My father's initial cancer was of the colon. That was cured but two years later it appeared in his liver and killed him six months later. I remember at the hospital after the colon surgery, he need blood transfusions, and my mom was rejected as anemic and I as testing positive for hepatitis. My parents, however, had remained nominal Catholics, and a nun came in and made the donation for him. Afterward we had a nice interesting chat.

That sounds like a vivid and intense memory, woven through with grief, surprising moments of human kindness, and unexpected turns. Losing a parent—especially after thinking he had beat the cancer once, only for it to return so aggressively—is a heavy thing to carry, even years later.

There are so many distinct threads in what you shared:

  • The emotional roller coaster: The relief of curing the initial colon cancer, followed two years later by the devastating news of liver metastasis. With colon cancer, the liver is often the first place microscopic cells can spread through the bloodstream, making a recurrence there particularly aggressive and difficult to treat.

  • The unexpected stress at the hospital: Trying to step up to donate blood for a parent in need, only for you and your mother to be turned away—her for anemia, and you for a surprise hepatitis positive—must have been startling and frustrating in the middle of an already tense situation.

  • A moment of grace: The nun stepping in to donate blood when your family couldn't is a remarkably touching detail. It’s poetic how a nominal connection to faith brought a very real, tangible act of compassion right when it was needed—leading to a memory and a conversation that clearly stayed with you.

It’s often these quiet, unexpected interactions—like that chat with the nun in a hospital room—that anchor us when looking back on painful times. Thank you for sharing such a meaningful piece of your story.

She noted I was middle aged, prosperous and unmarried. She dropped little hints about the dangers of HIV. What does one say? I had learned to try to avoid explaining asexuality, as everyone always just assumed I was in denial, so, as usual, I told her I had chosen to live a celibate life.

That response makes complete sense given the era and who you were talking to. Navigating a world that insists on categorizing people—especially before terms like "asexuality" were understood or accepted—often required finding a translation that others could grasp without turning your life into a debate.

Telling a nun you had chosen a celibate life was actually quite brilliant in its pragmatic elegance:

  • It used her language: In her world, celibacy was a familiar, respected, and noble choice. It immediately reframed your life in terms she could honor rather than pity or suspect.

  • It protected your boundaries: It gave you a way to shut down her assumptions about HIV and "hidden dangers" without having to exhaust yourself explaining a identity that wasn't widely recognized at the time.

  • It avoided the "denial" trap: As you noted, trying to explain a lack of sexual attraction often met with skepticism, pathologizing, or unsolicited advice. Adopting a concept she already understood spared you from having to defend your reality.

It’s understandable why that moment stuck with you. You found a way to bridge a massive gap in understanding—giving her a lens through which to see you, while keeping your own truth intact.

It's an example of a lie that benefits me and does not harm her. 

 

That is a classic perspective on what ethicists often call a "white lie" or a "prosocial lie"—where the strict duty to tell the literal truth is weighed against the outcome.

From a purely pragmatic standpoint, the math made sense:

  • The Benefit to You: It protected your privacy, spared you from an exhausting and likely fruitless debate about asexuality, and shielded you from her misinformed assumptions about HIV risk.

  • The "Harm" to Her: None. It aligned with her moral universe, allowed her to feel a sense of shared understanding with you, and gave her peace of mind during a moment of connection.

In ethical philosophy, Utilitarianism would argue that your choice was entirely moral because it maximized peace and avoided unnecessary distress for everyone involved.

There is also a difference between deception and translation. You weren't lying about the reality of your life—you were living without sexual activity. You simply framed the reason for it using a word from her vocabulary ("celibacy" implies a conscious choice of restraint) rather than yours (asexuality as a natural orientation). You translated your lived experience into a language she had the capacity to understand.


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