I was raised in the Catholic Church. The solemn, reserved, respectful quiet as the priest whispered out his occasional reverent chants. That’s what I knew. That was the only thing I grew to love of the Catholic faith.

This friend of mine. We met years ago by happenstance. She was a firm believer in God, her husband, her dog, her daughters, and her Christian novels that she read feverishly.

She also loved social media. And it appeared through the years that every other day she would post for the world to see, another ailment, another ache and pain—back pain and stomach pain and shoulder pain. It was constant. What was also constant were the “pray for me” litanies, day after day. God will cure me; I’m sure he will.

The lump on her neck, the severely edematous hands and legs, the severe abdominal pain, the shortness of breath, the missed mammograms—

Unexplained agony only to be covered in prayers to God.

After a year of posting ailments on social media, in the thirteenth month, she was dead.

Her rapidly invasive cancer spread from her breast to her lungs and lymph nodes, bones and spine, and liver.

Avoiding medical care from a physician, precious time was lost, praying to God for a cure because God was the real doctor.

I entered her church for her funeral, out of respect for this dear friend and her family. Not a church I’d ever visited before. And I stayed till the end. The preachers danced in euphoric rhythm as they screamed endlessly into their microphone for over an hour, rejoicing Julie’s entrance into heaven. Her final journey. It was a jubilation. A triumph. She was sitting at the right hand of God. Her forever destination. Hands randomly waving in the air. Frantically.

Screaming hallelujahs.

I became anxious. And angry. At all of this non-stop screaming.

And I wanted to scream back. Why didn’t you go to a physician? Why weren’t you an advocate for yourself? Why did you insist on this magical thinking of God curing you?

Because in the end, there was no cure. Cancer was smarter and faster.

And after needing an entire day to recover from the dancing and screaming of Julie entering her final God’s territory—her final destination appointed to her at birth—I finally realized.

This funeral lacked something. I realized it was their “culture,” but with all of the clapping and singing, they forgot one thing. They forgot the solemn sadness of her husband of 45 years, his grieving and trembling at losing his best friend, and leaving a forever void in his life. Amongst the cheering and jubilation, they left out his sorrow. The grieving process was null and void.

I left that church, that funeral, sad and empty. And in my perception, they got it all wrong in more ways than one, including my dear friend who chose magical thinking over medical physician care.

I am a believer in prayer, in spirituality, but I’m also a believer in being your own advocate when it comes to your physical and mental well-being.

Debbie Moore-Black is a nurse who blogs at Do Not Resuscitate.