So it had started. One show down. Twenty-four more to go.
What the hell was I thinking??
The night of our second concert, I stood in front of the mirror in my dressing room, staring down at my reflection. I was dressed in my outfit for the opening of the show - black pants, white shirt, black vest. It was a good thing I’d been able to ditch the chemo pump; there was no way I would have been able to hide it under that tight vest. The pump was gone, for now, and on the outside, I looked ready. But the drugs were still in my system, and on the inside, I didn’t feel ready at all.
The nausea had finally passed, thank god, but my stomach still hurt, maybe just from the act of throwing up. It’s a good ab workout, I guess, but it takes a lot out of you. I was tired. Not just running-on-a-few-hours-of-sleep-‘cause-I-was-out-too-late-partying-last-night-and-now-I’ve-got-a-raging-hangover tired, but can’t-even-drag-myself-out-of-bed-so-just-kill-me-now-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery tired. I was tired from my head to my feet, tired all the way down into my bones. I was exhausted. Fatigued was the right word. I hadn’t known the true meaning of it until now, until I tried to imagine performing an hour-and-a-half-long show feeling as tired as I did.
But what choice did I have? I couldn’t exactly say, “Hey, fellas, mind if we cancel the show? I’m just too tired to sing and dance tonight.” There were only two options: tell them the truth, the whole truth, about how I was feeling and why, or not say a damn thing, suck it up, and just go out there and give it all I had.
Frankly, I didn’t think I had all that much to give, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet either. It was only our second show. I hadn’t hidden this as long as I had, as well as I had, to give up after only one show. I had known all along this wouldn’t be easy, and I was determined to prove to Cary and Dr. Submarine and to myself that I could do it. That I didn’t have to curl up and die just because I had cancer.
I thought of all the times I’d performed with the flu or a cold or a hangover. I thought of the shows I’d done in Asia with a giant tumor in my chest, thinking it was my heart, not having a clue it was cancer. The tumor was smaller now; I was better. There was nothing wrong with me; it was just the damn chemo, wearing me out. Fuck that.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I muttered, glaring at myself in the mirror. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” Then I cracked a can of Red Bull and chugged it, as fast as I could. Not exactly a smart move, considering I’d spent the better part of the previous day either throwing up or trying not to, but I was willing to risk it for the rush I knew it would give me.
I figured Cary wouldn’t approve; she kept pushing the water and Gatorade on me, insisting I was going to get dehydrated. But there were a lot dumber things I could do, and have done. Blow, for instance. That’s the pick-me-up I was really craving, a good long line of coke. But I’d stopped that shit two years ago, and I definitely wasn’t stupid enough to pick up the habit again. I was already a cancer victim; I didn’t need to be a crack addict, too.
The Red Bull had the effect I was hoping for; I could feel the caffeine soaking into my system, revving me up. You can do this, I told my reflection, looking myself in the eye. I could see the fatigue there, but also the intensity. I was a performer, not a patient. I wasn’t going to lie down; I was gonna get out there and dance.
I got out my iPod and crammed the ear buds into my ears. I scrolled through the thousands of tunes in my playlist until I found the one I was looking for. Then I hit play and turned up the volume, bobbing my head in time to the dead string guitar riff. It was impossible not to get pumped up to this song, right? I did my best air guitar in the mirror, loosening up a little, and lip-synched the lyrics. “Risin’ up, back on the street... did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive... So many times, it happens too fast... you trade your passion for glory. Don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past; you must fight just to keep them alive...”
Yeah, I know - I was a nerd. Whatever works, right?
“It’s the... eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight, risin’ up to the challenge of our rival... and the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night, and he’s watching us all with the eye... of the tiger...”
I tried jogging in place a little, to get my blood pumping, push that liquid energy through my body. It just made my head hurt.
Over the music, I heard pounding on the dressing room door. I ripped the headphones out of my ears just in time to hear AJ yell, “Whaddya doin’ in there, jackin’ off? Let’s go, Carter!”
Apparently, it was almost show time. I shut off my iPod, set it aside, and opened the door. “Just checkin’ out my six pack,” I retorted, puffing out my chest.
