In 1946 I had an operation for a malignant growth which was diagnosed as cancerous. Subsequently I had X-ray therapy and another operation, after which I was told that I now had cancer of the bone. At this point the doctors said that my system could stand no further therapy and that there was nothing more that could be done.
Hearing of a doctor in New York who was famous for his method of treating cancer, I made arrangements to go there. Treatments were begun at once, but I only grew worse. Things appeared hopeless to me, and I began to believe that my husband and small son would be far better off without me. From the medical point of view, that separation was imminent.
I was lonely in New York, and one evening I went to the library maintained by the hotel. Browsing among the books I came upon one entitled "Mary Baker Eddy: A Life Size Portrait" by Lyman P. Powell. This I borrowed, and as I read the book a conviction began to grow that I did not have to have cancer. As time went on I began to feel it was utterly ridiculous to continue medical treatments, for I had lost all faith in them. I did not, however, connect this state of mind with the book I was reading. When my husband visited me, I decided over his protests to go home. He insisted upon stocking up on medicines, and we brought them home, but I never took any of them. I knew I was healed. However, to satisfy my husband, a month or so after returning home, I went back to the local doctor, and he took more X-ray pictures. He could find no trace of the condition that had shown on the earlier X rays.
