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The second moment of greates sorrow in my life occured in June 2008.

And again... yes, there were a lot of little moments of sadness and difficult times that occured in the years between. I know. My solo album never did as well as I'd hoped. Then there was my whole relationship with 'she who must not be named', a DUI and accusations of abuse that were 100% false and yet still 100% painful, and then... there was Kevin's departure from the Backstreet Boys.

And sure, each one of those events changed my life in some small way... some even in bigger ways, no doubt about that... but in the end, the events of June 2008 overshadow them all.

So then... 2008?

Well it started out pretty admittedly awesome. We had an amazing few months touring with Unbreakable, the album was selling fairly well and our popularity overseas was pretty much the stuff of legends. No seriously! Legends. I wish we could have ahd that kind of a fanbase in the United States too... like we'd had with Millennium, even if only for a little while. It just felt so different going overseas to countries in Asia or Europe than it did coming home to any of the states. It was an awesome feeling really... knowing we were still loved in that kind of way, even in our 'old' age.

And then March came, and with March came the devestating news that Howie's father, Hoke, had been diagnosed with cancer. And not just 'cancer' cancer. Not like the kind you can treat and maybe get better. No. This was the kind of cancer that unfortunately had already spread to his brain and his lungs and so, it was deemed "terminal". A word that I still hate to this day. Regardless of it's meaning... in terms of health, or at an airport or bus depot... to me it all just sounds so final... so much like demise.

But I digress... to know Hoke Dorough was to know kindness. To tell you the truth, I can't remember meeting Howie's dad for the first time, despite trying very hard to do just that. To this day I maintain that it's because he treated me on that day exactly the same way he treated me every single day after that... which is to say, from day one, he treated me like his own son. There was never a time when I felt uncomfortable or awkward in Hoke's presence. Never like I needed to please him or be too careful or act like too much of an adult. And never was there a time when I felt like I was unwanted or a nuisance, or anything other than just feeling like I belonged. It was cool.

Of course AJ and I always joked that it was probably just because he had so many children he couldn't remember which ones were his anymore and so he just treated us all the same so he wouldn't get into trouble.

I remember how horrible it was watching Howie go through the emotions of losing his father. Knowing we were overseas, as far away from being there for him as we could possibly be and knowing the place Howie wanted to be the most was there for his father. Our conversations on a daily basis pretty constantly turned to the fact that we all knew we would eventually have to do something... cancel dates... cancel shows... cancel the whole damned tour even... if we'd had to we would have done it. Whatever it took to get Howie home to his family before the inevitable occured. Howie assured us constantly that he'd let us know when he thought it was time... when he was ready... when he knew his father was getting closer to the end. But it was Brian who eventually pulled the plug on the South African tour dates. And for that we were all grateful... for Howie of course.

It wasn't anything we'd ever planned on doing. It wasn't something we'd wanted to do, but it had to be done. And we would have done it for any of us. Of course we felt horrible for the fans... and horrible because it was the one place we'd really anticipated going, but in the end we could have cared less really. In the end, Howie was by his father's side on the morning of June 22nd when he took his final breaths and passed peacefully in his sleep. And in the end, none of us, including Howie, would have changed a thing.

And that's what life's supposed to be... no regrets.

About that at least.

Because though I can tell you for certain that Hoke's cancer diagnosis and his death were the worst things that happened that spring... they weren't the only bad things that happened...

Flashback
June 8th 2008

Twenty-two... twenty-three... twenty-four...

I lay on my back on the uncomfortable exam room table in the doctor's office, listening to the paper crumple beneath me as I counted the speckled, cream-colored ceiling tiles for the third time.

... thirty-one... thirty-two... thirty-three...

I'd already skimmed through two People magazines, a Reader's Digest and a Sport's Illustrated, worked the crossword puzzle - or what little I could work of the crossword puzzle - in the New York Times, and counted all 56 floor tiles, twice. Now I was just praying not to run out of tiles again... because this was getting old.

... fifty-two... fifty-three... fifty...

There was finally a knock on the door.

"Come in," I answered... please God.

"Mr. Carter?"

