A week later, I was back in the hospital to start my second cycle of chemo. This time, I would only be given the drugs for the first three days of the cycle, which would give me the next two-and-a-half weeks off to recover. I was told the recovery time was so long because the first three days were intense.
The first day, I was put on a twenty-four hour drip of a drug called methotrexate, which had the longest list of possible side effects I’d ever seen. I’d read online that, along with treating cancer, it was also used to induce abortions. It was poison, like all the other shit they’d been pumping into my veins. Most of the other drugs I had to take in this cycle were just to counteract the effects of the methotrexate on different parts of my body. Its job was to kill the cancer cells in my body, but there was no way to avoid killing some healthy cells in the process.
I understood why people said they were “battling cancer” - it really was like a war. The cancer was the enemy, the chemo regimen was the battle plan, and the drugs themselves were the weapons. They took down the bad guys, but there were civilian deaths and friendly fire, too.
I hadn’t had any bad symptoms with the first cycle of chemo, but that all changed with the second. The methotrexate was as awful as it looked in print. I got sick to my stomach and puked over and over again into the basin I hadn’t needed the first go around. By the third day in the hospital, the nausea had gotten better, but I felt weak and exhausted, like I was just getting over a week with the flu.
As I lay in bed, watching my IV drip with the last dose of drugs, I thought about the tour. It started up again in just over a month. I would still be doing chemo then, and I had no clue how that was going to work. Even if I could arrange to get my chemo on stops along the way, I didn’t see how I was going to be able to sneak off to the hospital every day without the guys catching on. And if the guys found out, they would want to cancel the tour. That was the last thing I wanted.
The show in Napa had confirmed what I’d already been thinking: I needed to tour. I needed to be on the road, busy and having fun. I needed to escape on stage every night while I performed. I needed to be around my brothers without them hovering over me, treating me like I was sick. I needed for that one part of my life to stay the same, even while the rest of it was stuck in this cancer hell.
And I needed to find a way to make it all possible.
***
“I’m sorry, Nick, but it’s just not possible.”
I glared down at my cell phone, through which Dr. Submarine’s lightly-accented voice was projecting. “Look, Doctor...” I trailed off awkwardly. Oh shit, I forgot how to say her real name again! “...um, I don’t mean to sound like a diva here, but I’m not asking you if it’s possible. I’m telling you I need it to be possible.”
I was home from the hospital, and though I wasn’t back to one hundred percent, I was feeling better than I had the day before. Good enough to argue about whether or not I could continue my chemo on tour, anyway.
Even as my voice rose, hers stayed calm and rational. “Perhaps I should have said it’s just not practical. This regimen requires IV infusions of multiple drugs a day, intrathecal injections into your spinal canal, and regular blood tests to check your counts.”
“I could get one of those home nurses to take care of that stuff.”
“Most home care nurses don’t have the training to safely administer chemotherapy. It needs to be done in a hospital setting, by a trained oncology nurse.”
“Well, what if I found an oncology nurse who was willing to travel with me?”
“You would still need a means of getting the chemicals and having your blood work analyzed, not to mention the necessary medical equipment.”
“The nurse could help me get the equipment,” I said. “I can afford to pay for whatever I’d need. And couldn’t I just get the blood work done at different hospitals along the way?”
“If you could find a way to arrange all of that,” she replied stiffly. I knew she thought I was a complete idiot for even suggesting this scheme of mine, but I could tell she was starting to break down. I’d thought it all through, and I had a solution to every problem she brought up.
“I’m sure I can pull a few strings,” I assured her with more confidence than I felt.
“It would be possible,” she allowed, “but like I already said, not practical, nor is it medically advisable. As you progress through the regimen, your blood counts will drop. You’re likely to become anemic from low red cell counts, which will make you tired and weak; you may require blood transfusions if your counts fall low enough. You certainly won’t feel up to performing.”
“You don’t know that,” I cut in, annoyed by her presumption. “You don’t know me. I’ve been doing this for eighteen years; I’ve performed sick plenty of times. I’ll get through it.”
“Even if you were able to perform,” she continued smoothly, as if I hadn’t interrupted her, “it won’t be safe for you to be around large crowds of people. As your white blood cell counts drop, you could become neutropenic and more susceptible to infection. Your immune system won’t be able to fight off germs. Even the common cold could be dangerous.”
