The Christmas Table (Christmas Hope #10) - Donna VanLiere Page 0,15
after her appointment. The doctor’s office called her this morning, leaving a message with John, saying she needed to return to the office. She had her yearly checkup just last week and realized she had not given the office their newest insurance information. “I’m Joan Creighton,” she says to the receptionist. “I was here last week but forgot to give you my new insurance information. Someone called my husband this morning.”
“Mrs. Creighton,” the receptionist says, holding a finger in the air. “One moment.”
Joan is surprised to see Dr. Burns walk to the front of the office; she normally stays busy going from one room to the next, visiting with her patients. Dr. Burns has delivered both of her children and has short dark hair peppered with gray and has always had a kind, gentle way about her. “Hi, Joan,” Dr. Burns says, squeezing Christopher’s chubby thigh. “Come on back.” She leads Joan into her office, a small space filled with pictures of Dr. Burns’s family and pictures drawn by her granddaughter.
“I forgot to leave my new insurance information,” Joan says.
Dr. Burns indicates the sofa and Joan sits down, holding Christopher on her lap. Dr. Burns walks to her desk, lifts a manila file folder off it, and sits next to Joan on the couch. “I’m sorry there was confusion with the phone call this morning, Joan. This isn’t about insurance. We got the results back from your mammogram. You have breast cancer.”
Christopher turns to pat Joan’s face and she realizes she isn’t breathing. “What does that mean … exactly?”
“It means we’re going to get you in to see the best cancer doctor in the area. I’ve already called Dr. Kim and have made an appointment for you to see her on Friday. Is that okay?”
Joan is still processing the words. “Yes. Of course.” Her eyes are full when she looks at Dr. Burns. “I’m awfully young for breast cancer, right?”
“Cancer has no respect for any of us,” she says. She squeezes Christopher’s foot. “But this little guy makes you brave.” Joan pulls the baby to her and kisses his head. “I’m here anytime you need me, Joan.”
After setting Christopher on his little car seat and buckling it, she sits next to him in the backseat of the car and feels the tears forming. He pounds on the padding in front of him and Joan wipes her eyes before the tears fall. “That’s right!” she says, smacking the padding. “Let’s go home!” She kisses his hand and exhales loudly. It’s time to make dinner for her family.
NINE
July 1972
John pulls into the garage and turns off the car before jumping out and running around to the passenger side, where he helps Joan out, wrapping his arm around her waist. Dr. Kim wasted no time in beginning chemotherapy, explaining that she wanted to reduce the tumor inside of Joan’s breast before performing surgery. This is Joan’s third week in a row, and each time she’s left nauseous and depleted of energy the day following treatment, but on this Saturday, she woke up feeling more energy than usual, and while her mom took care of Gigi and Christopher for a couple of hours, Joan thought that she and John could enjoy lunch at their favorite restaurant. Their time together was cut short; Joan got sick halfway through, too nauseous to eat. She holds on to John as he leads her up the garage stairs and into the house, where he helps her to their bedroom and into the bed. He unties her sneakers and slips them off her feet. She lies back on her pillow and covers her face with her hand, moving it through her hair. Wisps, fine and long, entwine between her fingers, and she holds her hand in front of her. John removes the hair, setting it on the nightstand for now, and clasps his hand in Joan’s. Her eyes fill with tears as she reaches for her hair again with the other hand. John stops her hand and holds on to that one as well. A tear sneaks down her cheek and he kisses one of her hands. “It doesn’t matter. It’ll grow back.”
“I’m going bald,” she says, her voice squeaking.
“Big deal. My dad’s bald. You don’t see him crying about it.” She laughs out loud and more tears fall over her cheeks. He wipes them away with his hand and smiles at her. “You could be bald and wear a burlap sack and still be beautiful.”
She shakes her head.