Feels like Praying
We talked about moving to the Pacific Northwest after he told me he could see at least three dozen spots of skin cancer on my body. I was nauseous with the news but I was being my outside self, the one who brushes off new diagnoses and terrible, disfiguring spots that multiply like rabbits in spring. I said he and his wife and kids would love it there and it seemed like a great place to grow up. And then we said goodbye and I walked into a door and then out the door to the laboratory.
I knew the phlebotomist was religious before I knew anything else about her. There were necklaces and a tattoo proclaiming her faith. I shifted in the lab chair uncomfortably. I was wearing my Abortion is Healthcare shirt, the ones with the ovaries giving the finger on the back. Shit, I thought. My mom has my jacket. Why do I have to be so goddamn provocative all the time?
A question for another time, certainly. But I was here and she could see my shirt and maybe she thought I was a baby killer. Maybe Jesus thought that too.
She stuck me expertly, even though I warned her I was a bad stick. But the phlebotomists and nurses at Sloan Kettering are expert at navigating the terrain of my overused veins. They’d seen worse than mine. I bled like a wide open wound (thanks, Eliquis) and then, unexpectedly, I said I was worried God wouldn’t accept me because of my homosexuality. She looked at me and shook her head and told me God loves all his children. I sat there, in my abortion shirt that I wholeheartedly believed in then and now and I silently cried.
And then I did something I have never done before. I asked her to pray on me, while I sat in the chair..
She finished taking my blood, nine vials, and then closed the door. This was probably not encouraged by the MSKCC HR Department but I asked her. She never said a word. I just knew.
I closed my eyes and she did as well. And she began to pray, pray for my health, those three dozen spots of cancer, and all the other stuff that has come calling as I have gotten older. She held me by the shoulder.
I felt warm and taken care of, the best parts of God visiting me, the Godless homosexual.
Every time I go to that building, I hear things I don’t want to hear. Am I worried I’ll try to start a revival with the next phlebotomist I encounter? Well, a little. I tend to go big or go home.
But I’m pretty sure our session with Jesus was a one time thing. The act of praying is not something i have done in recent years. I have gone to Mass as an adult a handful of times. I went every week from ages 5-18 as a part of my Catholic School education. And jeez, man. I believed so strongly as a small child. One day, in fourth grade, I heard a piece of Mass that promised God would heal my maladies. And so I prayed. And He did not. And so I was out.
But not entirely. There has always been a quiet, neglected belief in the back of my head. I have prayed a few times; for my aunt, when she was sick and dying; for myself when I was vomiting so much I truly wished for death but I figured calling up God and asking for life instead couldn’t hurt; for my sister each time she was in labor, and for other personal things I don’t wish to share.
I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know what it means that I asked for prayer. I don’t know what it means that I haven’t even thought of praying since.
But what I have realized is that in that moment, I needed someone. I’d just been photographed nude by MSK’s research department because I was an odd specimen to be studied later and I felt humiliated, even though I agreed to help. And I walked into her tiny room and I asked for God to show up for me, and she did. She put her hand on my shoulder, and she prayed for me.
It was a gift. It was something I will never forget.
Happy Easter/Passover, everyone.
Love you all.
Kelly