For the first time, I didn’t have a counter attack. All I could come up with was, “Well, I guess that’s just a risk I’ll have to take. I’d rather take a chance than curl up and wait for this thing to slowly kill me.”
“You would rather let a cold kill you quickly?”
“Hey, don’t get sarcastic on me. I’m serious,” I insisted, still annoyed. “I’m gonna find a nurse who can help me, and I’m gonna make this happen. And when I do, I’m gonna ask for your help to get started. And if you won’t help me, I’ll find another doctor who will.”
Then I hung up on my oncologist.
***
So the first part of my plan - getting the go-ahead from my doctor - hadn’t exactly been a soaring success. More like an epic failure. But at least I’d gotten her to admit that what I wanted to do was possible, if not “practical” or “medically advisable.”
My next mission was to find someone who could take care of me on the road. But it was going to be more complicated than that. Besides finding someone qualified to set up the chemo and do the blood draws and all of the other crap Dr. Submarine had said I’d need, I needed someone I could disguise as anything other than a nurse. It wasn’t like I could just bring some random woman on the tour without anyone asking questions.
I thought about making her pose as my new girlfriend, but that seemed like it would be awkward for both of us. And what would she be getting out of it, besides what I could pay her? I felt like I needed a better trade-off, a way to guarantee both her service and her silence. I couldn’t risk involving someone who was gonna stab me in the back and sell me out.
And then I thought of the perfect ruse: an opening act.
If I could just find a nurse who could sing, really sing, I was sure I could pitch her to the guys and our tour manager, act like I’d discovered some fresh new talent, and get her on the bill. Good opening acts were tough to come by. I knew there was one act already being considered, a new boyband made up of four thirteen-year-old boys who danced like Usher and lip-synced like Britney Spears. They were cute, but only Howie thought they were any good, and I knew the fans wouldn’t go for them. Our fan base had grown up; they didn’t want to see little kids thrusting their prepubescent junk in their faces. That was the case I’d make when I found the perfect girl.
At first, I didn’t even know where to start in finding a nurse who could sing. I thought about calling Reyna, who had been so sweet to me in the hospital, to see if she knew anyone, and that’s when it hit me. Reyna. American Idol.
Cary Hilst.
I suddenly remembered the pretty girl who had performed our song with her ukulele, the girl Reyna had been rooting for because she was also a nurse. I went straight to my computer to look her up. On the American Idol website, I found a brief biography and videos of some of her performances and interviews. I learned that she was twenty-eight and from a town in Illinois. She liked jazz music and oldies and sang Peggy Lee’s “Fever” for her audition. She only mentioned her father when talking about her family, so I assumed she wasn’t married. She worked in a nursing home as a nurse practitioner, and when I googled to find out what a nurse practitioner was, I decided she was perfect.
She looked the part, and she could play the part; she could sing, and she could get the job done. The fans would remember her from the show, the guys would like her voice, and I would bribe her with everything I had to offer to get her to help me.
But first, I had to find out how to contact her. I didn’t know many people who were involved with Idol, so I figured my best bet was Ellen DeGeneres. We had been on her show before, so I was acquainted with her, and I didn’t think it would be too hard to get in touch with her. It turned out to be incredibly easy. As soon as her show people realized it was me calling, Nick Carter himself and not just his agent, they put me through to her, and she was happy to talk to me.
“I need a huge favor,” I told her. “I need the number for Cary Hilst, from Idol.”
Ellen chuckled knowingly. “Why, think she’s pretty cute?”
“There’s a little more to it than that,” I said guardedly, “but sure, yeah, she’s cute.”
“A little more to it than that, huh? Hmm, so you don’t just want to call and ask her out? Because even if I had her number, I’m not sure I could, in good conscience, give it to you,” she teased. “You’re supposed to ask the girl to give you her number, you know? Chicks gotta stick together!”
I was starting to get annoyed by the runaround, but I forced myself to chuckle, trying to keep my voice light and charming. “Yeah, I get the girl power thing, but how am I supposed to ask her for her number if I don’t have her number, you know?”
“I’m not sure that made any sense at all, but sure, I know. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? How can you ask Cary Hilst for her phone number if you can’t get in touch with her to ask her?”
I laughed again. “Exactly. So can you help me out here?”
“It’s not like I have her number programmed into my phone.”
