Personal views: Can miracles happen?
Authors: Richard Westcott
Journal: BMJ (2002)

It has happened before. No doubt it will happen again. But this was our first time. As soon as they had returned, they had to show and tell me what had happened. And here I am with the same need.

As a submarine engineer, Jim used to work among asbestos lagged pipes. It had taken time and effort to get his asbestosis recognised and the appropriate disability pension set up, but with his truculence and some determination from us both, we got there eventually. His wife, Sally, used to be an occupational health nurse.


I came to know them quite well, and not just through the asbestosis appeal. To start with, Jim found his mother in law difficult. At first, she seemed a sweet lady, but as time went on, I learnt how demanding she could be. 


How do (or should) I, an atheist doctor, respond?



Meanwhile, Sally continued to suffer from the back injury that had been responsible for her early retirement. All this against the normal background of less serious illnesses, experience with other family members, and that network of various day to day contacts that make up the usual GP tapestry.

Jim became diabetic. Typically, he blamed me for not diagnosing it before. We clashed. I said that I had tested his urine as soon he had presented a symptom that suggested it; he for his part was sure that he had had it for some time. Of course, we were both right. But he had to have an argument.

They're both pretty hardboiled, and not religious. I knew that already, but after the old lady finally died, they talked about such things. Here was no believing couple: they had little faith in general, let alone in authority, politicians, or professionals—nor much, it sometimes seemed, in me. But I had developed a grudging respect, even affection, for them both over the years: in general practice, it is somehow hard not to.

Later, Jim had a swollen right breast and saw one of my colleagues in the practice. He was asked to come back for me to check it in a week or two, but he never did. It was some months later that he presented what had to be breast cancer. Once more, he had cause for an argument. Things became no easier when it took several biopsies to establish a firm tissue diagnosis.

The tumour was a mesothelioma, working its way through the chest wall. Radiotherapy hardly checked its progress. Jim became weak—and less argumentative. I saw Jim and Sally regularly to offer them support and to prevent Jim from having the chance to be critical. He was deteriorating badly.

Sally decided they needed a break. A Mediterranean island seemed attractive, and, on a sudden whim, she chose Kefallinia. Now here they were back again. They both looked better for their holiday. Sally asked me to examine Jim's chest. I was surprised to find no bony swelling.

The story was that they had visited a monastery—a couple of tourists, seeing the sights and not expecting anything special. But an old nun had abruptly singled out Jim, and asked him what his illness was. Sally was unwilling to say much, but told her that he had cancer. No one else had been taken apart. They were met by a priest, who asked Jim to go down into a cave where a holy man used to live. Jim was too weak to negotiate the steep narrow steps. Then they found themselves inside the church. The priest opened what seemed like—and smelt like, added Sally—a sarcophagus. There was a confused business of kissing of old rags, sprinkling of water and mumbling, and then after an uncertain time they were outside again. This time, Jim was surprised to find he could go down the steps, and climb back up again. Since then, each day he had just felt stronger and better. And now here he was, amazed to be recovering.

Sally asked me what I thought. I took refuge in my role as a clinical scientist, talking about things like the body's remarkable and unpredictable powers, spontaneous remission, the delayed effects of therapy, and the benefits of a well timed holiday.

But what did they think? Sally wanted to laugh it off, but could not quite bring herself to scoff at such an undeniable, positive result. Jim just confessed that he was gobsmacked.

So they had shown me and told me. There was no doubt about . . . well, Jim's wonderful improvement. So much to say, yet none of us said much. Meanwhile, questions spun through my head.

Can miracles happen if you don't ask for, or expect, them, let alone believe in them?

When (not if, but when, thought my clinical scientist) he does relapse, isn't the experience of a sudden and deep remission at least a bit miraculous anyway?

How do (or should) I, an atheist doctor yet with my own religious background, respond?

What is a miracle?

The awkward silence was broken by Sally managing a genuine laugh.

Well, no one had used the M word. As I said, there was a need for them to tell me—and I you.

I asked Jim if he was ready for an argument yet.