I wrote this as a comment in the Pharyngula thread "Jerk of the Day," which is about George Berkin's disgusting Christian joy over Christopher Hitchen's cancer diagnosis. Since I haven't had time to write anything new for a few days, I thought I'd repost my comments here:
When I found out I had breast cancer, I did not suddenly reject reason and start believing in an invisible sky guy who had a mysterious plan for me that included cancer.
The only faith I had was in the expertise of my doctors.
I was really, really provoked when friends and relatives kept assuring me that they were "praying for" me.
I let my husband and kids know that if I were in the hospital and a chaplain (or anyone else who wanted to comfort me with prayer or "good news" about god) ever attempted to enter my room while they were there, they needed to push that person back into the hallway (and yell blasphemous remarks as they did so), because if they didn't, I'd be forced to crawl out of my bed, and beat the god-shill with my bedpan.
I also made clear that I want no prayer, hymns, and any other god-mentioning at my funeral, but I also noted that the funeral was for them, not for me, because I would be--you know--dead, so wouldn't know and couldn't care what happened at the funeral. Still, I hope that they would tell funny stories about me and drink a lot of margaritas. And I believe that that's more likely to happen than mass and recitation of the rosary, given that I have raised two godless children and am married to the most apathetic Protestant ever.
It looks like I'm going to be fine, and my doctors tell me I am unlikely to die of breast cancer (which only leaves everything else I can possibly die from.)
And while all my friends are patting themselves on the back that their "prayers were answered" and god cured me, I only praise my doctors and the other health care providers who used their skills and knowledge to obtain a good result for me.