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-odds
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 Skynard 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
rundown 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 vincrinstine 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 vincrinstine 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 awhile, 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 bloodwork 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 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.
***