Cary
When Nick
got out of the shower, I was back at the dining room table, as if I’d never
left. I’d 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 anyplace 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 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 felt
suddenly 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 blanched. 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 onscreen. 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.
***