Then a nurse said hello and motioned toward one of the unoccupied pale-turquoise recliners to our left. I pulled a small chair up as Susan sat down, stiffly.

I looked at her. Appearing shaky and tense, she was afraid not only of what might happen during the next few hours, but mostly during the next several days and months.

Trying unsuccessfully to seem calm and strong, I held her hand and said, "Don’t worry, we’ll get through this."

After getting settled, we looked around the room. It was clear by the presence of flowers here and a plant there that someone was trying to make it cheery. Windows lined one wall and several doorways led to other rooms. At the moment, the curiosity as to what was in those other rooms escaped us.

Probably about 30 feet by 20 feet, the room contained eight recliners, most accompanied by IV stands and little machines that keep going "beep." The people sitting in these recliners were mostly older, senior citizens, and IVs were running from bags or jars to their arms or chests.

This is it, I thought. Welcome to the chemo room at the Louis Busch Hager Cancer Center.

But that was just the physical appearance: sort of drab and medicinally intimidating. We learned during the following several weeks, however, that what makes the place special are not the chemicals but the nurses who lend it their personalities and their energy.

Nurse Teresa came over, sat down and explained what was going to happen during the next few hours. She said some chemicals would be dripped, but that the major one, which looked like red Kool-Aid, would be "pushed."

I thought, "pushed?" but quickly understood.

Since we clearly looked terrified, Teresa tried to be calming and reassuring about the process. She made it seem simple and routine, without diminishing what was really going on here.

Looking around the room, I noticed the other people were pretty relaxed. Some dozed as their chemicals dripped; some read books and others just stared ahead with that "why me?" look.

Others, however, were joking with the nurses, Teresa, Mary Ellen and the temp Mary, who usually were the ones starting the conversations and keeping them going.

All the people here have cancer, I thought, and they’re sitting here getting shot up with chemicals and they’re going to feel like crap for days afterward, and they’re joking about having flings with the nurses. Where’s the bitterness? Where’s the dread?

It didn’t take long for me to realize that it was the nurses who were creating the vibes in this room and many of the people coming here were taking advantage of it.

After Teresa hooked up our IV, a teenager came in to say hi to the nurses. He apparently had completed his chemo and was at the center for an oncologist visit. He and the nurses embraced as they asked how he was doing. They cared, and they obviously were important to him when he was sitting in this room not too long ago.

During the following weeks, we had Mary Ellen as often as we had Teresa, and they both maintained that balance of professionalism and emotion that is so important in health care, especially in this room.

And we did get through it. Finally, when we walked out of that room for the last time, we were grateful not just because it was over but for the nurses who made the experience the best it could be under the circumstances.

I often wondered why a nurse would want to work in such a room, dealing with cancer patients every day, the mix of emotions that necessarily accompanies them and all the chemicals.

Teresa and Mary Ellen didn’t have any doubts that they were working in a room full of people with hope — and lots of it. Cancer patients don’t do chemo if they feel condemned; they do it to boost their chances so they can be more hopeful about there being a future.

The nurses Teresa and Mary Ellen understand that, and do their best to create a room that will help people build their hopes, not tear them down.

Cary Brunswick is managing editor of The Daily Star and can be reached at cary@thedailystar.com or 432-1000, ext. 217.