I was diagnosed as having cancer on my female organs.

To combat the cancer eating away at my insides, my doctor decided to give me a gold-radium treatment. As it turned out, I was given too much gold-radium. The results were burned intestines, kidneys, stomach and other internal organs. The day came when I got so bad that a priest came and gave me my last rights, because the doctors were certain I was going to die.

Through endless days and nights of suffering through agony beyond what words can describe; through all the surgeries and experimentation performed on me to keep me going, the doctor finally said one day, "We've done all we can do for you. We're going to let you go home and die in peace."

They closed up my stomach and prepared me so I could go home to die. But just before I left the hospital, they put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me down to a little chapel in the hospital. I wanted to have communion one last time. Inside the little chapel, I began to silently ponder my fate. What was it like to die? Would I be able to see my father and mother on the other side? Would my suffering be over through all eternity, or would that just mark the beginning of more suffering to come?

As I prepared myself to receive the wafer and the wine, the symbolism of what I was about to do grew significantly important. "Do this in remembrance of me" . . . were the thoughts that echoed through my mind, as I remembered those words spoken by Jesus as I was taught in my catechism class at an early age.

At that moment I felt a oneness with the One Holy Communion is all about. Don't ask me how. Perhaps it was because as Jesus knew He was about to go to death, so would I soon go to death. But what would happen afterwards?

I placed the wafer on my trembling lips and let it dissolve slowly on my tongue. The wine, I knew, was symbolic of His blood; the blood, I had been told as a little girl, that it was shed for mankind and me. I tipped the container and paused momentarily, wondering if this would be my last communion ever. Yes, of course, it would be. Tears started welling up inside me as I realized this would never happen again.

Then I went home. The doctor instructed my husband to feed me with liquid food every half-hour the rest of my days. He told him never to let me have solid food again.

At home, I lived with the machine and the bottle that pulled the pus out of my stomach. I was dying slowly. It was only a matter of time.

A devout Christian friend of mine, intimately aware of my situation, began trying to encourage me to watch Christian television. I really wasn't interested, but to pacify her, I told her I would.

Upon her constant prompting, I finally found the station she suggested I watch. When I tuned into that station, Pat Robertson was talking, and was going to start praying for people watching the program. He said it didn't matter what the problem was. "If it's spiritual, physical, mental - or whatever - it makes no difference. We're going to pray. Now, put your hands next to whatever you want healed, and just believe with me. "Just believe," he said.
                                                           "Just BELIEVE"
When he said, 'just believe' - it was so powerful - it was like a fist slammed deep into my heart. I thought: No one is watching; no one would know. I'm going to try you, God. What have I got to lose?

Then I began to talk outright with God. I got testy with Him, ashamed, as I am now to admit it. "Okay, we'll see, God. If you're like the God I used to believe in when I was a little girl, let's see. Let's see what you can do. Let me live, or let me die!" And I meant every word I said. I laid my hands on my stomach and repeated the prayer. Then something inside of me began to happen. My goodness, I took note of how well I suddenly felt. I grew keenly aware that a heavy cloud had been removed from me. I realized I was light as a feather, like the whole world had been on me moments before, and now I was free from it. I wanted to cry and I wanted to laugh at the same time.

That night I went to sleep with the peace of God inside me. It was like He rocked me to sleep in His loving arms. The next morning I woke up like I had done so many times before. Next to me was the bottle to collect the pus that would need to drain during the hours of the night. But that morning, no pus- the bottle was empty!

The next thing that happened may be hard for some to believe. A voice inside of me-a distinct voice spoke saying these words: "Look at your tummy."

Now, I hated to look at my tummy. It was ugly and gross. It was cut up so bad and scarred and mutilated and bloody that I absolutely abhorred looking at it! But, being obedient to this strange voice, I slowly opened my housecoat and cautiously peeked inside.

At that moment I also wanted to know whose voice this was speaking to me from inside. It was a different voice, one I had never heard. And I said out loud, "Who is this speaking? Who is talking to me?"

At the same time, I forced myself to look at my tummy, and to my utter amazement I could see the skin had healed over my bleeding wounds. And then I heard the voice speaking to me again:

"I have healed you, and you will never break open again."

At that moment, I knew it was the voice of the Holy Spirit the voice of God - speaking to me.

In three days, I was totally healed. My stomach was never to break open again. God healed me physically, and more importantly, I was starting to be healed spiritually.

That was over 20 years ago. Since that time, I have allowed the Lord to not only be my Savior, but also my Lord. I believe God allowed me to be healed so I could tell others about Him, and I can't thank Him enough for giving me numerous opportunities to do so.

I do hope this story has blessed you, and most importantly of all, if you haven't made peace with God our Father through a personal relationship with Jesus Christ the Son, I encourage you to do so. It is a matter of spiritual life and death . . . for eternity!