More than Writers

Even before Jesus made himself known to me, I realise He was there for me. I felt Him when I was at my lowest ebb of chemo for breast cancer. The chemo was a bid to keep my breast. I also cut out salt and generally improved my diet. I went in for all sorts of therapies — aromatherapy, reflexology, even hypnotherapy. (I was a New Age Jew.) I had counselling, I meditated. Every day, I visualized my white cells as seagulls, pecking away at a putrid pile of fish on a beach, my cancer. Two weeks after my first treatment, I had a fever. My pain threshold plummeted. Even a page of a book falling onto a scab on my thumb made me groan. I lay on my bed and visualised my beach. The sun was beating down on my putrid fish but where were my seagulls? There were just a few of them, gliding overhead, with no strength to land. The hospital told me to come in. ‘Your neutrophils are all the way down to 18%,’ the nurse said, after tests. That sounded bad. Even so, I told myself they gave me an isolati...