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Cary


When Nick got out of the shower, I was back at the dining room table, as if I’d never left. I had spread the contents of the tub out on the table in front of me, taking inventory of the medical equipment and supplies.

“Missing anything?” Nick asked as he came in.

I looked up. He was shirtless again, wearing only a baggy pair of basketball shorts. His hair was still wet from the shower, and I could smell the soap coming off his skin. I quickly looked back at the stock of supplies. “No, it looks like you’ve got everything we’ll need. I’m impressed.”

“I got help from the cancer clinic,” he said, plopping down onto the chair beside me. “I don’t know what half this shit is.”

I laughed. “Good thing I do.”

“You know how to do this, then?”

I nodded. “Some of my residents do chemo at the nursing home. It’s a lot easier than transporting them to the hospital all the time. I guess this isn’t much different.”

“I hope I look and smell better than your usual patients,” he joked, his lips curving into a playful smirk.

Feeling myself blush, I quickly changed the subject. “Have you had your blood tested recently? You shouldn’t start your next cycle yet if your counts are low.”

“Oh yeah. Hold on a sec.” He got up and went back to his bedroom, returning a minute later with a plastic file folder. He opened it up, pulled out the piece of paper on top, and slid it across the table to me.

I studied the lab report for a complete blood count he’d had done on Friday, the day before I’d flown out. You really did take care of everything, I thought, as my eyes scanned the paper. His red and white blood cell counts were both lower than normal, which was a typical result of chemotherapy, since its goal was to stop the out-of-control cell growth and kill off cancer cells. They weren’t too low, though, so I handed Nick back the report and said, “Looks like you’re good to go.”

“Awesome,” he replied dryly.

“Where should we do this?” I asked, looking around.

“I guess here’s as good as anywhere else, if it works for you.” He got up and turned on the light fixture over the table. “That give you enough light?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work. Just let me wash my hands and get set up here.”

It felt weird acting like a nurse when I was still in my pajamas, but I tried to be professional. I was going to need to be, in order to separate Nurse Cary from Cary, the Backstreet Boys fan. Still, as I pulled on a pair of medical gloves and got to work, it was hard to pretend that the man sitting in front of me was just one of my regular patients. For one thing, he did look and smell better than my usual patients. A lot better. And then there was the fangirl side of me that was still a little starstruck, who couldn’t believe she had Nick Carter sitting in front of her, shirtless. But as I opened an antiseptic wipe and started disinfecting his port, it suddenly felt very real again.

“This is gonna be cold,” I warned Nick, picking up a bottle of topical anesthetic spray, designed to numb the skin for a few minutes, just long enough for me to insert a needle into his port without any pain.

He winced as I sprayed. “That is some freaky shit,” he muttered, looking down at the spot on his chest where his skin had turned temporarily white with the freezing spray.

“Bet you don’t even feel it now,” I said, reaching for the special needle that was designed to go into the port without damaging it. My hand was steady when I slipped off the cover of the needle, but it shook as I put my other hand on Nick’s chest, stretching the skin over the port taut so I could see it clearly. Get a grip, I chided myself, afraid I was going to miss and stab him in the chest. I took a deep breath and held it, as I slowly and carefully guided the needle to the center of the port and pushed it in. When I felt it touch the back of the port chamber, I let out my breath in relief. Nick didn’t even flinch.

“Alright, we’re in,” I said breathlessly. “I just need to flush out the line and make sure everything’s flowing right before I inject any medication.”

“You’re a pro at this,” he commented, watching me clean the injection cap on the end of the thin piece of tubing that now hung out of the port.

“Eh, I’ve just had lots of practice. This part is pretty basic,” I replied, inserting a syringe filled with saline into the tube. I pulled the plunger back to check for a blood return before squirting the saline in

Confident that everything was in place and working correctly, I checked the chemotherapy schedule again. A shot of Zofran came first, for nausea, followed by an injection of Mesna, a chemoprotectant that would counteract the serious side effects of the chemotherapy drug that would follow it, cyclophosphamide, which had to be infused over three hours through a portable pump. The regimen called for the cyclophosphamide to be given twice on the first three days of the cycle, so we would be repeating the whole process later in the day, twice more the next day, and two more times the day after that. I wondered again how Nick expected to stick to that kind of schedule while he was on the road, but I didn’t ask.

“Zofran,” I said, picking up a pre-filled syringe. The hospital had already prepared everything, so I didn’t have to mix or measure anything before administering it. I double checked the label on the syringe and compared the dosage to the amount on the schedule, then injected it into the port.

“So,” said Nick, while I reached for the Mesna next. “Why’d you become a nurse?”

I hesitated, feigning deep concentration over making sure I had the right dosage of Mesna in the syringe. I didn’t really want to tell him about my mother yet, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. Figuring I might as well be honest, I finally admitted, “Because of my mom.” I stuck the syringe into the injection cap, carefully avoiding his eyes. I pushed the plunger down slowly as I talked. “She went through a serious illness when I was little, and the nurses she had took such good care of her and were so good to me and my Dad, too. It made me want to be a nurse, so I could do the same for others.”

“That’s nice,” Nick said. “You’re good at it.”

I smiled at that. “Thank you.” I took out the syringe and set it aside. “Alright, time for the big guns,” I said, reaching for the chemo pump. I opened it up to check that the bag inside was the right stuff; then I uncapped it and connected the tubing to the port. Within minutes, the pump was up and running, sending a steady drip of the chemo up through the IV line, into the port, and on into Nick’s vein. “I think you’re all set,” I announced, smiling again with relief. “Now all you have to do is carry this thing around with you for the next three hours.”

He made a face at the chemo pump. “How am I supposed to carry it around when we’re on the road? It’s too big to fit in my pocket.”