AJ jabbed his finger into my gut and snickered when I winced. “Rock solid,” he replied sarcastically. I guess that’s what I got for being a douchebag.
“Whatever, Bone; you know you’re just jealous of my sexy body.” It felt awesome to not be the fat Backstreet Boy anymore. Usually I just ripped on AJ about his hairline, but I didn’t want to jinx myself. Just because the chemo hadn’t made me bald yet didn’t mean it still couldn’t. I hadn’t exactly figured out how I was going to keep icing my head on the tour bus.
AJ led the way through the backstage area, until we got to where everyone - the guys and their families, the dancers, the crew - was gathered for the prayer we always said before the show. We circled up, joined hands, and bowed our heads, as Howie led the prayer. He and Brian usually took turns doing it; they never asked me. I wouldn’t have known what to say. But Howie did a good job of it, thanking God for our talents and asking Him to watch over us and our dancers and crew and the fans in the audience.
Please, God, just let me get through the show, I added internally, squeezing my eyes shut, as if that would help me pray harder. And if you could cure me of cancer while you’re at it, that’d be nifty. Thanks, God. “Amen,” I muttered out loud, along with everyone else. Then we piled up our hands and counted off.
“One...”
“Two...”
“Three...”
“Four...”
“BACKSTREET!” we chanted together, before breaking. Everyone ran to their places, and the four of us got fit with our earpieces and mics and snuck to our spots behind the big screen onstage.
We watched the opening video projected on the back of the screen, waiting for our cue to jump through it, and as I heard the music build and the screams rise from the crowd, I felt the effects of the adrenaline coursing through me. My heartbeat was rising; my palms were sweating with anticipation and fear. The screams skyrocketed as my face appeared on the screen, huge and hilariously intense, and that made me smile. I’d never quite understood the way the fans reacted to me, but I can’t say I didn’t love it.
As the opening notes of “Everybody” revved up, the four of us stepped up onto our platform and, in perfect synch, jumped through the movie screen. The audience was going nuts. We just stood there, taking it all in, soaking up the screams, while the cameras flashed in our faces. I couldn’t see anything past the first few rows of fans; it was just a blinding sea of flashing lights. The effect was dizzying, but that was okay. It sort of lit a fire in me. I’m Nick Carter, I thought, not the sick guy, but the Backstreet Boy, and these people are all here to see me. I’m gonna give ‘em one hell of a show.
As a single unit, we sucked in a deep breath, and then another. It was part of the choreography, part of the act, but for me, it was all real. I was steeling myself just to make it through the show. We stomped forward, still in sync. Left. Right. Left. Right. Four counts, and then we jumped, landing in a pose, our legs spread wide, arms out at our sides, heads turned left, as “Everybody” started up again. We had done it so many times, I didn’t even have to think about it anymore. I was a robot; the choreography was just a part of my programming. As long as all my circuits and gears held out, I could get through it.
“Everybody... rock your body...” Brian sang, drawing out the notes as long as he could. “Everybody... rock your body right...”
“BACKSTREET’S BACK, ALRIGHT!”
There was no going back now, I thought, as I followed Howie down the stairs on our side of the platform. Before I knew it, I was singing, “Am I sexual?” and thrusting at the fans in the front row like I always did, because you know what they say...
The show must go on.
***
So, on went the show, but I ain’t gonna lie: I was damn glad when it was over.
The Clearwater fans may have gotten screwed, but I lucked out because there was no soundcheck party before the show and no after party afterwards, so once I got done showering and changing at the venue, I got to go back to my bus and crash.
I literally collapsed into my bunk and lay there, too tired to move, just thinking about what a miracle it was that I’d actually made it through the whole concert. I really wasn’t sure how. Now that it was over and my Red Bull-fueled performance high had gone down, I felt completely beat. I didn’t even bother to sit up, let alone get up, when I heard Cary come on board.
“Back here,” I croaked when she called my name. I was so tired, I could barely form words, let alone make my voice carry anymore. The show had taken that, along with the last of my energy.
She suddenly appeared next to my bunk, kneeling down so she could see my face. She gave me a sympathetic smile. “How ya doin’?” she asked.
“Ugh...” I groaned in response.
I expected her to say “I told you so,” but she didn’t. Sweet girl. Instead, she said, “I don’t know how you did that, but you killed it out there.”
