Two years ago I lay on a sofa, as a new age “hands on” healer stood over me.
I was dying, she moaned, as if getting the word from some divine source in the couch. And my only salvation? To visit her as often as possible, for $175 a session.
She knew that I had bone cancer. I had told her when we first met. A friend of mine had hooked us up and I wanted to be polite, so I went.