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Nick


We had the next day off, which was awesome. I didn’t have to worry about singing or even talking much, let alone actually performing. I spent most of the fourteen-hour bus ride to Boston lying around in my bunk, napping, watching DVDs, playing video games. Cary would come lie down in her bunk across from mine, and we’d talk across the aisle. I think she was all too happy to keep me quarantined in the bus, where the germs couldn’t get me. My tonsils were still swollen, but at least my fever hadn’t gotten any higher.

Eventually, we moved out to the lounge, where I got out my guitar and picked out chords for her, while she made up melodies and words to sing along - the jam session I’d promised her.

When we finally got to Boston and checked into our hotel, Cary said, “What do you wanna do about dinner? I’m starving, and you need to eat something. What do you feel like?”

Nothing really sounded all that appealing, but finally, I decided on lobster. I’d learned over the years of touring to get my seafood fix while we were on the coast, where it’s the freshest and the best. Next week, we’d be heading to the Midwest, and the seafood there just wasn’t as good. After days of gray skies and rain, the weather was finally decent, so we found a seafood place with patio seating and ate our dinner outside. Even with the mouth sores and weird aftertastes everything had, I managed to polish off a plate full of lobster drenched in butter, clams, and potatoes. And afterwards, I felt better.

I wished I felt good enough for a whole night out on the town. It was fun being in Boston in the midst of the NBA finals, the night after the Celtics had won Game 2 of the series against the Lakers. I wasn’t the only one walking the streets in a Celtics cap and jersey, and you could feel the excitement in the air. It was electric. But I definitely wasn’t up for a night of clubbing, so eventually, Cary and I headed back to the hotel.

On the way up to our floor, her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and frowned at it for a moment before answering. “Hello? Sorry, who did you say this was? You’re cutting out... sorry... I’m in an elevator, hang on...” The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out. “Sorry, hello?” Cary asked again. “Oh, hi, Dr. Subramanien!”

She shot me a meaningful look, and I made a face back, wondering why Dr. Submarine was calling. It was probably about my blood sample, which might have made it out to her by now. I hoped it wasn’t bad news.

“Oh good, you did?” Cary was saying into the phone, as we walked slowly down the hall. “Have you gotten the results back yet? Okay... uh-huh... No, he’s been pretty run down, and his tonsils are swollen. He’s been running a low-grade temp the last couple of days, but it hasn’t gone above 100.4. He’s developed mucositis, too, so that could be the source of the infection.”

I was glad when we made it to my room. I had my key out and ready; I swiped it, opened the door, and practically shoved her in, just to get her out of the hall, where anyone could hear her talking about me on the phone like that.

“He won’t want to hear that, but yeah, you’re right,” Cary said, now pacing around the room. She was frowning, one hand tugging at her hair while the other clutched the phone to her ear. “We’re in Boston till tomorrow night. Oh, really? Okay... okay, yeah, just let us know. I’ll get him there, one way or another.” She laughed. “Alright. Thanks. Goodbye.”

She lowered her phone and gave me a look. “You,” she said, pointing at me, “had no business performing last night.” She shook her finger, like a mom scolding her kid. “Your ANC is 750. Or was, when that sample was sent out, anyway. It’s probably lower now.”

I shrugged. “It was even lower last time,” I offered.

Cary ignored me. “Your doctor suggested G-CSF injections to boost your body’s production of white blood cells. But she wants you looked at by a doctor. She said she knows an oncologist in Boston she’s going to try to get you an appointment with tomorrow morning, and you will go.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face were so fierce, I fought the urge to laugh. I held it back, though, because I knew she was dead serious.

“Fine, I’ll go if it’s in the morning,” I grudgingly agreed, “but I’m not letting anyone put me in the hospital again. I have to be back here for soundcheck.”

“We’ll see what the doctor has to say.”

“But I get the final say. No one can make me stay against my will.”

She sighed. “No, you’re right. No one can make you stay. But I hope you’ll listen to whatever advice this doctor has to give you, even if you won’t listen to me.”

I flashed her my most irresistible smile. “I respect you, Cary. Tell me where and when the appointment is, and I’ll go, and I’ll listen. I promise to do that much.”

She returned the smile reluctantly - see, it really was irresistible - and replied, “Thank you. I guess that’s good enough... for tonight, anyway.”

***


The next morning, we got up early and ate breakfast in the hotel. Well, Cary ate. I just sort of picked at mine. While Brian and Howie were making plans to spend the morning sightseeing with their families, I had an appointment at Massachusetts General with a Dr. Woo. Cary was going to go with me, of course; I knew she wanted to hear what the doctor had to say, and secretly, I was glad, even if it meant she might side with him.

“Where are you two off to so early?” asked AJ, coming into the dining room for breakfast, just as we were leaving it.

Cary and I looked at each other. “Shopping,” she blurted.

