![]() ![]() I pull into the hospital parking garage, park the Audi, and then jog through the emergency room doors, ignoring the looks I’m getting in my tuxedo. We were baptized into the Church of Cancer, and I was as zealous as any new convert, going to every doctor’s appointment, researching every new trial, using every connection I had in this city to make sure my mother got the best of everything. It became real and terrible, more vengeful and omnipresent than any deity, and our lives became reoriented around its rituals, its communion of morphine lollipops and anti-nausea meds, its hymns of vaporizers and daytime television. Then cancer tore through my family with wind and knives and teeth, thundering and massive, and it ceased to be academic, it stopped being distant. That is, I knew both existed in a kind of distant, academic sense, but they were concepts that applied to other people they were personally irrelevant to Sean Bell’s life. ![]() I used to believe in God like I believed in cancer. ![]()
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