Miracle on hold: The woman who comes to clean my flat every two weeks is an ardent believer in miracles. That I am blind and have cancer sounds to her like a trifle, at least as viewed by the pot-stirring makers of miracles. She has never revealed her religion, and I do not ask. Perhaps Transylvanian. Perhaps a cousin of Dracula’s. Maybe no more or less than an Eastern goddess with connections. So what must I do, I ask her. Simple, she replies. Begin by willing my vision to return and politely asking that my cancer go elsewhere, perhaps on a sightseeing tour to Egypt or Holland or Washington, D.C., where it already thrives. And next? Well then, it should be obvious. I must die because death is the scratch that pays for healthy resurrection. I consider this but finally ask if she can work a simpler miracle by cleaning the fridge, which needs help. As for my own miracle, I’ve placed it on hold, no doubt much to cancer’s delight that I’m not dead yet. But we’ll see what the coming months bring.