They Called Her An Angel


By Martin Spernau © November 2013

They called her an Angel. I was of two minds about the whole idea. No one would ever do such a thing for me. I didn't really see what good it should do for Rosie. She was going to die anyway, with the cancer eating up her boobs. Then she would have all the angels she wanted.

I tried to argue that gathering some money for her therapy might do real good, but they insisted on going through with the ritual anyway.

When the Angel finally came, Rosie didn't even notice. She was deep inside her morphine induced sleep, dreaming of I know not what. The Angel was not as impressive as you might have thought, there were no wings or shine or anything. It was clear though, that this was not your normal street person or social worker, either. Plus, I had seen it step out of the ritual circle, so I was sure it was the real thing.

"Take me to the patient," said the Angel, and that we did.

As we walked through the hospital, I marveled at how well this creature blended in. No one seemed to notice anything special about the Angel. I call the Angel an 'it' because I have no way of being sure of gender. It could have been either or none.

When we reached Rosie's bed, the Angel took one long look at her.

"You called me for this one?" it addressed out group. "Would you not have had enough funds to heal her amongst yourselves?"

The others shuffled their feet in embarrassement.

"Rosie is dying of cancer. Can you help?" I asked, speaking where the others wouldn't.

"All of you, leave. All but you," it said, touching my shoulder. "You sit by the bed and tell me of her life."

The others left, reluctantly, while I sat on the wooden chair beside the bed. The Angel proceeded to crawl into the sick bed with Rosie, and laid its head on her boobs, looking at me with expectant eyes.

And so I sat there the whole night, telling every story of Rosie that I could think of. I started in kindergarden, because that is how long I knew her. I talked and talked, but I don't know if anyone heard my stories. Rosie was out cold, and the Angel slept with its head on her boobs.

In the morning, the Angel rose from the bed and laid its hand over my groin. I winched in embarrassment, but the look on the Angel's face told me it was not that kind of touch.

"You have done more for Rosie than call her an Angel," it said. "You deserve the same healing she got."

With that, the Angel left the room. I would have said it disappeared, but it actually used the door. Rosie woke when the doctors came for their morning visit. She was free of pain, and told the doctors so. At first they wouldn't believe her, but further exams showed that her boobs were completely free of any growth. She was healed.

Rosie could leave the hospital that week, and I did too. My prostate was free of cancer. We now live together, and I do sometimes call Rosie an Angel. Because she is one, and deserves to be called that.


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alles Bild, Text und Tonmaterial ist © Martin Spernau, Verwendung und Reproduktion erfordert die Zustimmung des Authors

Martin Spernau
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