I nodded as a man entered the room, he shook my hand before taking a seat across from me. I took a quick guess that he must be the doctor. I mean, he was wearing a white coat with his name stitched on the front - the letters MD following, and he had a baby blue stethoscope wrapped around his neck - a pretty dead giveaway that he was indeed the doc.

He was an older man with graying hair and kind eyes who spoke softly, with a slight accent that for some reason put me a bit more at ease. Kind of the way it feels to be talking to your grandfather.

"My name is Dr. Rolando," he continued after opening my chart and taking a moment to read. A few seconds later he put it down again before turning back to me to ask, "What brings you here today?"

Sigh. You know, I've always loved that question.

No... seriously.

I mean, it's not that I think it's an invalid question, because let's face it, it's probably about the most valid question a doctor could ask a patient... and probably the most important too. But seriously... I mean, when you go to the doctor for something you're likely to get asked that exact question, or some version of it, no less that 25 thousand times before someone finally gets the idea. I'm not sure if these doctors and nurses just don't communicate with one another at all... or maybe they're just afraid you're gonna change your story at some point during the 5 solid hours you're waiting in one of their cold sterile exam rooms?

... I don't know... but anyway...

"I've been having some chest pains," I answered, and he nodded.

"Can you point to where the pain occurs?"

I had half a mind to point to my ear... but I didn't. "Right around here," I replied, pointing to the area of my chest just to the right of my left armpit.

He nodded, "And how often does the pain occur?"

This was a bit tougher to answer because, well... there really wasn't a definitive answer. "I feel some pain almost all the time..." I said trying not to sound stupid, "dull pain I guess. And sometimes, maybe once or twice a day, the pain is sharp and crampy feeling. Like someone just punched me."

He nodded again, writing some notes down on my chart before removing his stethoscope and approaching me.

"Take a few deep breaths," he said as he held the stethoscope to my chest. "In..." he spoke as I breathed in, "... and out..." after several long moments of holding my breath. He repeated this mantra several times as he moved the stethoscope to different areas, squinting as he listened carefully.

He stopped after several minutes and sat back in his chair. "Are you experiencing any other symptoms?" He asked.

I nodded, "I'm tired a lot," I answered, thinking back to the past few months of touring. "And I get out of breath really easily." And this was all true. For the first time, really ever, I'd struggled with performing on stage. I'd struggled through songs with notes lasting longer than a few seconds at best, and most often, by the time we got to singing, "Shape of my Heart", I wanted to lay down on stage and give up. I really struggled with dance songs. I struggled with traveling more than ever... never really wanting to go out with the guys and seeing the sights. And I struggled with interviews... just not really wanting to be the fun happy Nick that everyone expected me to be.

"Do you exercise frequently?"

"Daily." Was he serious? "I'm in a music group... we've been on tour for the past five months. There's lots of dancing and running around stage involved."

"Hmm..." he muttered to himself as he turned back to my chart to write even more notes, filling up the pages quickly, "Do you drink often?"

Well now... there were those 8 shots of tequila the night before last. And last month when I had that drinking contest with the locals in Russia. And my 18th birthday when I drank Aj (of all people) under the table. Yeah... and pretty much every night in between.

"Yes," I finally answered, "I drink often."

He nodded, "And have you ever done drugs?"

And there it was... that question I'd hoped to avoid. I mean... maybe drug use was relevant. Maybe. Or maybe not. What it the doctor's just looking at me thinking I'm like all those other musicians who've fallen into drugs? What if he's already judging me?

What if I wake up tomorrow and the headlines read: "Nick Carter - Drug Addict".

What if the headlines are right?

Suddenly the pain returned once more and I laid my hand across my heart. Then again... maybe Brian had been right. Maybe this was all just stress over all the constant shit my life was handing me these days. Maybe... just maybe, all I needed to do was get it all off of my proverbial chest... then my real chest would feel better.

I sighed and looked back at Dr. Rolando before finally answering the question honestly, "Yes... I have."

He didn't really look surprised... or at least he faked it well if he was. "What type of drugs have you done?" He asked, I guess figuring I'd be honest enough to answer this one if I'd been honest enough to answer the last.

"Marijuna," I responded, "A lot."

"Any others?"

