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Author's Chapter Notes:
Back to Nick's POV. Thank you again for reading and reviewing! I know my updates have slowed down lately, and that's going to be the trend now that school is starting. I will try to still update fairly regularly, though. Bear with me! :)


Nick


I could handle it. That’s what I kept telling myself over the next week, as I geared up for the tour. Cary and everyone else who’d told me that chemo was going to make me tired were right: I was beyond tired; I was exhausted, even when I slept ten or twelve hours a night. But other than that, I didn’t feel too shitty, and I still had more hair than either AJ or Brian. I’d beaten the odds there, and I was hell bent on proving all of them wrong and beating the fatigue, too.

The week before tour, I went to the gym every day and worked out, while Cary was in rehearsals for American Idol. My stamina sucked, but I pushed myself to keep jogging, keep lifting, almost to the point of collapse. Then I went home and crashed for the rest of the day, until Cary came back. Her rehearsals lasted all day, sometimes late into the night, and it was actually weird not having her around. I had most of the week off treatments, so I didn’t need her there, but I’d gotten used to hanging out with her.

I’m actually a pretty private guy anyway, but since my diagnosis, I’d all but turned into a hermit, shutting myself in and everyone else out. It was nice to have someone to confide in, someone to keep me company. I’d basically hired Cary to be my private nurse, but she was starting to feel more like a friend. I hadn’t known her all that long, but I felt relaxed around her; I could be myself, and I didn’t have to keep any secrets. I had a feeling that was going to be important once the tour started.

I had the whole day to myself on Wednesday, while Cary went from rehearsal to watch the live results show of American Idol. I looked for her on my TV while I watched from home, but all I saw was a quick glimpse of her face as the camera panned down a long line of Idol cast-offs sitting together in the audience. There were only three contestants left on the show, and I was glad when the long-haired guy got voted out. He wasn’t bad, but the other guy who was left was better: he had a rock vibe that I liked, and he’d killed it the night before with his performances of “Simple Man” by Skynyrd and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” And the girl was just awesome; I knew Cary was rooting for her to win.

Sure enough, as soon as Cary walked in late that night, she announced, “Crystal made it! Did you watch?”

I was sitting up on the couch, trying to stay awake. I still had one more session of IV chemo to do that night, since Cary had been gone all day. Luckily, it was a short infusion, so I only had to stay up another half hour. “Yeah, I watched,” I told Cary.

“Ha, I knew I’d turn you into an Idol junkie.” She grinned. “Did you see me?”

“Briefly. How was rehearsal?”

“Ugh.” She sagged. “Long. Way too much choreography. We danced all day.”

I laughed; she sounded just like me after tour rehearsals. “I thought you said you did better with choreography.”

“I’d rather just sing!”

“You can at our shows. One more week; then it’ll all be over.”

She smiled, came over, and plopped down next to me. “I can’t wait,” she said, throwing her head back against the couch in exhaustion.

She would be staying in LA for the finale while I flew out to New York for our fan event and a few days of TV appearances. We would meet up again in Miami, a couple of days before the official start of the tour, and then we’d find out whether or not I was going to be able to pull this off. I knew she still had her doubts, but I was determined to make it happen.

“How was your day?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Low key.” I hadn’t felt like doing much that day, not even working out, though I’d forced myself to the gym, anyway. I thought I was supposed to start feeling better now that the chemo cycle was almost over, but instead, I felt more run down than I had all week. I didn’t tell Cary that, though; she was always worrying about shit going wrong. Nothing was wrong; I had cancer, and I was on chemo, and some days, it just kicked my ass. I was tired; that was all. “You wanna change and then get my vincristine started?” I asked. “I’m gonna head to bed before long.”

“Oh, sure!” She jumped right up. “Sorry it’s so late; I told you, there’s always a big going-home dinner after the show, and it was an especially big deal tonight cause it’s the last results before the finale. We had a few drinks, and I just lost track of time.”

“It’s alright. You said you’d be late; I hope you didn’t rush home ‘cause of me. I can wait.” I flashed her a quick smile to let her know I wasn’t annoyed or anything. She’d been spending so much time laying low with me, she deserved to go out and have fun.

“Oh no, it was starting to wrap up anyway,” she replied. “I’ll just go change real quick, and I’ll be right back out.”

