Nick
We had the
next day off, which was awesome. I
didn’t have to worry about singing or even talking much, let alone actually
performing. I spent most of the
fourteen-hour bus ride to Boston lying around in my bunk, napping, watching
DVDs, playing video games. Cary would
come lie down in her bunk across from mine, and we’d talk across the aisle. I think she was all too happy to keep me
quarantined in the bus, where the germs couldn’t get me. My tonsils were still swollen, but at least
my fever hadn’t gotten any higher.
Eventually,
we moved out to the lounge, where I got out my guitar and picked out chords for
her, while she made up melodies and words to sing along – the jam session I’d
promised her.
When we
finally got to Boston and checked into our hotel, Cary said, “What do you wanna
do about dinner? I’m starving, and you
need to eat something. What do you feel
like?”
Nothing really
sounded all that appealing, but finally, I decided on lobster. I’d learned over the years of touring to get
my seafood fix while we were on the coast, where it’s the freshest and the
best. Next week, we’d be heading to the
Midwest, and the seafood there just isn’t as good. After days of gray skies and rain, the
weather was finally decent, so we found a seafood place with patio seating and
ate our dinner outside. Even with the
mouth sores and weird aftertastes everything had, I managed to polish off a
plate full of lobster drenched in butter, clams, and potatoes. And afterwards, I felt better.
I wished I
felt good enough for a whole night out on the town. It was fun being in Boston in the midst of
the NBA finals, the night after the Celtics had won Game 2 of the series
against the Lakers. I wasn’t the only
one walking the streets in a Celtics cap and jersey, and you could feel the
excitement in the air. It was electric. But I definitely wasn’t up for a night of
clubbing, so eventually, Cary and I headed back to the hotel.
On the way
up to our floor, her cell phone rang.
She pulled it out of her purse and frowned at it for a moment before
answering. “Hello? Sorry, who did you say this was? You’re cutting out… sorry… I’m in an
elevator, hang on…” The elevator doors
opened, and we stepped out. “Sorry,
hello?” Cary asked again. “Oh, hi, Dr.
Subramanien!”
She shot me
a meaningful look, and I made a face back, wondering why Dr. Submarine was
calling. It was probably about my blood
sample, which might have made it out to her by now. I hoped it wasn’t bad news.
“Oh good,
you did?” Cary was saying into the phone, as we walked slowly down the
hall. “Have you gotten the results back
yet? Okay… uh-huh… No, he’s been pretty
run down, and his tonsils are swollen.
He’s been running a low-grade temp the last couple of days, but it
hasn’t gone above 100.4. He’s developed
mucositis, too, so that could be the source of the infection.”
I was glad
when we made it to my room. I had my key
out and ready; I swiped it, opened the door, and practically shoved her in,
just to get her out of the hall, where anyone could hear her talking about me
on the phone like that.
“He won’t
want to hear that, but yeah, you’re right,” Cary said, now pacing around the room. She was frowning, one hand tugging at her
hair while the other clutched the phone to her ear. “We’re in Boston till tomorrow night. Oh, really?
Okay… okay, yeah, just let us know.
I’ll get him there, one way or another.”
She laughed. “Alright. Thanks.
Goodbye.”
She lowered
her phone and gave me a look. “You,” she
said, pointing at me, “had no business performing last night.” She shook her finger, like a mom scolding her
kid. “Your ANC is 750. Or was, when that sample was sent out,
anyway. It’s probably lower now.”
I
shrugged. “It was even lower last time,”
I offered.
Cary
ignored me. “Your doctor suggested G-CSF
injections to boost your body’s production of white blood cells. But she wants you looked at by a doctor. She said she knows an oncologist in Boston
she’s going to try to get you an appointment with tomorrow morning, and you will go.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face
were so fierce, I fought the urge to laugh.
I held it back, though, because I knew she was dead serious.
“Fine, I’ll
go if it’s in the morning,” I grudgingly agreed, “but I’m not letting anyone
put me in the hospital again. I have to
be back here for soundcheck.”
“We’ll see
what the doctor has to say.”
“But I get
the final say. No one can make me stay
against my will.”
She
sighed. “No, you’re right. No one can make you stay. But I hope you’ll listen to whatever advice
this doctor has to give you, even if you won’t listen to me.”
I flashed
her my most irresistible smile. “I
respect you, Cary. Tell me where and
when the appointment is, and I’ll go, and I’ll listen. I promise to do that much.”
She
returned the smile reluctantly – see, it really was irresistible – and replied,
“Thank you. I guess that’s good enough…
for tonight, anyway.”
***
The next
morning, we got up early and ate breakfast in the hotel. Well, Cary ate. I just sort of picked at mine. While Brian and Howie were making plans to
spend the morning sightseeing with their families, I had an appointment at
Massachusetts General with a Dr. Woo.
Cary was going to go with me, of course; I knew she wanted to hear what
the doctor had to say, and secretly, I was glad, even if it meant she might
side with him.
“Where are
you two off to so early?” asked AJ, coming into the dining room for breakfast,
just as we were leaving it.
Cary and I
looked at each other. “Shopping,” she
blurted.
She may not
have realized her mistake, but I did – AJ loved shopping. Before he could invite himself along, I
quickly added, “For underwear.” AJ raised
his eyebrows, and I went on, “Let’s just say it was a… rough night last night –
if you know what I mean. Lots of torn
bras and panties that need replacing.
Sorry, babe.” I looked at
Cary. She was staring back at me in
horror, her face bright red.
