Nothing is Free
by David C La Terre
True story: I was leaving for New York City and already bought my ticket. I planned to see my divorced, biological father, stepmother and thier adopted 14-year-old girl - and not much else. I go every year or so, dully. I had made the promise to myself that I would. My unflappable, doting mother had even volunteered to secure her Christian Science practitioner to pray for my safety. I was also put on the Unity Prayer list. I wasn’t particularly nervous. Just a little anxious about seeing my estranged New York ‘family’ and concerned about ‘red flags.’ I chocked up mental illness, homosexuality and a few questionable associates as potential risks. There was even the possibility of ‘terrorism’ in the airport, not so much airplane …
Events happened in this order: My ride to Sea-Tac was late. I became anxious and agitated. What I then thought to be autumn allergies that month quickly transformed into some kind of bug migrating between throat stricture and/or stomach infection. I took my temperature. It was high. Even at the time I couldn’t tell if this was psychosomatic or not. In this condition I set off to the airport. Once there I was hesitant to continue taking my temperature since I had a digital thermometer that beeped. I took it once. Then again. All the time dodging airport janitors and rent-a-cops. But my temperature rose and rose into a low-grade fever. I thought that this was a security risk just waiting to happen. My baggage was checked in, and my ride had since left. I remember standing on line to go to the docking ports when I decided to just go back to Seattle. Psychosomatic or not, it was enough for me to sacrifice the entire trip. Forget my promise. Forget the fifty dollars I’d have to pay to reschedule. Forget this. Though my father would probably cite this failure as further proof of my being a fuckup. Somehow I got my baggage back. It was a long ride back into town by the local. Then I waited about a half an hour to catch my connecting bus. Finally I walked up the Hill with my huge bag all the way home. I had broken my promise to myself.
Last time, in 2002, under the same circumstances, I developed dangerously high blood pressure a week or so before my flight. Another ruse of my subconscious? I was traveling that year with a clear agenda: discuss any familial responsibilities to me, mortality and wills. (‘cause you never know). The mission was delicate and rigid. I had survived. But I came back exhausted. After the recent airport disaster, my throat and stomach continued to egress into acidic flu-like symptoms. This went on for three weeks. I saw my ARNP. They thought it was reflux. They gave me pills that did nothing. I then felt discouraged, isolated and sunk into a voluntary depression. Suppose I was really sick? Some prayer!
Let me just state that I am a spiritual person. I’m not an agnostic, pagan, ex-Catholic or a ‘seeker’. I believe in God, in the resurrection, even ‘creationalism.’ Corny, huh? My mother was a Jewess turned Christ Science - at her mother’s influence. My father was French Catholic but converted to reform Jew for purposes of marriage (and probably business). I, however, am a monotheist with no real house of worship. I have an unenviable, personal, Tevye-the-fiddler relationship with God. I would probably be described by a stranger as Protestant. (I think my Bohemian friends view me as anti-science).
Moreover, I firmly believe in prayer. I’ve had two Christian Science healings (just go along with me here). I actually liken prayer to a science. I also believe that numbers are important. I could be accused of exploitation. I even collect a verbal ‘bless you’ in a kind of cosmic storage, for later utilization. I’m even a fairly good channeler. I was the one who coined the phrase “prayer fucking works”. That’s just it: unfortunately it does work. There’s either a triage in heaven or a dysfunctional answering machine. For instance: prayers may be answered contrary to their specifications. The solution may actually appear some time after the need. But I never doubted. I always had faith. (I also feel we’re not alone). I see the design, therefore there must be a designer.
Another true story: in February of 2004, for no particular nor urgent reason, I decide to take Billy Graham’s advice and pray for Christ to “come into my life”. I did this earnestly and humbly, without much intellectualizing. I then almost immediately walked to a coffee shop but was met by a thug along the way. As often enough in these encounters I was shoved to one side, tearing my trousers on some stones there. It even broke the skin. (on other occasions I’m usually punched). Subscribing to symbolism and interpretation, I acknowledged this as an immediate and defiant rejection. Perhaps I was wrong. But the timing was too coincidental and otherworldly. I wouldn’t pray again until September ninth.
Long story short: I still brooded over the aborted New York trip and the current state of my health. I had no plans on traveling again any time soon. Once again, my mother prayed; consigning her practitioner to work on my ongoing infection and general malaise. I agreed to this, fool that I am. It also had been almost a year since a platonic relationship with a young woman had ended badly and abruptly. Yet, if anything, I wasn’t brooding over this. We simply stopped talking (but more on that later). I went back on generic Wellbutrin, which took the edge off. Finally they put me on antibiotics.
The weather was still like summer. I fixed up my bike and rode it about town. Then something happened: my infection/stricture seemed to be morphing into something else; one symptom faded while a stinging groin, stomach cramps and kidney pain replaced it. When I could barely urinate, I thought: my God! This is my old prostate problem come back from 1999! Some healing! Worst of all it appeared like no ‘God’ was involved. It was suddenly sobering and “human, all too human”. In hindsight, however, it made sense: the antibiotics finally squelched my infection. Doubtless that biking had simply irritated my prostate. I thought about this, along with the February Incident. Was I just reading something into these situations?
Three weeks ago, there had been no real problem. Now a very real, material problem had been replaced by another very real, material problem. I had always been so gullible and naive. This was the first time in my life I questioned the existence of God. I wondered if death truly ended in the ground. I considered whether I was some fossilized hick for not believing science and forensics. I was surrounded by cynical hipsters who perchance thought I was a religious fanatic. Only now it was up to modern medicine to save me.
Which brings us to September ninth, National Prayer Day (this, from Unity of America). Curiously enough, I blindly went back to feeling trusting and hopeful after a time. It seems I can’t help it. I was looking forward to NPD in a selfless way. I had no intention of praying for myself or even my family. I just prayed all through the day for everyone and everything: plane, soldiers, victims, morale, the dead, friends. The next day I scanned the papers to see if we had any consequence. There was less of the usual crap but no significant miracles. I had been so industrious the day before, that I forgot about the “kickback”, a sorta paycheck one often receives in receipt.
The woman I mentioned earlier reappears here (along with her boyfriend). For I had run into another old friend at our new boffo downtown library the day after NPD. He told me she was having an art opening that night, or the next night. What was odd is that I somehow lightened up and was surprised when I automatically and cheerfully agreed to go. I’m not sure how I came upon this mature, amicable attitude, considering I had pretty much written them both off, with no plans to reestablish contact. I then went to the art opening and it was pleasant for all parties. We chatted as if nothing had happened at all.
Epilogue: I’m now wary, as well as respectful of prayer. It’s like a rogue science. Yet I haven’t prayed since that day (though still pocket the occasional ‘bless you’). I still have an enlarged prostate and the Cardura does nothing.
The next time someone offers to pray for me, I’m gonna ask: what are the side effects?
David is an artist, writer, humorist, exfilmmaker and sentimental Modernist pursuing new forms, and other hybrids. He has been published in the Slate, Spleen, Evergreen Chronicles, Lost and Found Times, Ragmag and Roar Shock.