She hurried off to her room, and I hauled my ass up from the couch and got the tub of medical stuff. I wondered where we were going to hide all of that on tour - put it in its own suitcase, I figured. I still hadn’t solved the problem of how to carry the chemo pump around, unseen, either. I sure as hell wasn’t going to wear a fucking fanny pack, no matter how many times Cary said that’s what most people did.

When she came out, a few minutes later, wearing her pajamas, I was ready for her. I’d already disinfected my port, the way I’d seen her do, and sprayed the numbing stuff she used before she stuck me. “I don’t know why you need me,” Cary joked, as she got the first injection ready. “Looks like you know exactly what to do.”

“No way. It’s all you from here on out,” I said, leaning back in my chair and looking away while she slid the syringe in. It didn’t hurt, but still, I couldn’t stomach the idea of stabbing myself with a needle. It was bad enough letting someone else do it.

“You feel warm tonight,” she commented, while her hand was on my chest, holding the port steady as she pulled the needle back out. “Do you feel okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

She didn’t look satisfied by that answer; I didn’t really think she would. Sure enough, off came one of her gloves, and up came her hand to feel my forehead, like I was a little kid. With her palm pressed flat against my head, she frowned. “You’re hot.”

“Thanks,” I joked, smirking.

She smiled and blushed, just as I knew she would, but she didn’t stay flustered for long. “I mean, you’re running a fever. I need to check your temperature.” Off came the other glove, the chemo temporarily forgotten, as she started rummaging around for the thermometer. It was one of the ear kind, which was good because it was quick. She stuck it in my ear, it beeped, and she pulled it out again to look. “99.5,” she read off.

I scoffed. “That’s nothin’. That’s only a little higher than normal, right?”

“Yeah, and only a little lower than the cutoff for a neutropenic fever,” said Cary seriously. “100.4. If it hits that, we have to go to the hospital.”

I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep it off.”

“I don’t know if I should give you chemo tonight,” she said, looking doubtfully at the chemo pump she’d been about to set up.

“No, you gotta do it,” I argued. “If you don’t, it’ll throw the whole cycle off. I gotta be recovered by next week, so I can start the tour off right.”

She sighed. “If you’re neutropenic, we have to wait for your blood counts to come back up. It’s not safe, otherwise.”

“You just checked my blood last weekend, and it was fine.”

“No, your numbers were low. Not dangerously low, but still low. And that was four days ago. Your counts have probably dropped since then. We can’t ignore a fever; it’s your body’s way of warning you that something’s not right.”

I rolled my eyes. “Chill out. I think I know my body better than you do. It’s the fucking cancer, not the chemo. Before I was diagnosed, I ran fevers like this all the time at night; they were always gone by morning. Trust me,” I added, when she didn’t look convinced. “This is, like, normal for me.”

She sighed again, heavily. “Whatever, Nick. You’re right; it’s your body, your choice. But I’m telling you, if it goes past 100.4, you’re going to the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine in the morning,” I kept insisting, as she wordlessly hooked me up to chemo. The vincristine drip only ran for about ten minutes, which was a relief, since it seemed like Cary and I were both exhausted to the point of crankiness.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” she said curtly, as she unplugged the IV line and flushed out the port.

“Okay,” I replied, but I knew I wouldn’t bother her. She had an early start the next day, and it was pretty obvious she needed sleep. “Goodnight.”

“’Night,” she replied, and she went straight into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

I thought I would fall asleep as soon as my head hit my pillow, but instead, I lay awake, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. It was too hot in my room, even with the air conditioner blasting. I kicked off all my covers, turned on the ceiling fan, and lay spread-eagle on my bed in my boxers, waiting for the circulating air to cool off my skin.

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was definitely running a fever. I felt pretty crappy, and not just physically. I knew Cary thought I was a jackass. I hadn’t meant to snap at her; she was the expert, not me, and I knew she was probably right. I just hoped she was wrong this time. The last thing I needed was a complication four days before I was supposed to fly to New York.

I just need to sleep it off, I told myself again. I’ll feel better in the morning.

But the next morning, I woke up drenched in sweat.

“Sick...” I muttered in disgust, peeling myself off the sticky sheets. I looked at the clock; it was earlier than I’d expected it to be, but even though I could have easily slept a few more hours, I couldn’t stand the idea of lying back down on my sweat-soaked mattress. So I got up and staggered out to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Cary hadn’t left yet; she was sitting at the kitchen table in her workout clothes, eating a bowl of cereal. “Good morning!” she chirped, looking up in surprise as I came into the room. Then she blushed, when she saw I was just wearing boxers. Normally, I would have had some fun with that, but I felt too shitty to even mess with her.

