I GLANCED WARILY AT THE IV BAG hanging from the pole in my infusion bay. “Isn’t that the poison symbol?” I asked the nurse. He had donned a full gown, mask and gloves to hook up the chemotherapy drugs now coursing through my system.
“Yep,” he said. “We’re trained to handle these drugs carefully.”
“So I’m being poisoned,” I said, trying to joke.
“Basically.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “I’m sorry.”
When he left, I took a ragged breath, scared and angry. This was not where I wanted to be.
A year ago, life had been full. Sycamore Creek Church, the United Methodist congregation where my husband, Tom, serves as pastor in Lansing, Michigan, was thriving. Our two boys, ages four and seven, made for a lively household.…