She may not have realized her mistake, but I did - AJ loved shopping. Before he could invite himself along, I quickly added, “For underwear.” AJ raised his eyebrows, and I went on, “Let’s just say it was a... rough night last night - if you know what I mean. Lots of torn bras and panties that need replacing. Sorry, babe.” I looked at Cary. She was staring back at me in horror, her face bright red.

Yeah, okay, it was a douchey lie to make up, but come on, I was under pressure. What else was I going to say to get him off our tails? Even this wasn’t guaranteed to do it; I mean, just because I’d know better than to ask if I could go lingerie shopping with him and Rochelle didn’t mean AJ had the same level of judgment. He actually looked like he was considering it for a minute, the way he was eyeing Cary, but finally, he grinned and said, “Well... you kids have fun with that. Get something kinky.” He winked at Cary and then headed on into the dining room, probably to latch himself onto the Dorough family for the day instead.

“Are you kidding me?!” Cary hissed as we walked out of the hotel, smacking my arm hard.

“C’mon, I had to make it something he wouldn’t want to shop for; the guy loves to shop!” I tried to defend myself. “I guess I could have said you were shopping for tampons or something, but I didn’t think that would be as believable.”

“Ugh!!!”

I tried my irresistible smile again. It didn’t seem to have quite the same effect as the night before.

Cary flagged down a taxi outside the hotel and got in. I climbed in after her. “Massachusetts General,” she told the driver stiffly. It was the last thing she said until we pulled up in front of the hospital’s main entrance. I paid the cabby, and we got out. I felt pretty intimidated as I looked up at the building; this was one huge-ass hospital.

We walked into the lobby. Cary went right up to the front desk and came back a few seconds later, pointing at the door we’d just come in. “We need to go across the street to the Yawkey building. That’s where the Cancer Center is,” she said. So we walked back out and followed a sidewalk to another, smaller building, catty-corner from the main one. Yawkey Center for Outpatient Care, it said on the side of the building in blue letters. Well, that was good, seeing as how I was so dead set against becoming an inpatient.

We went in, and this time, we were directed upstairs to the seventh floor. This time, I knew we were in the right place because the lobby was filled with mostly old people and a few younger people who were wearing scarves to cover up their bald heads. I got a sick feeling of déjà vu, remembering my first appointment at the Hematology and Oncology clinic in Santa Monica, when I’d looked around a waiting room very similar to this one and thought, I don’t belong here.

But I did. I just hadn’t known it yet.

I swallowed hard as I looked around this room. As crappy as I felt, I could see that I was still better off than some of these people. And at least I still had my hair, hidden underneath the Celtics cap that I hoped would hide my face, too. I didn’t want to be recognized. Not here.

Again, Cary went up to the receptionist’s desk and did the talking. We were escorted back right away, without having to wait. Dr. Submarine must have arranged for me to get the VIP treatment. Even though I felt sort of guilty for jumping the line in front of all the other, worse-off people in the waiting room, I appreciated that. I was anxious to get this over with and go on to the venue.

A nurse led us into an exam room and took my vitals, and then we were introduced to the doctor. He was a surprisingly tall Asian-American man, probably in his late thirties or early forties. Reid Woo, M.D., the gold-plated nametag on his white coat said. “I’m Dr. Woo,” he introduced himself, shaking my hand and then Cary’s. He sat down on a stool in front of a laptop, where the nurse had typed in all my information. “I spoke with Dr. Subramanien earlier,” he said, scanning the screen. “She faxed over your medical history and latest set of labs. Your blood work doesn’t look great; you’re neutropenic, which means your white cell count is low. She said you reported a low-grade fever and sore throat?”

I nodded. “Yeah, my tonsils are huge. But my whole mouth is jacked up...”

“Mucositis,” Cary put in. “It just started on Saturday, a few days after he finished up chemo for this cycle. I’ve had him gargling salt water and baking soda and sucking ice chips, but maybe you could prescribe him something topical for the pain.”

I looked at her gratefully. She knew how to talk to doctors in a way I didn’t.

Dr. Woo nodded, snapping on a pair of gloves, and motioned for me to open my mouth. He stuck a tongue depressor in and shined his light around. “Definitely mucositis,” he agreed. “It looks painful. I’ll write you a scrip for MuGard - it’s a special rinse that coats your mouth. I do want to swab the back of your throat, to check for further infection.” I tried not to gag as he stuck what looked like a giant Q-Tip into my mouth and swiped it around my tonsils. It hurt like hell.

“I’ll send this to the lab for a throat culture and a rapid strep test,” he said. “We won’t have the results of the throat culture back for a couple of days, but the rapid strep test only takes about fifteen minutes. Either way, I’ll start you on antibiotics, just to be on the safe side. It may be viral, but with your immune system compromised, I don’t want to take any chances by delaying treatment. Dr. Subramanien also recommended granulocyte colony-stimulating factor injections, to speed up the growth of neutrophils - white blood cells.” He looked at Cary. “Have you given G-CSF injections before?”

“We usually gave it through an IV when I worked in oncology,” she said, though by that time, I’d checked out mentally - too many big medical words being thrown around. It made my head hurt. “Can I inject it into his port?”

