Post surgery, I am confronted by a reflection of my ribcage-cracked, stitched-up self in the bathroom mirror. There is a beatific beard, etiolated limbs, and stoic, agelessly unblinking eyes. I look like el Greco's vision of the crucifixion and wonder why being gravely ill always casts a holy aura across the patient's face. What does this say about illness? What does this say about holy men? Perhaps the most pious and devout of medieval hermits were merely suffering from a slight angina. Perhaps the illusion of spiritual enlightenment is nothing a couple of ibuprofen cannot cure.