On this day 17 years ago, I was praying for two pounds.

Michael had endured two rounds of chemo and had been told he needed to gain two pounds before his next appointment, now less than a week away.

I had wandered around the Duke University campus after he fell asleep during his chemo infusiuon and decided to visit the “chapel,” a magnificent church. I found a quiet little space and sat down.

“Two pounds,” I prayed. “Please, just two pounds…”

Every bite of food was a victory, it seemed, but we didn’t know the cancer was preventing the nutrients from being absorbed. We still hoped for a year with him, but we needed him to gain two pounds to show the chemo was working.

My colleagues decided to take my vacation quandry into their own hands, since the company seemed prepared to let me run out of vacation days and then have to choose whether to go to work or care for my dying son without an income. One colleague donated two of his vacation days to me, and by the end of the day, my husband and I had 33 vacation days. The executive editor heard about it and thought there had to be a better solution, so she spoke to someone at Gannett Corporate, who agreed to roll back my vacation clock to zero and then pay me for any days I needed to take off to care for Michael. I didn’t need to worry anymore.

The paper’s publisher got a little emotional when he told my colleagues they were getting their vacation days back because my husband and I would be given the time we needed to care for Michael.

“I’m praying for a miracle,” the publisher told me.

Something about that really bothered me. It took me a moment to reply.

“Please don’t try to get my hopes up,” I said. “I know you think that’s a comfort, but what it says to me is that maybe I haven’t prayed hard enough, or maybe that God will give the OK because someone other than his mother asked. Maybe it’s better for you to pray for us to have the strength we’re going to need to get through this, because there isn’t going to be a miracle. My son is going to die because he couldn’t get the care he needed to survive, not because nobody prayed hard enough.”

That would be the first example of someone trying to be a comfort and saying the wrong thing. After Michael died, I would hear how he’s in a better place (the loving arms of Jesus), or God needed another angel, or be thankful you have another child … People are trying to be kind, I understand. But as a bereaved mother, I have to tell you the best thing you can say to me is, “I’m so sorry. Tell me about him.”

My views on God and religion changed a lot during this time. I no longer believe God will intervene. I believe God gave us free will and now is watching us fuck everything up. I believe in the teachings of Jesus, but he is not my personal friend. He doesn’t have to be watching me like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy for me to be kind to others, or have empathy. You can agree with me or not, I really don’t care. Your beliefs sustain you, and as long as you don’t impose them on me, I’m good with that.

One thing, though — don’t ever tell me God took my son. God had nothing to do with it. My son died because humans are greedy. My son died because humans had no empathy and the insurance companies think profit is far more important that human life.

On this day in 2008, I was praying for two pounds. I was praying for a little more time with my precious son.

It was not to be. On this day, we had two weeks and six days left with him.