“I think I ‘bout killed myself, too,” I muttered.
“Yeah... that too. So now will you give it up and tell the guys what’s going on?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Now I’m gonna go to bed and sleep it off, and tomorrow I’m gonna get up and do it all over again. Eventually it’ll get easier.”
“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
I just grunted. There wasn’t much I could say back to that. She was probably right. I was just counting on the fact that we had another day off on Wednesday. I was so looking forward to it. I would need it to rest up, because after that we had four shows in a row. I wasn’t looking forward to that.
“Before you go to bed, you better let me hook up your other dose of chemo,” Cary added, and I groaned again. “Come on,” she insisted, poking me. “Get up so you can get it over with.”
It took all the willpower I had to drag myself out of my bunk and follow her up to the lounge, where there was more room and more light. Even as I took off my shirt and stretched out on the leather couch, I was tempted to say, “Fuck it,” and go back to bed. But I knew she wouldn’t let me, and even if she did, I’d only be fucking myself over. I wanted the cancer gone so I didn’t have to mess with this shit anymore, but I had to take it to make that happen.
Cary hooked me up with the same cocktail of crap I’d had pumped into my body that morning - a whopping dose of a chemo drug called cyta-something, along with a steroid I also couldn’t pronounce, plus a handful of pills that were supposed to help protect my healthy cells from the chemo. It seemed like, for every chemo drug on the regimen, I’d also been described two or three other things to counteract the side effects - one thing to prevent nausea, another to prevent infection, yet another to prevent kidney damage... the list went on and on. I couldn’t keep it all straight; I was impressed that Cary could.
“Here, put these in,” she said when she was finished, handing me a little bottle of eye drops. I’d been prescribed those because one of the drugs I was getting today was supposed to cause eye irritation. I’d tried to put some in that morning, without much luck.
“I suck at putting in eye drops,” I complained. “I always blink them out.”
“Want me to try?” she offered.
“Sure, whatever.” I gave the bottle back, not really caring either way. So what if the drugs made my eyes red? Maybe the guys would just think I was high. I could pass for a junkie anyway, I thought, looking down at the IV running into my chest and the used syringes lying on the table. It would have been great if the constant flow of drugs into my bloodstream actually gave me a good buzz, instead of making me feel like shit. Maybe if I complained enough, I’d qualify for medical marijuana. I looked thoughtfully at Cary, wondering if she was licensed to prescribe it. “Hey, you think you could score me some weed? You know, for medicinal purposes?”
She blinked at me. “Yeah, that’s all you need, another thing to hide from the guys. How would you explain toking up on the tour bus?”
I gave her a look, like, Are you kidding me? “You think we’ve never smoked pot before?”
She blushed and mumbled, “I thought you’d given up that kind of stuff.”
“Well, I did, but...” I trailed off; I could see where she was going with this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Cary smiled triumphantly and then held up the little bottle of eye drops. She moved around me, trying to figure out the best angle to put them in from, and finally climbed onto her knees on the couch next to me, so she was taller than me. “Open wide,” she said, and I figured she meant my eyes and not my mouth. I tipped my head back against the couch and bugged my eyes out as much as they would go. I must have looked pretty funny because Cary giggled, and I saw her hand shake as she brought it close to my face.
“Don’t blind me,” I begged, trying to fight the blinking reflex. It didn’t work; as soon as she squirted the bottle near my eyes, I squeezed them shut, and the drops ran down my cheeks and into my ears instead.
“Don’t blink!”
“I can’t help it!”
She tried a second time; I blinked again. “Hold your eyes open,” she ordered, and so I tried to literally hold them, but with my arms up in front of my face, she couldn’t seem to get in at the right angle. “Ugh,” she huffed, flopping down beside me. “This should not be this difficult. Let’s try this. C’mere, lie down.” She patted her thigh.
Realizing what she wanted me to do, I changed positions and lay down flat so my head was in her lap. I could smell not just her perfume, but the laundry detergent she’d used on her clothes. She was still all dolled up from the concert, and when I looked up at her, leaning over me, I couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was, in that old-fashioned pin-up girl kind of way. She was wearing bright red lipstick and had her hair curled, and I thought of how hot she’d look in one of those naughty nurse costumes, with the little white hat and miniskirt. As she put one hand on my cheek, gently pulling down my lower eyelid, I said impulsively, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Her other hand hesitated in midair, and she let go of my face. “What?”
