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Nick


It’s not so easy to cherish every moment when those moments involve pain and sickness and other forms of misery, as many of the ones in the hospital did that next week. I was put through most of the same tests I’d undergone in the days leading up to my diagnosis, including a spinal tap and a bone marrow biopsy, before I started my next cycle of chemo.

When I wasn’t being tortured, I was bored out of my mind. Howie and Kevin stopped by my hospital room every afternoon, and even though I’d acted like I didn’t care if they came or not, I really did enjoy their visits. Brian and AJ called me daily, too, and their phone calls helped break up the monotony. Still, it sucked spending most of my days lying around in a hospital bed.

I realized how good I’d had it on tour, when I could at least get my chemo while I played video games on the tour bus or relaxed in a swanky hotel suite. No matter how upscale, a hospital room could never compare. Neither could the company. The nurses there were nice, but busy. They didn’t have time to talk to me, except for a few minutes of chitchat while they checked my vitals or changed my IV bag. I missed having Cary around to keep me company.

On my fourth and hopefully final day in the hospital, as I was getting my last chemo infusion, Dr. Submarine came in to go over my test results. Kevin and Howie were both there; they had planned it that way, once they’d found out when the doctor would be visiting me. I didn’t mind; it actually helped, having them around. It made me less nervous, more prepared to hear whatever Dr. Submarine had to say. If it was something good, they could celebrate with me. If it was bad, they could comfort me. And if it was confusing, they would know the right questions to ask.

I could still hear Kevin saying, “I’ve been down this road before, you know. I know a thing or two about the journey.” He was right, of course. (Kevin’s always right.) He and Howie had both been down this road with their dads; they knew a lot more than I did. It was stupid not to let them stay, and I was done being stupid about this. It was time to start making smart choices.

“Good afternoon, Nick,” said Dr. Submarine in her musical accent, juggling her usual pile of paperwork. She looked around at the unusually crowded hospital room. “I see you have support with you today.” She seemed pleased to see Kevin and Howie there.

“Yeah… these are my friends,” I replied, introducing the two of them.

“I’m Dr. Subramanien,” she said, shaking both of their hands quickly, before turning back to me. “And how have you been feeling?”

“Tired… a little nauseous… a lot nervous,” I answered, being totally honest. I tipped my head toward the papers in her hands. “So what’s the verdict?”

Her normally serious face split into a smile. “All good news, I’m happy to say. Your tests came out clear. No cancer cells detectable in your chest, bone marrow, blood, or spinal fluid. That means the chemotherapy has done its job, and we can now say that your disease is in complete remission.”

Howie and Kevin reacted before I could even wrap my mind around what she had said, standing up on either side of me and squeezing my shoulders. “Congratulations… that’s awesome, man,” Howie said, and even without looking at him, I could tell he was smiling from ear to ear.

I had turned toward Kevin, who stood gripping my shoulder with his head bowed. “Thank the Lord,” he murmured, saying it like a prayer.

I looked from him back to Dr. Submarine, still reeling, and asked, “Seriously? So… it’s gone? Just like that?” I don’t know what I had been expecting, but this good news seemed almost too good to be true. Even though it was what I had hoped for, I had gotten so used to the idea of being sick, I couldn’t imagine being better all of a sudden.

Dr. Submarine’s smile wavered. “Well, no, not exactly. The cancer is undetectable, but that doesn’t mean it’s fully gone or gone for good. Unfortunately, while this form of cancer responds well to chemotherapy, it’s also quick to relapse. The goal of treatment now is to make sure we eradicate any abnormal cells still lingering in your body, in order to prevent a recurrence.”

I nodded. “Kick it while it’s down, then. I get it.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Does that mean more chemo?” I asked, eyeing the bag of chemicals being pumped through my port. After the last three days, I wasn’t too excited about the idea of doing yet another cycle or two, even though I’d always known it was a possibility. I was tired of feeling like shit, tired of the upset stomach and grainy eyes and sore mouth and puffy face and everything else I’d been dealing with. I was tired of being tired. But if more chemo was what it took to get rid of the cancer for good, then I’d do it. I wanted to go on with my life without constantly worrying it was going to come back.

“There are two options to consider,” answered Dr. Submarine. “Both involve more chemo, but to different degrees. You’ve finished what we call the induction phase of chemotherapy, the goal of which is to achieve a remission. One option would be to proceed to a stem cell transplant, which means essentially destroying your immune system with high-dose chemotherapy and then rebuilding it with healthy stem cells, either your own that have been harvested prior or cells from a closely-matched donor. We call that the consolidation phase. It’s an intense treatment, but it’s also associated with a higher five-year survival rate in patients with your type of cancer.”

