On Tuesday morning, I woke up in Los Angeles.
Even as I sat up and looked around the familiar guest room in Nick’s condo, it was hard to believe I was actually there. I’ve never been a spontaneous person; I’m more cautious, a planner, the kind of girl who looks before she leaps. But the only plans I’d made over the past couple of days had been thrown together at the last minute, just to get me to LA. It was, I knew now, where I was meant to be.
Although I’d tried to play it cool and not sound too eager, I had known the moment Nick had asked me to be there for the transplant that I would come. I couldn’t imagine not being there. The two weeks of separation following the tour had been hard enough for me, and ever since that kiss at Relay, I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stand being apart from him again. More than anything else, I wanted to be with him. That emotional need felt as strong as any physical one; it was a hunger, a thirst I just had to quench. Now that I was back in LA with him, I finally felt satisfied.
The rest of the weekend had been a whirlwind of last-minute arrangements. Nick had managed to find me a seat on the same flight he’d booked back to LA on Sunday, which gave me only a day to pack my bags and say my goodbyes, yet again. We went over to my dad’s house for dinner on Saturday night, to drop off my poor Hambelina and tell him why I was leaving. I told him the whole truth this time – about Nick’s cancer and the treatment he was facing, about everything except for the kiss. I left that part out, but I think he was starting to notice that there was more between us than just friendship. I know he wasn’t happy about my leaving again, but as a widower who had lost the love of his life to cancer, he understood better than anyone my need to be with Nick and see him through this.
And so, back to California I went.
We had an appointment that afternoon, a consultation with Nick’s oncologist. He had called on Monday to tell her his decision, and she had found time to meet with him the very next day to discuss it. I was going along, and so was Kevin. “You know Kevin; he likes to get in there and put himself in charge of everything,” said Nick when he’d told me, rolling his eyes. He acted annoyed, but I could tell that, deep down, he was pleased. Even though the decision to go ahead with the stem cell transplant had been made, he still seemed so unsure about it that I knew he would need as much support as he could get. I was excited; Kevin was the only Backstreet Boy I had yet to meet, and along with Brian, he had always been my favorite. When I realized I’d be seeing him in a few short hours, I felt butterflies in my stomach.
I got out of bed and went to the bathroom to do damage control on my hair and brush my teeth before I left the guest room. Nick wasn’t up yet, so I let him sleep while I made breakfast.
It was funny how quickly we had settled back into this routine. I enjoyed it, being domestic, having someone other than just myself and a pet pig to take care of. Not to mention, Nick’s kitchen was awesome. Everything was shiny and new and stainless steel, and he had just about every gadget I could imagine – he probably didn’t even know what to do with half of them. I had learned my way around the place from living there before, so in no time, I’d mixed up some pancake batter and was ladling it onto a hot griddle.
“Whatcha makin’?” a deep voice rumbled behind me, over the sizzle of the griddle.
“Pancakes,” I answered, turning around with a smile, as Nick staggered into the kitchen. He looked like a zombie, with his hair sticking out in tufts and dark circles under his glazed, heavy-lidded eyes. The bright kitchen lights washed out his tan, and he seemed pale and exhausted. My smile faded. “Did you sleep okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual and downplay my concern.
He shrugged, sinking down onto a kitchen chair. “Not really.”
“Aww… how come?”
“Dunno… too much on my mind, I guess.”
The honesty of his mumbled answer surprised me. He was nervous, I realized. We hadn’t talked much about the stem cell transplant since he had agreed to pursue it; he’d made it seem like he wanted to forget about it, to avoid thinking more about it until he had to. That was typical Nick, wanting to pretend everything was normal even when it wasn’t. I had played along, not wanting to push him, but now I could see how much it was still weighing on him.
“Understandable,” I said, offering a sympathetic smile. “Hopefully talking to the doctor today will help put your mind at ease.”
“Or give me even more to think about,” he countered, making a face.
“Well, that’s what Kevin and I will be there for – to help you sort out everything.” I kept my voice light and cheerful, hoping to reassure him. “I know it’s overwhelming. It’s okay to be nervous.”
But he shrugged off the nerves, playing it cool again. “I’m good. Nothin’ a big stack of pancakes won’t help.” He flashed a wide grin.
I smiled back. “It was either pancakes or dry cereal. Your fridge and pantry are looking pretty bare. How about we stop at the grocery store on the way home from the doctor?” It didn’t look like he’d done much in the way of grocery shopping since getting home from tour, which made me wonder what he’d been living on. I was eager to fill his shelves with healthy food and cook him nutritious meals in this beautiful kitchen.
“Sounds good,” he replied, chuckling. He seemed perkier, but when we sat down to breakfast together, he got quiet again and only picked at the big stack of pancakes I’d piled onto his plate.