It was hard to keep a straight face when I answered, “Most of the residents I’ve seen using one of these just wear a fanny pack.” It was the truth, but I knew he wouldn’t like to hear it. Sure enough, the horrified look on his face made me giggle.

“A fanny pack, are you fucking kidding me? I’m not walking around wearing a fanny pack.” He spat out the very words like they were poison. “I dunno what decade your old geezers think it is, but this ain’t 1980, and I’m not a ten-year-old girl, so...”

“Suit yourself,” I replied. “What about a little man-purse, like Brian used to carry around?”

He made another face, rolling his eyes. “Yo, Frick’s my boy and all that, but no way am I carrying one of his wife’s murses.”

“Well then, maybe you should just tell him the issue you’re having,” I suggested sweetly. “I bet Leighanne could design you something that’s not so... purse-like.”

He scowled and looked away. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I got three weeks to figure something out.”

“If you just told them, you wouldn’t have to worry about hiding it,” I pointed out.

He shook his head. “I’m not telling them. Not yet. Just drop it, okay?” I could tell by the sound of his voice that we were done kidding around, and so I nodded, knowing better than to push the issue.

“Why don’t you go get comfortable?” I suggested. “I’ll clean this stuff up.”

“Alright. Thanks.” He picked up the chemo pump and disappeared into the living room, while I disposed of the sharps, packed the rest of the supplies back into the tub, and wiped off the table. When I went into the living room to find him, he was stretched across the couch, flipping channels on the TV.

I suddenly felt intrusive. Now that I’d served my purpose, I wasn’t sure what to do. “Um - since this takes three hours,” I started awkwardly, shifting my weight, “do you want me to...?”

“You can stay,” he replied without looking at me. “I mean, if that’s cool with you. You might as well just stay the next few days, if you don’t mind. It’d be easier.”

“Oh - yeah,” I agreed after a moment’s pause, nodding. “Yeah, it would. You’re sure that’s okay with you?”

“It’s cool. I brought you out here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He seemed moody all of a sudden, and I wondered if it was just because of the chemo or because I had bugged him about telling the guys again. Whatever it was, I decided to give him some time to himself. “I think I’ll go grab a shower and get dressed then,” I said.

“Sure. There’s towels and stuff in the bathroom closet; make yourself at home.”

“Okay, thanks.”

His guest bathroom was as nice as any hotel - probably nicer than the kind of hotels I usually stayed in. I lingered over my shower and took my own sweet time getting dressed and ready for the day, partly to give him time and partly because I wanted to look presentable for him. I spread all my toiletries across the counter, put on makeup, and did my hair. By the time I left the bathroom, I felt a lot better than I had going in.

Nick’s mood seemed to have improved, too. “Still two hours till this finishes,” he said when I came back into the living room, checking the clock. “Wanna watch a movie or something with me? There’s nothin’ on TV.”

“Sure,” I replied, smiling, as I sat down in the same chair I’d sat in the day before. “What do you wanna watch?”

“I don’t care. You pick. I got a ton of movies.” He gestured to a set of shelves that displayed his massive collection of DVDs.

“Okay...” I got up and went over to the shelves, pouring over the titles. There were too many to choose from; I didn’t even know what kind of movie I felt like watching, let alone what he would like. I hated being the one to pick. Have I mentioned how indecisive I am that way? “I don’t know...”

“Just pick one.”

“Okay... fine.” I closed my eyes and pointed my finger at the shelves. “Eeny, meeny, miny, MOE!” Eyes still closed, I reached out and pulled the first DVD I touched from the shelves. I opened my eyes and looked down at the DVD case in my hand.

Brian’s Song.

Ooh... I cringed. Definitely not. I quickly shoved the case back into its slot on the shelf, before Nick could see, and grabbed a familiar-looking blue case from the shelf below. Turning, I held it out for Nick’s approval. “Nemo?”

“Righteous,” he said, in a perfect imitation of Crush.

I beamed. I love kids movies - Disney, Pixar, and every other kind. It was cute that Nick had some in his collection, and I figured it would do us both good to watch something light and funny. So we watched Finding Nemo.

“It’s weird hearing Ellen’s voice in this movie after meeting her on Idol,” I commented, when Dory first came on screen. Nick chuckled. Remembering something he’d told me, I asked, “So was she really the one who gave you my phone number?”

He nodded. “I told ya, I had to bribe her with an appearance on her show.”

I glanced over at him. “An appearance to talk about...?”

“Yeah. After the tour. I’ll have no reason to hide it then, and I figure by that point, the treatment will either have worked, or it won’t have.” He shrugged. “I’ll either be announcing I’m on the road to recovery, or announcing that I’m dying.”

My heart skipped a beat and then started to race. “Let’s hope this’ll all be behind you by then,” I said quietly, turning my head back toward the TV so he couldn’t see the expression on my face.

Get it together, I scolded myself, for the second time that day. You’re a nurse. Act like it. But then, I’d always had a hard time building a rapport with my patients without becoming too attached. Whenever we lost a resident I’d become close to at the nursing home, I cried like I was losing my own grandparents all over again. Sometimes I wondered why I put myself through it, again and again, but it was worth it to be able to care for people who needed me, people who were in the last stage of their life and needed compassion and companionship more than just medical care.

In some ways, Nick wasn’t so different from them, but I couldn’t pretend he was just another patient. I’d only just met him, but he felt more like an old, long-lost friend, someone I’d known ever since I first saw his picture on the cover of a CD I’d gotten when I was sixteen. How could I care for him without getting too involved, when I’d been his fan for almost thirteen years?

It felt almost like a conflict of interest - I wanted to help him, and I certainly wanted to go on the tour, too, but by doing so, I worried both of us would be making the wrong decision. And when you were dealing with an illness as serious as his, the wrong decision could be a fatal one.

***