace or throws a hissy fit about crèches on municipal property.  That’s why I didn’t mind when Bishop took my hand and prayed for me. Of course, I was still in shock. I had just learned that I might have leukemia.

Near the end of my work shift on the Friday before Labor Day 2013, my doctor called to say my blood tests suggested the dreaded L-word. He wanted me to go to the Cancer Center at Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem for confirmation and potential treatment. He’d already made my appointment for the coming Tuesday, but told me to go earlier and check myself into the ER if I started feeling noticeably worse.

I didn’t know how I felt. I can’t remember feeling or knowing or thinking much of anything except getting through the next hour. It’s hard to imagine a better excuse for going home early, but I didn’t want  to leave my co-worker by himself. Or maybe I didn’t want to leave me by myself, which is what I would be at home. I thought about taking a short break, but it was easier to deal with the people in front of me than what my thoughts would be if I stopped looking at them.

One of those people was Bishop; we called him that because he actually was one.. I must have looked upset, or at least stressed, because Bishop asked me what the matter was. I told him, because I was still processing it. It never occurred to me not to. He reached across the counter where I worked, took my hand and asked me to join him in prayer. Despite my atheism, it seemed ungracious to refuse. I even repeated the words “Jesus” and “Amen.” This didn’t make me feel better or worse, but after that little prayer session the rest of the customers, who’d been acting testy about standing so long in line, became more patient and solicitous without actually asking me any annoying questions. That’s one of leukemia’s silver linings. People are generally nicer to you.

When my shift ended I called my manager and said I wouldn’t be coming in on Sunday or Tuesday and possibly not for quite some time after that. I went home and for the rest of the holiday weekend didn’t go anywhere or do anything special, but read or watched movies, or tried to. One friend took me out for a meal and others came by to visit. They kept reassuring me, as did other friends on Facebook, that I hadn’t been diagnosed yet, that the upcoming bone-marrow biopsy might show that I didn’t have leukemia after all. I’d experienced what proved to be a false leukemia scare earlier in the year and this might be another one. Despite the reassurances, it was hard to enjoy the holiday.

On, Tuesday, Sept. 2, my friend Dave Taylor drove me to the Baptist Cancer Center. They put me in a nice, spacious, private room with an excellent view and introduced me to the medical team, who stuck a needle in my back and withdrew fluid and a tiny bone fragment and promised results very soon. I don’t remember if my friend Christine had arrived by the time I’d been told I did indeed have the disease that killed my mother, but I recall her hugging me tightly and telling me she loved me, and me crying and her trying not to.

Despite the absurd axiom that there are no atheists in foxholes, this hasn’t made me any more religious than I was before.
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Despite the absurd axiom that there are no atheists in foxholes, this hasn’t made me any more religious than I was before.