Lunch was the same, but then, it’s not like I ate much either. I was nervous, too, for a completely different reason: the green-eyed, black-haired Backstreet Boy sitting across the table from me. We had met Kevin for lunch at a nice restaurant on our way to the appointment, but we probably should have just waited until afterwards. No one seemed very hungry – Nick was fidgety, I was flustered, and even Kevin acted anxious, pushing the food around on his plate and checking the time on his cell phone every few minutes.
We’d made small talk while we waited for our meals to arrive, but with Nick being so unusually quiet, the conversation felt stilted and awkward. Kevin was pleasant, but reserved, and I felt shy around him. Still, I hung on to his every word, even when they were few and far between, totally entranced by his mellow Kentucky drawl. I’ve always had a thing for Southern accents – and tall, dark, and handsome Southern gentlemen. Even with Nick sitting beside me, I was in awe of Kevin.
When he finally pocketed his phone again and said, “We should probably get goin’,” no one hesitated. We all got up from the table at once, leaving our unfinished meals and a generous tip behind, and headed for the door.
I don’t know how Nick felt, but for me, it was a relief to finally arrive at the clinic where his oncologist had her practice. He may have been dreading the meeting, but I figured he would leave it feeling more confident about his decision, with a better idea of what to expect in the coming weeks and months. If nothing else, I hoped it would put his mind to rest.
The clinic’s waiting room was decorated in shades of beige, with eggplant-colored chairs, rather than the sterile whites and sickly pastels I was used to seeing in hospitals and nursing homes. It gave the place a warmer, less institutional feel, yet the clean, modern lines of the furniture and architecture reminded me that we were in a place of science, a place full of professionals, who could offer Nick the best chance for a cure. I felt encouraged as we were called back to meet with the doctor.
I had talked to Dr. Subramanien several times on the phone, but it was my first time meeting her face to face. She was a petite Indian woman, slightly younger-looking than I’d pictured her, with long hair braided down her back. It seemed that she’d already met Kevin, but I introduced myself to her, and she recognized my name at once. Cary Hilst, the nurse practitioner Nick Carter had tricked into helping him carry out his idiotic scheme – I’m sure that’s what was going through her head as she shook my hand.
She invited us to sit down around a table in a small conference room, where another doctor was waiting. “This is Dr. Schnabeltier,” she introduced him, as he stood up to shake hands. Apparently, it was Nick’s first time meeting him, too. “Dr. Schnabeltier is part of our bone marrow and stem cell transplant team; he specializes in lymphoma.”
“A pleasure to meet you all,” said Dr. Schnabeltier, nodding around the table as we all sat down. He was middle-aged, with blonde hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and some sort of European accent – German, I guessed. To Nick, he added, “Dr. Subramanien tells me you’ve chosen to proceed vith a stem cell transplant.”
Nick nodded, licking his lips uncertainly. “If that’s my best shot at beating this thing, that’s what I wanna do, yeah,” he answered. He looked between the new doctor and Dr. Subramanien. “Are you, like, in charge of the transplant? Will you be my new doctor if I go through with it?”
“I vould vurk closely vith Dr. Subramanien to oversee your care, yes, along vith a team of nurses and other specialists. If you vould like, vee can discuss vot the transplant vould entail.”
Nick nodded again, watching Dr. Schnabeltier closely. He seemed to be hanging on to his every word, but maybe that was just so he could understand, in the most basic sense, what he was saying. I found myself having to focus hard to do the same.
“First, vee vould need to decide vich type of transplant vould be best. There are two types, you see. An allogeneic transplant uses cells from a donor, most likely a sibling or an unrelated match vee vould find through a database. An autologous transplant uses your own cells, vich have been harvested prior to chemotherapy. Vith the allogeneic, there is a slightly higher cure rate, but also a higher risk of complications – rejection, you see, or graft verses host disease. The autologous is much simpler because your body vill not reject its own stem cells.”
I could practically see the gears in Nick’s mind turning, as he weighed these two options. It was a tough decision. Either one had the potential to extend his life by keeping his cancer in remission longer, but he had to choose between the riskier procedure and the safer, yet less successful alternative.
“Which would you recommend, for Nick’s case?” Kevin asked, looking from one doctor to the other.
“Ven an autologous transplant is an option – it isn’t always, you see, because cancer cells can be found in the bone marrow or peripheral blood – but ven it is, that is the option I usually suggest because it is less stressful on the body, you see. Studies show the long-term survival rate is only slightly less than vith an allogeneic transplant.”
