The Witch and other Things

     A few years ago we had a co-worker whose name I will say is Holly. Holly was born in a country in Africa, and I don't know when she moved to the US – either in her youth or after her education, but when Mike and I knew her, Holly was in her early 30's with a husband and two children, and she spoke with a Cambridge English accent.

     Well Christmas was approaching and we were all talking about holiday plans. We asked Holly what she would be doing for Christmas? She said that there was a woman in the area who was from the same village in Africa that she was from! – Holly was just a girl when she knew her then. This woman knew everyone else in the metro-Atlanta area who was from their country and all had been invited to this woman's house on Christmas Day – she was going to cook! Wow – that sounded like it was going to be something very special.

     So with much excitement we asked Holly after the holidays how her Christmas had been? Holly said that the woman had devoted two rooms in her house to tables that were just laden down with all kinds of food – the woman had prepared for days and everything looked beautiful.

      What kind of food was there? How was it? Holly looked a little embarrassed and then confessed, “I did not eat the food.”

     “Why not?” we asked.

     “In my village back home, there were those who called this woman a witch!”

     We could not believe our ears, “But Holly, you know better.”

     “Yes, but I could not eat the food.”

     “Why did you accept her invitation if you were not going to eat?”

     “It would have been impolite to turn down the invitation, and I thought I could make myself eat the food. But I could not.”

     “Did you think she was going to poison you, or cast a spell on you?”

     “I did not think any of that would happen, but I could not bring myself to eat the food.”

     Holly said at one point her daughter, who was getting hungrier by the minute, put a forkful of food to her mouth, and Holly batted it away – bringing attention to her whole family and the fact that none of them were eating.

     “I could not help it. In my village they had called her a witch.”

     Every time I tell that story, my mind then moves to the superstitions we have here in our own culture. The things that we know are silly to believe in, and yet we tend to avoid them just the same – it is easier to not mess with them.

     Like the number 13. Aren't there buildings with no 13^th floor in them – they go directly from the 12^th floor to the 14^th? As if to suggest that the evil forces out there are pondering one day, “I think I'll go wreak havoc on that guy on the 13^th floor over there – oh wait a second, the sign says it is the 14^th floor – my mistake – I'll have to go mess with someone else's life instead!” No, I don't think so. And yet people on the 13^th floor might feel that bad luck is upon them, and the quality of life is better if they believe they are on the 14^th floor instead. Folks know better – but why mess with it?

     And then my mind goes to the day that my first daughter was born - in Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital in Williamsville, New York – a suburb of Buffalo. Sarah was born at 5:15 in the afternoon, but I was in recovery for a long time. I was not wheeled into my room until around 11:30 that evening.

     I was drifting in and out of sleep when at midnight, my eyes popped open! The moonlight was coming into the room through the slats of the venetian blinds, and I could see someone standing there looking at me.

     It was a nurse – she looked about thirty years old. She introduced herself and said that her shift had just begun -she would be taking care of me for the next few hours. The nurse asked me about the baby. I told her all about the day we had just been through, and I told her the baby's name, and her weight. The nurse continued some small talk and questions. And then she asked where my husband worked.

     “Roswell,” I answered. She knew what Roswell meant, but for those of you outside of the Buffalo metro area, Roswell Park Memorial Institute is a cancer research facility and cancer hospital located in downtown Buffalo. Sarah's father and I had both worked in immunology research there.

     A cloud went across the nurse's face, and she said, “I know Roswell. My daughter died there.”

     Oh my gosh!

     For this woman to have had a daughter who died, the daughter must have been a small child. With cancer! How awful! My heart broke in two, and I felt terrible that I had just been blubbering about my own newborn baby.

     “I'm so sorry,” I said.

     “Have you ever wondered......about the address for Roswell?”

      I was familiar with Roswell's address, I had given it out often enough to colleagues and researchers on the phone. But my brain was foggy from the late hour and events of the day: Roswell Park Memorial Institute, something Elm Street, Buffalo, New York. My mind was blocking the street number. I knew what it was – I forced the brain to come up with it - as a sense of foreboding came over me.

     “666 Elm Street?” I asked the nurse.

     “What a horrible address for a cancer hospital,” she said so sadly.

      Six six six is from the Bible's final book – Revelation – where the earth's last days are described with all kinds of atrocities including war, famine, and the devil in all its manifestations. Six six six is mentioned as the mark of the devil. And for a lot of people, and me in particular, – six six six brings on a visceral reaction. I know it means nothing, but, why mess with it? My brain was reluctant to bring it up on the night my daughter was born. I was afraid to say it to the nurse for fear that she would turn into the devil standing there in the dark in front of me. I hesitate to tell this story to an audience lest the devil appear in the corner, licking his lips, squinting and grinning.

      And for the poor nurse with the daughter who died at 666 Elm Street – how could the connotation of that address be anything other than death?

      The nurse then left the room, and I never saw her again.

      Today, thirty years later, Roswell has not moved its location – the research labs and hospital are where they have always been. But Roswell Park Memorial Institute's address is now officially “Elm and Carlton Streets, Buffalo, New York,” an address that better conjures up images of healing, and perhaps someday, a cure.

      And when we realize that a superstitious number in our culture can change an entire cancer facility – it is easier to cut Holly a little slack when she opts to not eat the food prepared by a woman who some have called a witch.

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