I hear the piano music before I walk into sacrament meeting with my 13-year-old son. I’m wearing a hoodie, jeans and no make-up. My son, with an incision on his partially shaved head, wears hospital scrubs and pulls an IV pole. A woman with a kind face stands at the door and hands him a homemade fleece blanket. I think: this is what it feels like to be in the Twilight Zone. The familiar hymns remind me of church, but don’t erase the antiseptic smell nor the sterile, white walls of the hospital.  I feel the sting of tears as we walk into a small auditorium at Primary Children’s Medical…