“On the other hand, Nick is young and strong and tolerated a rigorous chemotherapy protocol quite well,” put in Dr. Subramanien, her eyes circling the table. “These factors make his risk for complications relatively low. I believe he could handle an allogeneic transplant, if a donor were available.”
Nick spoke up. “If I went with that one, you said a sibling could be my donor?”
Dr. Schnabeltier nodded. “Siblings have a tventy-five percent chance of matching. Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Four of them,” Nick said flatly.
Four siblings who don’t even know you’re sick, I thought. I’m sure that’s what was going through his head, too.
“Four? Then it’s likely at least one of them is a suitable match,” replied the doctor. “They should be tested as soon as possible.”
Nick didn’t say anything to that. He just nodded, looking down at his lap. I knew he must be trying to decide how he was going to spring that kind of news on his family so soon, after keeping his secret so long.
“No matter vich option vee decide on, the timeline is much the same,” Dr. Schnabeltier went on. He passed a piece of paper across the table to Nick. Kevin leaned in to study it; I sat back, once I saw that it was just an overview of the transplant process, broken down by phase. The doctor pointed to each phase as he discussed it. “First, you vill undergo a pre-transplant evaluation, vith medical testing to make sure you are fit for the procedure. Then vee enter the mobilization phase, vich is ven the stem cells are harvested, either from you or a donor. The next phase is called conditioning, and that is ven you are given high-dose chemotherapy. The transplant takes place two days after the chemo, and then vee vait for engraftment, vich is ven the stem cells grow into bone marrow and start making new cells. Vithout complications, you vill spend about three veeks in the hospital.”
Nick slumped back in his chair. “I’m supposed to go back on tour in two weeks.”
I saw Dr. Schnabeltier look over at Dr. Subramanien, but before either of them could speak, Kevin did. “Nick,” he said sharply, his heavy eyebrows furrowing as he frowned. “Your health is more important than any tour, and if the other guys were here, you know they’d agree with me. You can’t delay treatment just to finish your tour.”
Go Kevin, I thought, secretly thrilled at seeing him in action. If anyone could convince Nick not to tour again, surely Kevin could.
“It’s just for a month,” Nick muttered. “You know what a hassle it’d be to reschedule all those dates?”
Kevin didn’t miss a beat. “We did it for AJ. And we should have done it for Brian.”
“But the fans…” started Nick.
“…will understand,” finished Kevin, and I nodded for emphasis.
“You just have to tell them first,” I added.
Kevin nodded, smiling at me. I felt my heart flutter. He and I were on the same team. “That’s what you need to spend the next few weeks doing, Nick,” Kevin said wisely. “You need to talk to your family first, then go public with this. Don’t worry about the tour; get your personal affairs in order so that you can just focus on getting through this and getting better. That should be your top priority.”
“I know,” Nick admitted, ducking his head sheepishly. “I mean, it is.”
“Then get your head in the game and stop talking about touring.” Kevin sounded like a coach, lecturing his star player. It made me smile, though I was careful not to let Nick see. “You’ll enjoy the tour a lot more when you’re healthy again, and all this is behind you.”
Nick nodded. Watching him, I couldn’t wait for that day to come. He didn’t deserve to be sick, to have to make these kinds of life or death decisions. Not that anyone does, but cancer is especially cruel when it strikes someone so young. People our age were supposed to focus on their careers and families, not worry about serious health problems. But I knew all too well that it didn’t always work out that way. My mother was younger than me when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and she’d died from it at thirty, the same age as Nick.
I had been trying to hold back, but I couldn’t stop myself from speaking up. “He’s right, Nick; you can’t delay this. You can’t give the cancer a chance to come back.”
“Studies have shown a significantly higher survival rate when stem cell transplantation occurs after a first remission, rather than a relapse,” Dr. Subramanien added, before Nick had a chance to reply, and Dr. Schnabeltier nodded, backing her up.
“Alright, alright,” Nick grumbled finally, dragging a hand through his hair. I could tell he was frustrated; he probably felt like we were ganging up on him. I hoped he could see that we were on his side, that we all just had his best interests at heart. Everyone in the room just wanted him to be healthy again. “Forget I mentioned the tour. The transplant comes first.”
He didn’t sound happy about it, and I couldn’t blame him, but he had made the right decision. I felt relieved.
Kevin patted his shoulder and said, “Good. It’s not gonna be easy, but you’ll get through it, and you know we’ll be there to help you through, whenever you want or need us.”
I nodded, slipping my hand underneath the table to find Nick’s. It felt cold and clammy, and I realized again how much more apprehensive he was about this than he wanted to let on. I squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him, to let him know I’d be right there with Kevin and the other guys, if he still wanted me.
“Thanks,” Nick told Kevin. He didn’t look at me, but I felt him squeeze my hand back. Message received.
***
