Nick
The next
day, while Cary got to go off to rehearsal and sing and dance, I got put through
a whole round of tests, the same torturous crap I had to go through to be
diagnosed: a CT scan, spinal tap, and
bone marrow biopsy.
Life isn’t
fair.
At least
when Cary called me during her lunch break and complained about how much
dancing she’d done that morning, I got to trump her story with my own harrowing
tale of giant needles being shoved into my back. That put it all into perspective and shut her
up. Being a nurse, she knew how the
procedures went, but I wonder if she’d ever experienced them from the patient
side of things. Somehow, I doubted it.
I spent the
day lying flat on my sore back, watching TV and waiting for my test
results. I’d been told Dr. Submarine had
put a rush on them so that she could come talk to me about the results before
she left for the weekend. I was anxious
for her to get there, wondering what she’d have to say. I didn’t want to hear that the cancer had
spread or something, two days before I was supposed to leave for tour. I think if that were the case, I’d just say
“To hell with it” and forget the chemo, screw the doctors, and go off on tour
anyway, knowing it would be my last.
The thought
put a lump in my throat, but I was realistic to know it might be the choice I
was facing. It would be a simple one to
make, though: if the chemo hadn’t
helped, there was no point in continuing it.
I was sure of that much.
Cary’s
rehearsals were scheduled to last all day again, so I was alone when my doctor
showed up to go over the results. “How
are you feeling?” she asked in her gently-accented voice, as she sat down by my
bed.
“Better,” I
answered shortly, not in the mood for small talk. It was true, though; I’d felt a lot better
ever since the blood transfusion and antibiotics. My fever had broken in the night, and it
hadn’t come back yet. I took that as a
good sign that I’d be able to leave by tomorrow, assuming the doctor didn’t
have bad news for me. I looked her in
the eye, trying to read her expression, and asked, “So, how I’d do on my
tests?”
I was
relieved when she smiled at my little joke.
“Quite well, actually,” she replied, and a wonderful feeling of relief
washed over me.
“Really?”
“Really. Let me show you something.” She set two pictures out in front of me,
which looked like X-ray slides. I tilted
my head at them, trying to recognize what I was looking at. “These are your chest CT scans. They show a cross-section, so imagine you
were looking down into your chest from above, rather than from the front. Here you can see your lungs and heart,” she explained,
pointing out the vital organs so that the pictures looked less blob-like.
I still
wasn’t sure what I was looking for, until she touched the picture on my left
and said, “This is the scan that was taken at the time of your diagnosis, back
in March. You can see the tumor
here.” She traced her finger around a
cloudy blob near the center of the picture.
I swallowed hard, realizing again how large and close it was to the
white blob she’d said was my heart.
“This one,”
she went on, pointing to other scan, “is from this morning. Again, you see the mass here. Do you notice the difference?”
“It’s
smaller,” I said at once, my eyes widening as they darted between the two
pictures, comparing the size. All of the
other structures, my lungs and my heart, looked about the same, but in the
second scan, the cloudy blob was only half the size it had been in the first.
“Considerably
smaller,” agreed Dr. Submarine, sounding pleased. “This is wonderful news, Nick. It means the chemotherapy has been working to
shrink the tumor. Perhaps you’ve noticed
the effects? You’ve no doubt been
breathing easier.”
“Yeah,” I
said, nodding. I hadn’t thought much
about it, but she was right: it had been
awhile since I’d felt that tightness in my chest, that frightening shortness of
breath that had sent me to the doctor in the first place. Even in all my working out lately, I hadn’t
felt that sensation. I tired easily, and
I got winded when I jogged on the treadmill, but that was normal. It wasn’t scary, the way it had been
before. “So you think I’m gonna get
better?” I asked hopefully, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off my
chest.
“I think
the treatment is working,” she answered, guardedly. “The mass has shrunk, and the cancer hasn’t
spread. Your spinal fluid looks clear,
and there were no blasts detected in your bone marrow this time. Those are all good signs. I’d like you to continue the chemotherapy
regimen for three more cycles and then come back for another check-up. At that point, we’ll discuss your options.”
That was
good enough for me. When she left, I was
breathing easier, both literally and figuratively. I couldn’t wait to tell Cary. Since she was the only one who knew I was
sick, she was the only one who could appreciate the good news that my treatment
was working.
She came
straight from rehearsal that evening, as she had the night before, bringing
with her a huge sack of In-N-Out burgers and fries, the best on the West
Coast. “You’re amazing,” I groaned in ecstasy,
pulling a warm cheeseburger and a sleeve of greasy fries out of the bag.
Cary
smiled. “I thought you could use
something other than hospital food.
Besides, I’m starving,” she added, pulling out her own burger and fries.
“Seriously,
this is perfect,” I said. “We’re gonna
celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” She raised her eyebrows hopefully.
I couldn’t
hold back my grin. “So I had my tests
done today, and everything came out good.
The doc said there were no cancer cells in my bone marrow or spinal fluid,
and the tumor in my chest is shrinking.”
“Oh my God,
Nick, that’s awesome!” Cary dropped her
burger and impulsively leaned forward to hug me. It caught me off-guard, but it felt good to
have someone to hug, someone to share the moment with. I wrapped my arms around her and closed my
eyes, savoring the comfort it brought me, the relief in knowing that the
treatment was working, that I was going to be alright. Soon, this nightmare would be over. I just had to get through three more cycles
of chemo. I was halfway there. The chemo would be over before the tour was,
and then my life could go back to normal.
