As I walked the country lane from my apartment to the clinic this morning, passing cows grazing the damp fields guarded by the foggy alps beyond, I was greeted the Bavarian “Gruß Gott” by people in their native folk costumes instead of modern day attire. I thought of my surprise feast of St. Blaise in Provence two years ago. Once I got to the clinic, trying to normalize my deflowering by catheter for my first hyperthermia treatment, I asked the good doctor what the holiday was. The Feast of Corpus Christi. Well, as I lay still for two hours while my prostate was heated to 110 degrees Fahrenheit to kill off my unwanted cancer cells, I mused over how different would be this day for that gentleman in loden green armed with an ancient rifle and myself: he and his gun somehow affirming his beliefs in a parade for transubstantiation and I, armed with this strange hyperthermia machine lying still for two hours quietly driving cancer-demons from my own all-but-holy body. My greatest sacrament will be to get out on the foot paths this weekend and transform oozing tubes of paint paint into visual memories celebrating the most important pilgrimage of my life.