I grinned up at her. “You ever been a naughty nurse for Halloween?”
Now it was her turn to give me the Are you kidding me? look. “Uh, no.”
“I just thought you’d be hot in one of those costumes,” I admitted truthfully, smirking at the way she blushed.
But then her eyes brightened, and she added, “I do have a uniform my grandmother wore when she was a nurse during World War II.”
“No lie?”
“Really. She was a nurse, stationed at Pearl Harbor. That’s where she met my grandpa. He was in the Navy.”
“Wow... so your grandma’s like Kate Beckinsale.”
Cary laughed. “I guess so, yeah.”
“And your grandpa’s... Ben Affleck?”
“Quit making me laugh, or I will blind you!” she giggled helplessly.
“I need you like Ben Affleck needs acting school... he was terrible in that film...” I sang quietly, grinning when she cracked up even more. “I need you like Cuba Gooding needed a bigger part... he’s way better than Ben Affleck, and now... all I can think about is your smile, and that shitty movie, too... Pearl Harbor sucked, and I miss you...”
“Stop!” she gasped, swatting me playfully. “Just shut up and hold still so I can get these drops in, and then you can talk and sing all you want.”
“Alright, alright.” I tried to relax so I wouldn’t flinch and mess her up again. She pulled down my eyelid again and rested her other hand on my forehead as she tipped the bottle of drops over my eye. I forced myself to keep my open as she squirted this time, and finally, the drops ran in. They stung a little.
“Don’t squint,” she warned me. “Just close your eye gently.”
I tried to do what she said. It must have been good enough, because she moved on and did the other eye. My vision blurred when the drops went in, her face swimming above me for a few seconds, but when I opened my eyes again, they had cleared. Cary used a Kleenex to blot the moisture from around my eyes. Her touch was so gentle, it felt nice after all the discomfort of the eye drops. Call me weird, but I’ve always liked people touching my face. Whether I’m making out with a girl or just getting a facial (Paris got me into getting them; she made me so fucking metrosexual) or stage makeup, it feels really good. I guess my face and neck are just sensitive that way. “That feels good,” I groaned, closing my eyes.
She laughed. Then she ditched the Kleenex and used her fingers to rub around my eyes, along the tops of my cheekbones and brow bone and down to my temples. It felt awesome, like a face massage. “You’re gonna put me to sleep doin’ that,” I muttered, as she ran her fingers up into my hair, working my scalp with her nails.
“Maybe that’s the plan,” she replied. I could hear the smile in her voice.
I smiled back. “I like this plan.”
“Before you go to sleep, can I ask you a question?” Her hands had come out of my hair now and were kneading my forehead, her fingers working in tiny circles.
“What?”
“Do you pluck your eyebrows?”
I started laughing, my eyes flying open. “Uh, no,” I said, mimicking her. I’d been known to manscape a bit when I was dating Paris - metrosexual, remember? - and, of course, they always clean me up before photoshoots, but usually, I don’t even like shaving, let alone tweezing my eyebrows. That fucking hurts!
“Really? ‘Cause you have, like, perfect eyebrows.” I closed my eyes again as she traced the lines of my brows with her fingers, and I heard her sniff. “It’s so not fair.”
“Sorry.”
“I forgive you, I guess.” She massaged away in silence for a few more minutes, and then she said, “Are you ready for bed now?”
“You kidding?” I muttered. “I was ready before you reminded me I had more chemo coming, remember?” I opened my eyes and sat up. I was still exhausted, but relaxed and feeling pretty good, otherwise. I picked up the chemo pump as I pulled myself up from the couch and carried it with me back to my bunk, where I lay it down next to me as I crawled in and got comfortable.
Cary followed me back, making sure I got settled. “’Night, Nick,” she said softly, before she pulled the curtains closed around my bunk. In the darkness, I closed my eyes and listened to her footsteps pad back to the bathroom, probably to get herself ready for bed. I was asleep before she made it back to her own bunk.
***
