Day seven and I’m beginning to think the big guy upstairs wasn’t too happy with the joke I told three weeks ago about my church’s gluten-free communion bread and the Body of Christ being worth half a Weight Watchers point because now Joe and I are sitting in the oncologist’s office listening to descriptions of a port to be surgically inserted under my skin for a sixteen-week round of chemo that will cause my hair to fall out. Then the oncologist excuses herself to take a call. The door falls shut. Joe and I look at each other.
“What do you think? Eighties big-hair wig?” he asks.