I told Cary
this, and although she was still smiling, she shook her head. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to finish the
chemo first and then tour? You should
just tell the guys this weekend and postpone it.”
“We can’t
cancel a week before the tour’s supposed to start,” I said. Of course, that wasn’t true; we’d postponed
mid-tour when AJ went to rehab. Cancer
was just as good of an excuse. But even
if what she was suggesting was the logical thing to do, I was too stubborn to
do it. I was dead set on flying to New
York and on to Miami as planned. I’d
made it this far through chemo; I could get through the rest on the road. It would be easier now, knowing that it was
working, that it would all be worth it in the end.
Cary
clucked her tongue at me, but neither of us wanted to argue that night. We were both in too good a mood. So we dug into our dinner instead, devouring
the burgers and fries as the conversation turned back to music – rehearsals,
the finale, the tour.
I slept
surprisingly well that night, with a full stomach and a clear head. Everything was going to be all right.
***
With my blood
counts higher, I was released from the hospital on Saturday. Cary picked me up, and we stopped at a
pharmacy to fill my prescription of antibiotics and stock up on the medical
supplies we’d need on the road.
Once I got
home, I started getting ready to leave again.
I packed three big suitcases – two with clothes and toiletries, the
third with all my chemo junk. “I just
hope I don’t get stopped by airport security,” I grumbled, as Cary helped me
take inventory and get it all neatly stored away in the suitcase.
“They’ll
probably see the syringes and think you’re a junkie,” she snickered. I groaned at the thought. “I’m sure you won’t get stopped,” she added
seriously. “You’re a Backstreet Boy –
not exactly terrorist material.” She
grinned, her eyes shining.
“What, you
sayin’ we don’t look tough or somethin’?” I asked, crossing my arms and posing
like I was Donnie Wahlberg in the eighties.
Cary
giggled. “I’m sure the fanny pack will
help your image.”
I
scowled. “Fuck that. I’ll shove the damn pump down my pants before
I put on a damn fanny pack.”
She
smiled. “I think I have another option
for you. Hang on a sec.” She left my bedroom and returned a minute
later with something hidden behind her back.
Shyly, she held it out to me. “I
thought this might work better.”
I took it
and held it up. It was a cloth pouch,
like a pencil bag, just big enough to hold the chemo pump. It was made out of gray fabric, with the
design of an old-school Nintendo controller sewed on the front in pieces of felt,
and had cloth straps that could be connected with velcro. Brushing my thumb over the little, red, felt
buttons, I grinned up at Cary. “This is
awesome. Did you make this??”
She nodded
and blushed as she smiled, obviously pleased with herself and my reaction. “It’s less bulky than a fanny pack. I thought you could wear it under your
shirt. If you dress in layers, I don’t
think it’ll be noticeable.”
“And if
anyone does see it, at least it looks like something cool and not a queer-ass
fanny pack,” I added, approving her design.
“This rocks. Thank you.”
“You’re
welcome.”
“So is this
what you did while you were here by yourself the last few nights?”
She
laughed. “Pretty much. I stopped by a fabric store on my way home from
rehearsal on Monday and have been working on it in my room all week.”
“I didn’t
know you could sew.”
“My grandma
taught me when I was a kid. I don’t do
it a lot anymore, but this was pretty basic, really.”
She didn’t
seem to want to play up her creativity, but I was stoked with the gift. The design was rad,
and the whole thing was way better than a fanny pack. “Well, I love it. Thanks,” I told her again, adding it to the
suitcase.
“So, you
sure you’re up to this?” she asked.
“I’m sure,”
I replied quickly, before my mind had a chance to decide otherwise.
She nodded,
eyeing me closely. “Just checking.”
“You sure you’re up to it?” I threw the question
back at her.
She took
longer to answer than I had, but finally she said, “Yeah. I’m still in.”
I smiled at
her and nodded, too. “Just checking.”
***
That night,
I went to bed early, knowing I had to be up at the crack of dawn to catch my
early flight out. But even though I was
tired, the way I always felt these days, it took me a long time to fall asleep.
My mind
raced, thinking hard about what I was about to get myself into. I acted all cocky and confident around Cary
and my doctor, but the truth was, I wasn’t really that confident about it at
all. I knew how high the stakes
were. I knew how much could go
wrong. I knew the chances of my actually
being able to keep my illness a secret from the guys for the whole tour were
slim. But I didn’t know a way out of it,
at this point.
Even if I
changed my mind, I couldn’t imagine calling the guys first thing in the
morning, the day we were supposed to perform in New York, to tell them I’d been
diagnosed with cancer and couldn’t tour.
Not only would it put our manager, Jen, and everyone else involved with the
tour in a major jam, it would devastate the guys. I couldn’t do that to them. The right time to tell them had come and
gone, several times over, and at this point, I had to wait for the next right
time to come around again. As far as I
was concerned, that wouldn’t be until after the tour was over.
Until then,
I would just have to suck it up and keep it a secret. I’d done a good job of it so far; as long as
my body didn’t betray me, I could keep up the charade. I just prayed my body could keep up, too.
***