When I asked Jim about his cancer, a contented, peaceful smile formed on his face. “So far. So good. No recurrence. The doctor says the cancer in my tongue has disappeared.”
Jim hesitated before changing gears. “I’ve never felt God’s presence like I did when on the radiation table.”
He scratched his head. “I’m claustrophobic and I get anxious when I feel trapped. When you have radiation, they strap you to a table.”
He stared past me into the memories he was reliving. “They fastened me in place, covered my face with a plastic mask and bolted me to the table. The techs would leave and seal the door. I was alone, unable to move, feeling like a prisoner. I would hear a click followed by a dull, metallic sound. That’s when I knew the radiation started.”