I looked down at the floor, knowing I had to answer... not wanting to though. "Cocaine."

He nodded, "How recently."

"Um... yesterday." God this sucked.

He nodded once more before turning back to my chart. "I'll be honest with you Mr. Carter," he finally spoke after several long minutes of writing had passed, during which I sat on the cold exam table and recounted the floor tiles for a fourth time, "your symptoms, along with your history of drug and alcohol consumption have me concerned."

I figured as much... I'd been prepared for a lecture at the very least.

"I didn't hear anything specific when I listened to your chest, but I would like to run some more detailed and specific tests to rule out any bigger issues, if you will consent to that."

"Okay." I answered... because what else could I say?

End Flashback

I still remember that day like it was yesterday... sitting in that office after the doctor left, only instead of counting the tiles at that point, all I could think was that life couldn't get much crappier than spending my entire day wasting my time in a doctor's office.

How wrong I had been. The next two days proved that in so many, many ways.

Have you ever gone through some sort of medical testing? If you have, you'll understand all this... if not, suffice it to say, it's pretty frigging awful.

First there were all of the blood draws that made me feel like a damned pincushion and left me completely wiped out. They drew blood from my fingers, sucked blood out of both my arms, inserted IV's in one of my wrists and ended up having to redraw blood twice when the nurse didn't get enough the first time.

Then there was the EKG... not bad in itself... just a machine that checks your pulse and measures your heart waves or whatever. But what sucks about that, they stick 5,000 sticky things to your chest, neck and up under your armpits that are clearly meant to stay there for the rest of your life... or at least meant to take off all hair and eight layers of skin with them when you have to remove them... in the shower... with liquor.

Next there were the MRI's and the CAT scans which again... not bad... unless you're a claustrophobic. And well, "Hello, my name is Nick and I'm a claustrophobic."

And then there's the early morning stress test. At 5 am. When they stick 5,000 more damn sticky things to your chest, and make you run on a treadmill for like 4 hours... or until your heart collapses, whichever comes first. I didn't get to either one though because seriously, I lasted 25 minutes before I gave up and told my doctor that I really wasn't going to make it without my coffee.

And then lastly, there's the echocardiogram. This is where I had to lay on a hospital bed in all sorts of fun uncomfortable positions while a hot radiologist poked around on me with an ultrasound machine for about 30 minutes. This one wasn't bad though... I mean, there was the hot doctor for one thing... she was hot. And it was kinda cool you know, to lay in a bed and listen to your heartbeat for a half hour. It was weird too though... watching my own aorta flap about on a screen while the hot radiologist made comments I couldn't understand to my doctor who looked a smidge more concerned than I hoped he would.

And then... the wait.

And the wait is where the real sorrow came in. Because waiting is the absolute worst. It's like... I dunno really... it's like you're waiting for the bottom to finally drop out from under you. Waiting for the earth to fall away beneath your feet as you slip into the depths of some horrible black hole. It's like you're waiting for your death sentence and you don't even know for sure that anything's wrong... you just know for sure that something has to be. Because why else would you feel the way you do and why else would the doctor order 80 kajillion tests?

And so I waited. And the two days they'd told me to expect to wait turned into three... which turned into four... and on the fifth, I kinda lost it.

Flashback
June 15th 2008

"Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit... he took the midnight train going anywhere..."

What the hell?

I squinted my eyes against the harsh sunlight that poured through my living room window as I fumbled for my cell phone. "Dammit!" I cursed as I knocked it off the coffee table and onto the floor, the ring tone immediately stopping as it hit the hard tile with a thud.

Oh well... hopefully they'd just leave a message.

I rubbed my eyes vigorously before glancing down at my watch.

7:30 pm -- I'd been asleep for hours. That seemed to be all I could do anymore... sleep and wait... and wait... and...

Oh shit.

I grabbed my cell from the floor just in time for it to signal I had a new voice message. I flipped it open and scrolled quickly to the missed call. It wasn't a number I recognized. Oh god... maybe this was it. I dialed my voicemail and punched in my password: 6425 -- "Nick"... yeah, I'm original like that. I tapped my foot impatiently on the floor as the annoying recorded voice went through a dozen skipped messages before finally telling me I had one new message from an outside caller left at 7:27 pm.