I stared blankly at the doctor. She’d lost me at “transplant.” That word freaked me out enough, bringing to mind images of operating rooms and surgeons carrying little coolers with hearts and kidneys inside. I had no idea what a stem cell looked like or if a transplant of those worked the same way, but I didn’t like the sound of it. “So what’s my other option?” I asked quickly.

“The other option would be skipping consolidation for now and going straight to a maintenance phase of chemo. The maintenance phase is much less intense – lower dosages of drugs, usually taken by mouth on an outpatient basis. The goal of it is to target any remaining cancer cells and prevent them from coming back.”

I knew which one sounded better to me. “I’ll go with that one,” I said right away, wondering why she would even bother giving me a choice, if the choice was between having a transplant and taking a few pills. If the maintenance plan was as simple as she’d made it sound, I could do the last leg of the tour, no problem.

Dr. Submarine laughed lightly. “Why don’t you take some time to think about it? I’ve printed some information for you to read so you can make an educated decision.” She handed me a stapled packet of papers. I glanced down at it doubtfully; there were a lot of words on those papers. “Do you have any questions right now, or would you like to call me when you’ve had a chance to review the research and talk it over with your loved ones?” She looked between Howie and Kevin.

“That sounds like a good idea,” said Kevin, nodding. I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easy with him around. He would want to read every word of the information she had given me, while Howie compiled the pros and cons of each option into a flashy Power Point presentation. Oh well… if that was the case, I could just let them do all the work and make the decision for me. No thinking required.

They both thanked Dr. Submarine, shaking her hand again before she left, making me feel like I was a little kid with my parents there to do the talking for me, instead of a thirty-year-old man who had done fine dealing with this on my own for the past few months, thank you very much. Once she was gone, I said, “Thanks, guys. I probably do need some time to just look at this stuff on my own and figure out what would be best.”

There was a hint in there, but neither of them picked up on it. “Yeah, this is not a decision you want to take lightly,” Kevin said wisely, looking serious, while on my other side, Howie couldn’t stop grinning.

“This is such a relief, Nicky,” he kept saying. When he got to talking fast like that, with that goofy grin on his face, he reminded me of a hyperactive chipmunk. “You should call AJ and Brian right away. They’ll be so glad to hear the good news.”

“Yeah, I will, after you guys leave,” I said, dropping sort of another hint. “It’ll give me something to do till I get discharged.”

“Good idea,” Howie agreed.

Still not getting the hint, Kevin offered, “We can hang around till then, if you want. One of us could give you a ride home.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, maybe a little too quickly. “I drove myself in; my car’s here.”

“Will you be okay to drive after chemo?” he asked, looking warily at my IV bag. I knew he was remembering the way he’d seen me the other day, when I’d been sick and miserable from the methotrexate I got on the first day of the cycle. It was the stuff that always made me throw up. But the stuff I was getting today wasn’t as bad.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll head straight home and probably just go to bed. This stuff makes me hella tired.”

He nodded, eyeing me closely. “Maybe we should go, then, so you can get some rest,” he said, finally catching on. “Will you call one of us later, if you need anything?”

“Sure,” I agreed, even though I knew I probably wouldn’t. As much as I appreciated their support, the two of them were starting to drive me nuts. I wished Brian lived closer and AJ wasn’t such a pussy about hospitals; those two wouldn’t have hovered over me like a couple of helicopter parents. “Thanks for being here.”

“Anytime, Nicky.” Howie smiled and squeezed my shoulder again. “Stay strong.”

I nodded, even though I felt pretty weak. The chemo really was making me tired. It’s just doing its job, I reminded myself. It’s worth it as long as it’s working so well. “Bye, guys,” I said, as the two of them left.

Once they were gone, I looked down at the pile of research in my lap. I did some skimming, trying to make sense of it, but there were a lot of facts and figures, and all the statistics made my head hurt. I felt like I was gambling with my life, trying to go with the odds. Dr. Submarine probably thought she was doing me a favor, giving me all this stuff so I could make my own treatment decisions, but I sort of resented her for it. She was the medical professional; wasn’t it her job to decide what kind of treatment would work best? I didn’t want to be the one making that decision. What if I made the wrong one?

After lying there for awhile, looking through the articles she’d printed and feeling more and more frustrated, I gave up and got out my cell phone. I thought I was going to call AJ and Brian, but instead, I scrolled past their names in my long list of contacts and stopped on another, the name of the one person who I knew could talk me through this, help me unscramble all the information that was jumbled in my head and sort out everything.

I pressed the call button on my phone to dial that number, knowing that even if it didn’t lead me to a decision, I would feel better after calling it. Because that’s what Cary did… She made me feel better.

***