March 5, 2012
So there I was, sitting on the curb outside the Farmer’s Market pharmacy in Los Angeles, minding my own business, waiting for my anti-nausea drugs to be filled, when out of nowhere a Baptist woman and her two children surrounded me. There was no mistaking the fact that I was not in good shape, reeling from the side effects of chemo, looking pretty peaked, complete with scarf-covered bald head and paled face to match. She asked if they could pray for my eternal soul. Surprisingly I had the wherewithal to respond.
"Well…you can pray for me if you wanna lady, but I have to be honest and let you know that I’m a proud agnostic gay Jew. Now…if you still wanna pray for me, then you go right ahead. I figure it can’t hurt.”
The woman moved quickly, instructing her children to take their positions (like a squad of sharp shooters).
“Robert, you take this nice lady’s left hand, and Vanessa, you take her right. Now children… close your eyes, bow your heads down, and listen to my words.” My head was bowed down too…between my knees…trying not to chuck my cookies. I heard the woman say all sorts of incredibly kind religious things. Lorrrdy this and Our Fatherrrrr that. She made beautiful wishes and dreams for me, for my future and for my health. I felt like I was a fancy dinner, being said grace over. Finally she concluded with a resounding "AAA-men” and her children followed suit.
"Amen,” said the son.
"Amen,” said the daughter.
"Amen.” That was me… the last 'Amen’.
So, you might want to know… did it help? The prayers? The good vibes? Who the fuck knows. One thing I do know for sure is that they felt better for doing it, and I felt better for letting them. Then I went home and threw up. Pills and all. Amen!!!