I held my breath and waited...

"Hey Nick..."

I exhaled before the message could even continue. Son of a bitch... "... it's Brian. I was just calling to see what you're up to. Give me a holler when you get this message. Talk at ya later."

I clicked the delete button and slammed my phone shut, tossing it carelessly onto the chair across from me. I stood and walked to the kitchen, opening the cabinet over my stove and grabbing the biggest bottle of bourbon I could find. I poured myself a glass of Coke and dumped in half the bourbon, tossing it quickly down my throat and chasing the burn with a splash of water before filling the glass again. When that was gone, I grabbed my wallet from the top of the TV stand and my car keys from the table by the door. I'd be damned if I was going to sit in the house for even one more second and wait. I was done waiting.

Instead, I figure I might as well just go get wasted.

End Flashback

And what happened the rest of that night is what brought about that second biggest sorrow. I won't forget the moments that followed as I climbed in my car and drove to the closest bar. And no, I shouldn't have been driving, even at that point. Nor will I forget the hours that followed during which I consumed more alcohol than I'd consumed in years. Tequila, rum, whiskey - you name it, I drank it. And that's not where it ended either.

No, sadly, it's not.

I remember stumbling into my house that night after I'd driven myself home... yes driven again - insane I know. And stupid. I still don't know how I made it... but for the grace of God go I... I guess. I just did. And then I remember stumbling to my bathroom to puke my guts out. And after all of that, as if all of that weren't enough... I remember snorting that line of coke... and of course, their was another after that one... and still another one after that.

And at some point I distinctly remember thinking 'I am going to die.' I distinctly remember thinking that all the shit I was doing that night was surely going to kill me. But at the same time, I didn't care. And that sucks. I didn't care because as far as I was concerned I was already dying. I just knew that any minute I would get the call from my doctor and he would tell me some sort of horrible news. And so why not just go ahead and kill myself?

Why not?

And sometime after that... sometime after the forth or fifth line of cocaine... I passed out.

Looking back now, the memories of that night bring me nothing but sorrow. Nothing but sadness. Even though I survived (only by some sort of miracle) and even though in the end I'm sure that night, like all the other disappointing, disheartening, depressing moments in my life, somehow made me stronger... there is still no single part of that night that I can be proud of.

And that sucks.

In the end, a few days later, the doctor called and asked if I could come into his office... and at the time I was just certain it was coming... my death sentence.

But it didn't.

Not really.

Instead I spent nearly two hours sitting on the same table in that same exam room, the doctor sitting across from me looking more serious than ever before as he described to me exactly what cardiomyopathy is, what had likely caused it, and what it would mean for my future. And let me tell ya -- if it sucks finding out you have a serious disease, I can tell you it sucks even more knowing you did it to yourself.

I listened as Dr. Rolando explained just how close I probably really did come to killing myself that night, and really honestly many other nights before that. And I listened as he explained, not chastised or berated... just straight forward and to the point, how seriously risky it was for me each and every single time I decided to go out partying. And how I really needed to make a choice; change my life... or shorten it immensely. Life or death. He told me then... "you change your life and there's a possibility you can make things better, but if you don't, you will die. "

And then he listed, by name and age, people just like me... celebrities just like me as well as normal every day people just like me who had worked hard to get where they were in life, but unfortunately, had partied harder and they'd all died because they didn't take care of themselves and in the end their hearts gave out without any warning at all.

And that was the difference. That most of those individuals hadn't been given the warning I'd been given... or the chance to change their lives. And if they had, most of those who'd died had ignored it.

And then Dr. Rolando said the words that mattered most to me. The words that stuck with me most... and even still do to this day... he told me that he did not want to see me end up like those people. He told me that he wanted to see me live. He told me that he cared. And somehow, though I don't know why... that made me want to live.

And it was the beginning of a long and painful journey filled with as many setbacks as strides forward and as many pitfalls as mountaintops to stand on. But it was also a journey that would eventually, without fail, lead to the amazing future I'm living right now.

Through the sorrow grows the joy.

I'll never be proud of those moments... but they sure did change me into a man I can be proud of.