“No, you’d have to infuse it. Outside a hospital setting, it’s much easier to give as a subcutaneous injection.”

With a glance in my direction, Cary nodded. “I can do that.”

“Okay. I’ll get this to the lab and come back with your prescriptions when we know the results of the strep test.”

When he left the room, I looked at Cary and raised my eyebrows. “Injections? As in, shots?”

She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’ll help your body get rid of the infection and prevent another one. I promise to be gentle.”

I heaved a huge sigh. “This sucks.”

I was surprised when all she said was, “I know.” Nothing else about it being for the best, nothing about keeping a positive attitude, nothing about giving it all up and going home. Just “I know.” In a way, it was the most helpful thing she could say.

When the doctor came back about fifteen minutes later, he said, “Well, the good news is, you don’t have strep. The bad news is, since the strep test was negative, we don’t know what kind of infection you do have. It could be bacterial, or it could be viral. I’m going to go ahead and give you a prescription for antibiotics. Even if it turns out not to be bacterial, the antibiotics might help prevent a second infection.”

I had just finished my last prescription of antibiotics the other day. But I accepted the slip of paper, along with two others for the shots and the mouth rinse he’d mentioned, and decided I was getting off pretty easy. At least he hadn’t threatened to hospitalize me.

Dr. Woo shook both our hands again, then gave us directions to the hospital pharmacy, where we could pick up the prescriptions. When we finally walked out of the hospital, I dug my phone out of my pants pocket and checked the time. It was not even noon; we had hours before we had to be at soundcheck. As we waited for a cab, I looked over at Cary and said, “I guess that wasn’t that bad.”

She beamed. “Are you saying I was right, Nick Carter?”

“Shh!” I hissed when she said my name, glancing around to see if anyone was looking in our direction. I guess the good thing about standing outside a hospital is that everyone who’s coming or going is preoccupied; they all had bigger things on their minds than whether or not that guy in the green hoodie was a Backstreet Boy. “Yeah, you were right,” I admitted in a low voice.

The ride back to the hotel was a lot more talkative.

***


Cary went right back into nurse mode the minute we got back to my hotel room.

She spread the contents of the paper bag we’d picked up at the pharmacy out on my bed and said, “You aren’t supposed to eat or drink anything for an hour after using the mouth rinse, so we should probably get you some lunch first, then do the first dose this afternoon, before we head to the venue. You can take your antibiotic now and then again after the show.” She tossed me a bottle of pills; I caught it, turning it over in my hand to read the label. Cary was still talking. “The injections are only once a day, so do you want to try one now or wait until tonight?”

Realizing she had asked me a question, I looked up. “Huh? Oh... uh... let’s just get it over with now, I guess,” I muttered, figuring I might as well see how bad it was now, rather than spend the rest of the day dreading it. I wasn’t usually a baby about needles - if I was, I wouldn’t have so many tattoos - but I felt like a little kid, afraid of getting a shot at the doctor’s office.

I sat nervously on the edge of the bed, while Cary moved around the room, washing her hands, setting up the supplies she needed on the table. Finally, she said, “Where do you want the injection? Arm or thigh?”

Well, at least it didn’t have to go in my ass. “Arm, I guess.”

“Okay. Take off your sweatshirt and come over here.”

Leaving my Celtics hoodie on the bed, I sat down at the table and looked at the syringe she had set out. It wasn’t too big. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt much.

Cary rolled up the sleeve of my t-shirt and rubbed the back of my upper arm with an alcohol wipe. “Little pinch,” she said as she squeezed my arm fat between her fingers and picked up the syringe. “Now a bee sting.” I sucked in a sharp breath through my gritted teeth as I felt the needle slide under my skin. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but a few seconds later, the pain disappeared, and she said, “All done.”

I let out my breath, feeling relieved. “That wasn’t that bad.”

She smiled, looking relieved herself. “Told you I’d be gentle.” She checked the back of my arm again. “Not a mark on you - you’re not even bleeding.”

“Good.” The last thing I needed was the guys noticing track marks on my arms. “Thanks.”

She cleaned up, dropping the used syringe into the sharps container we had to carry around with the chemo supplies, and then said, “Let’s get lunch. What do you feel like? I saw some takeout places around here if you want me to go get something and bring it back.”

Nothing sounded good, but I said, “Yeah, alright... I don’t really care; get whatever you want.”

She thought for a minute. “I know it’s June, but what about some soup?” she suggested. “That might feel good on your throat.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

She nodded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

After she left, I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes, feeling sorry for myself. The other guys were all out on the town, enjoying the nice weather and the rare bit of free time before our show, and I was cooped up in my hotel room, too sick and tired to go out again until I absolutely had to. Cary was running all over to get me food and anything else I needed, and although I appreciated it, I couldn’t even enjoy it.

It sucked feeling so crappy. I just hoped that, as the antibiotics did their thing and my blood counts came up again, I would start to feel better. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the rest of the tour.

***