Chapter 8

I briefly met a young lady during a hospital visit, who had
decided that the possible disadvantages of chemotherapy were
too great a risk. She explained her future in the following way.
"I don't want to go through the effects ... the terrible effects
of the drugs."
She had straight dark hair, and a pale thin face. Her arms
were like matchsticks protruding from a striped dress that hung
loosely on her fragile frame.
"The only chance 1 have, is to put my faith in God."
There was a faint uncertainty in her voice, as if she was trying
to convince herself. It sounded like a well-rehearsed response.
Maybe the belief was not her own. 1 knew to be careful with
what I said, and the way I said it.
"When did you decide this?"
"Soon after I was diagnosed, I was given a couple of weeks
to decide. That was eight months ago."
She then described her visits to a famous faith healer, visiting
Melbourne, who was guiding God's healing powers into her
tortured body. I could see that if her faith was strong, then there
was a definite chance that she could win her fight. But there
was that logical thought that kept rising to the surface, that
it was quite irresponsible to eliminate medical treatment from
her list of options. It may not have made any difference but
I will never know.
She died late in 1977.