“No, but you can get it, right? You’re an Idol judge now; you’ve got the goods, don’tcha?” I hoped the flattery would win her over. If it didn’t, I was prepared with a bribe.
“Technically, that information’s supposed to be confidential. You wouldn’t like it if I gave out your number to anyone who called asking, would you?”
I groaned; of course she had to give me a hard time, and I couldn’t tell how much of it was joking and how much was serious. At the risk of sounding like a male diva again, I said, “C’mon, I’m not just ‘anyone.’ I don’t wanna stalk her or ask her out; I have an offer for her. She’ll be glad I called, trust me. And you’ll be glad you gave me her number. I’ll make it worth your time.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked playfully. “How so, Nick Carter?”
I sucked in a breath; it was time to bust out the bribe. “There’s gonna be an announcement,” I said slowly, cryptically. “A big one, from the Backstreet Boys, sometime after our tour wraps in August. It’s not that we’re breaking up or anything like that, but it’ll be juicy. People will wanna cover it. And I’m promising you now that if you give me her number, I’ll make sure we come on your show to break the news first. Exclusive interview - it’s all yours.”
The other end of the line was quiet for a few seconds; I could tell she was considering the carrot I was dangling in front of her. It wasn’t just a tease. By the end of August, I’d be done with the tour and hopefully done with chemo, too. It would be okay to open up then, once I was well again, and once I’d gotten what I wanted. Besides, if chemo was as rough as everyone said it was, I knew there would come a time when I wouldn’t be able to hide it anymore, anyway. The promise to Ellen was one I was willing to keep.
“Okay, you got me,” she said finally. “I’ll get the number and get back to you. Just don’t let me find out you’ve been prank-calling her or sending inappropriate text messages, now, you hear?”
I chuckled. “I ain’t gonna text her... I’m gonna sext her.” It was the sort of thing she’d expect me to say.
“Nick Carter, you’re starting to make me regret this...” she sing-songed, with a note of warning.
“I’m just playin’. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
Ellen laughed. “Alright, Carter. I’ll trust you.”
***
I didn’t think I’d have an easier time convincing Ellen to give me Cary’s phone number than I would convincing Cary to come on tour with us, but it was a hard sell.
I’d figured an aspiring singer who had just gotten kicked off a national singing competition right before the cut to make the summer tour would jump at the chance to tour with us instead, but I hadn’t counted on the fact that Cary would recognize the offer as “too good to be true.” Not that it wasn’t true... I planned to make good on everything I had promised her. Fly her out, give her a place to stay, help her with her music, and offer her the opportunity to perform almost every night. But of course, there was a catch, and she’d sensed it all along. She just hadn’t known what it was yet.
She was different in person than I’d imagined her to be from watching her on TV. More reserved, I guess. Shy at first, but sweet. When she sang, though, she came out of her shell, and the transformation was pretty cool to watch. She really was a good musician, even if I was more interested in her nursing skills.
I hadn’t really planned to have her stay over that first night, but getting drunk together seemed like a good way to break the ice. The booze would make me brave enough to tell her the truth about why she was there, and I hoped it would make her impulsive enough to agree to what I was asking her to do.
There in my guest room, I looked her in the eye. “I need you to stay.”
She sank down onto the bed, nervously biting her lip as she stared up at me. “Nick...”
I turned my back to her, collecting my thoughts. There was no way to just come out and say it. I would show her instead. Lay it all out there and wait for her reaction. “It’s a good thing I’m drunk, or there’s no fucking way I’d be able to do this,” I muttered, as I reached for the hem of my shirt. Then I pulled it over my head, tossed it to the floor, and forced myself to turn around and face her again.
I stood there, watching her eyes dart over my body, painfully aware of the round lump of the portacath in my chest. I saw the instant of understanding, the recognition in her eyes when she saw it and realized what it was. Slowly, her eyes moved from it up to my face. “You have a portacath?” she asked, her voice small and timid. “Why?”
I glanced down at the spot her eyes had been fixed on seconds before and brought my hand up to touch the hard lump. My throat had gone dry, so I swallowed and licked my lips. It was still hard to get the words out. “Because I’m sick.”
Her mouth fell open, and her eyes went wide with fear and concern.
Looking away from them, I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and told her the secret I’d kept from everyone else.
***