“Morning,” I croaked back, heading straight for the cupboard to get a glass. I filled it with water straight from the tap, didn’t bother with ice, and chugged the whole thing. Then, figuring I might as well take my steroid, I refilled it and downed a second glass to chase my dexamethasone pill. Finally, I exhaled loudly, set my glass down on the counter, and turned around. Cary was staring at me. “What?”

“Are you okay?” she asked, looking concerned. I was getting used to seeing her look that way. “Your face is all flushed.”

There was no use pretending I was fine; I knew I wasn’t. The night sweats had gone away for a while, after my first cycle of chemo. It couldn’t be a good sign that they were back. “I feel like fuckin’ death warmed over,” I admitted.

She jumped up from the table. “Let me take your temp,” she said, grabbing the thermometer. I sank down into a chair and let her put it in my ear again. When it beeped, she pulled it out, took one look, and said, “We need to call your doctor. It’s 101.5.”

Damn, two whole degrees higher than it had been when I’d gone to bed? How was that even possible? And it was higher than the magic number of 100.4, too. I knew that was serious, but I still said, “I’m not going to the hospital.” Yeah, I know - I’m stubborn to the point of stupidity, but I had a show in New York in three days. No fucking way was I going to let myself be imprisoned in the hospital again.

“You may not have a choice,” said Cary, looking at me levelly. She was such a sweet, mild-mannered girl most of the time, but damn, she could pull “the look” when she needed to. You know the one. Kevin had it down pat. “I’m going to call your doctor and see what she recommends.”

Before I could protest, she got on the phone and dialed a number off a piece of paper she kept with the chemo supplies. I listened to her side of the conversation with Dr. Submarine. She did a lot of talking at the beginning, rattling off my symptoms and temperature, and then it was a lot of “Okay...” and “Mm-hm...” and “Okay, we will.”

As soon as she hung up, I demanded, “We will what?”

“Head straight to UCLA. Dr. Subramanien agrees that your fever could be cause for concern, and you need to be checked out.”

“Fuck,” I swore loudly. “I don’t wanna go to the hospital.”

“I know you don’t, but you have to.”

“Can’t I just go take an ice bath or something? That’ll bring the fever down.”

“It’s not just the fever. The fever’s a warning sign. It might be nothing; it could just be a side effect of the chemo, but it also could be something serious. You could have an infection. You could be septic.” She said this all really fast, her voice rising in pitch the whole time. “You have to go and at least get blood work done. Now, am I gonna drive you, or am I gonna have to call an ambulance?”

“Uh, what?” I blinked. She didn’t.

“You heard me. Are you gonna make this difficult, or can we just do it the easy way?”

I ignored the question. “You can’t drive me; you’ve got rehearsal.”

“I’ll just have to miss part of it.” She smirked. “What are they gonna do, kick me off the show?”

“I can drive myself.”

“I don’t think you should. What if you start feeling worse and pass out or something?”

I scoffed. “I’m not gonna pass out.”

“What if you just tell me you’re gonna drive yourself and stay here instead?”

It was my turn to give her “the look.” “Cary... c’mon. Would I lie to you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’re lying to everyone else. Why not me?”

Ouch. That one hurt. I could feel my face getting even redder, and not from fever this time.

“C’mon, get dressed,” said Cary. “The sooner, the better.”

I just sat there, not ready to move yet.

“Alright, then I’m calling 911.” Her voice had a sing-song quality that made me think she was just teasing, but she still had her phone in her hand, and I watched as she dialed nine... then one... then-

“Fine!” I hissed, hauling my butt up out of my chair. “Gimme a few minutes, alright?”

“You’ve got five.”

“Fuck,” I huffed under my breath, as I stomped off to my room. I got dressed quickly, my head filled with nightmarish visions of what would happen if I let her make that 911 call. It would be replayed on the nightly entertainment news, over a paparazzi video of an ambulance parked outside the high-rise, followed by rampant speculation over what might be wrong with me. Drug overdose? Suicide attempt? Heart attack? No one would guess cancer, but that didn’t matter; I didn’t want them guessing at all.

That was why I grudgingly put on my ball cap and dark shades and let Cary drive me to the goddamn hospital herself.

***