Chapter 67 Junie
Junie
Later that week, Junie is back at the oncologist’s office, this time with only Georgia at her side, as opposed to the entire
crew. She has her third chemo treatment tomorrow, the “Friday special,” as she’s taken to calling it. At least she has Michaela’s
production of Grease to look forward to on Sunday evening, once she’s upright and feeling closer to normal.
She’s back in the exam room, sitting on the table where the patient goes, the thin, crinkly paper already a balled-up mess.
Georgia sits in the chair by the window.
Junie shifts and the paper rips (not for the first time). “What does this stuff even do? The wind blows wrong and it’s a crumpled
ball. I don’t see it protecting any surfaces.”
Georgia looks up from her phone, where she’s probably reading work emails. “You’d think by now someone would have come up
with a better solution.”
There’s a brisk knock on the door, and Dr. Richardson enters. He nods. “Good morning, Junie. And is it Georgia?”
Both women say hello, and the doctor settles on the rolling stool and logs into the computer that’s mounted to the wall.
“So we’ve got some results today. But to start, how are you doing? How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Still some pain.” She points to her wig. “I ended up cutting it all off because watching it fall out in clumps was
worse.”
Dr. Richardson pivots on the stool and nods, an empathetic look on his face. “I’ve heard the same from many other female patients.”
“She’s been active, though,” Georgia chimes in. “Participating in some community events, spending time with family and friends.”
“That’s great,” Dr. Richardson says. “So—let’s get to the results. Junie, I’m going to pull up the scans and show them to
you as we discuss.” He clicks on the keyboard and eventually images pop onto the screen. He pulls in a deep breath. “Now,
this MRI is a helpful tool because it can look across the entire body to check for spread of the disease, and since you had
one very early on, we have a point of comparison.”
Junie nods, a serious look on her face.
“What we had hoped to see was no spread of the disease. Unfortunately in this case, Junie, we can see from the images that
the cancer has spread. Specifically to your bones and your liver. And this is likely the cause of your pain. I’m sorry it’s
not better news.”
Junie sits frozen, and the doctor lets the silence stand. This isn’t what she’d expected. Not at all. She was planning for
this to be fixed up. “How is that possible?”
“Although every patient is different, the variety of cancer you have is aggressive. It can move quickly. Especially considering
the genetics and the type, it adds up. Even if it’s not the outcome we would hope for.”
It adds up? Not one bit of this situation adds up. A thirty-year-old woman with her whole life ahead of her cut down at the knees by a disease she was supposedly already declared
free of decades earlier? That one family tree must carry so many versions of this sad story? That someone who relishes every
crumb of life is thrown into the fire?
“I did everything I was supposed to,” Junie says.
Dr. Richardson nods. “You did. And it’s not your fault.”
“So what does this mean—for my treatment?” Junie asks. “I’m supposed to go to chemo tomorrow. Is it the same plan?”
Dr. Richardson nods. “Continuing with the chemo is a good idea. We will also scan more regularly, and I’m going to consult
with the other oncologists in the practice to see if they have different recommendations based on this spread.”
More words are exchanged, but Junie is stopped, frozen. This is bad. It certainly sounds bad.
In the moments that follow, she feels like she’s unpeeling from herself, like she’s leaving reality. Despite the magnitude
of this news, it’s at the core of who she is to not give up. She will make this ok. She’ll force it into the shape of something
manageable, something alright, something palatable.