Yeah, okay,
it was a douchey lie to make up, but come on, I was under pressure. What else was I going to say to get him off
our tails? Even this wasn’t guaranteed
to do it; I mean, just because I’d know better than to ask if I could go
lingerie shopping with him and Rochelle didn’t mean AJ had the same level of
judgment. He actually looked like he was
considering it for a minute, the way he was eyeing Cary, but finally, he
grinned and said, “Well… you kids have fun with that. Get something kinky.” He winked at Cary and then headed on into the
dining room, probably to latch himself onto the Dorough family for the day
instead.
“Are you
kidding me?!” Cary hissed as we walked out of the hotel, smacking my arm hard.
“C’mon, I
had to make it something he wouldn’t want to shop for; the guy loves to shop!”
I tried to defend myself. “I guess I
could have said you were shopping for tampons or something, but I didn’t think
that would be as believable.”
“Ugh!!!”
I tried my
irresistible smile again. It didn’t seem
to have quite the same effect as the night before.
Cary
flagged down a taxi outside the hotel and got in. I climbed in after her. “Massachusetts General,” she told the driver
stiffly. It was the last thing she said
until we pulled up in front of the hospital’s main entrance. I paid the cabby, and we got out. I felt pretty intimidated as I looked up at
the building; this was one huge-ass hospital.
We walked
into the lobby. Cary went right up to
the front desk and came back a few seconds later, pointing at the door we’d
just come in. “We need to go across the
street to the Yawkey building. That’s
where the Cancer Center is,” she said.
So we walked back out and followed a sidewalk to another, smaller
building, cattycorner from the main one.
Yawkey Center for Outpatient Care,
it said on the side of the building in blue letters. Well, that was good, seeing as how I was so
dead set against becoming an inpatient.
We went in,
and this time, we were directed upstairs to the seventh floor. This time, I knew we were in the right place
because the lobby was filled with mostly old people and a few younger people
who were wearing scarves to cover up their bald heads. I got a sick feeling of déjà vu, remembering
my first appointment at the Hematology and Oncology clinic in Santa Monica,
when I’d looked around a waiting room very similar to this one and thought, I don’t belong here.
But I
did. I just hadn’t known it yet.
I swallowed
hard as I looked around this room. As crappy
as I felt, I could see that I was still better off than some of these
people. And at least I still had my
hair, hidden underneath the Celtics cap that I hoped would hide my face, too. I didn’t want to be recognized. Not here.
Again, Cary
went up to the receptionist’s desk and did the talking. We were escorted back right away, without
having to wait. Dr. Submarine must have
arranged for me to get the VIP treatment.
Even though I felt sort of guilty for jumping the line in front of all
the other, worse-off people in the waiting room, I appreciated that. I was anxious to get this over with and go on
to the venue.
A nurse led
us into an exam room and took my vitals, and then we were introduced to the
doctor. He was a surprisingly tall
Asian-American man, probably in his late thirties or early forties. Reid
Woo, M.D., the gold-plated nametag on his white coat said. “I’m Dr. Woo,” he introduced himself, shaking
my hand and then Cary’s. He sat down on
a stool in front a laptop, where the nurse had typed in all my
information. “I spoke with Dr.
Subramanien earlier,” he said, scanning the screen. “She faxed over your medical history and
latest set of labs. Your bloodwork
doesn’t look great; you’re neutropenic, which means your white cell count is
low. She said you reported a low-grade
fever and sore throat?”
I
nodded. “Yeah, my tonsils are huge. But my whole mouth is jacked up…”
“Mucositis,”
Cary put in. “It just started on
Saturday, a few days after he finished up chemo for this cycle. I’ve had him gargling salt water and baking
soda and sucking ice chips, but maybe you could prescribe him something topical
for the pain.”
I looked at
her gratefully. She knew how to talk to
doctors in a way I didn’t.
Dr. Woo
nodded, snapping on a pair of gloves, and motioned for me to open my
mouth. He stuck a tongue depressor in
and shined his light around. “Definitely
mucositis,” he agreed. “It looks
painful. I’ll write you a scrip for
MuGard – it’s a special rinse that coats your mouth. I do want to swab the back of your throat, to
check for further infection.” I tried
not to gag as he stuck what looked like a giant Q-Tip into my mouth and swiped
it around my tonsils. It hurt like hell.
“I’ll send
this to the lab for a throat culture and a rapid strep test,” he said. “We won’t have the results of the throat
culture back for a couple of days, but the rapid strep test only takes about
fifteen minutes. Either way, I’ll start
you on antibiotics, just to be on the safe side. It may be viral, but with your immune system
compromised, I don’t want to take any chances by delaying treatment. Dr. Subramanien also recommended granulocyte
colony-stimulating factor injections, to speed up the growth of neutrophils –
white blood cells.” He looked at
Cary. “Have you given G-CSF injections
before?”
“We usually
gave it through an IV when I worked in oncology,” she said, though by that
time, I’d checked out mentally – too many big medical words being thrown
around. It made my head hurt. “Can I inject it into his port?”
“No, you’d have to infuse it. Outside a
hospital setting, it’s much easier to give as a subcutaneous injection.”
With a
glance in my direction, Cary nodded. “I
can do that.”
“Okay. I’ll get this to the lab and come back with
your prescriptions when we know the results of the strep test.”
When he
left the room, I looked at Cary and raised my eyebrows. “Injections?
As in, shots?”
She gave me
a sympathetic smile. “It’ll help your
body get rid of the infection and prevent another one. I promise to be gentle.”
I heaved a
huge sigh. “This sucks.”
I was
surprised when all she said was, “I know.”
Nothing else about it being for the best, nothing about keeping a
positive attitude, nothing about giving it all up and going home. Just “I know.” In a way, it was the most helpful thing she
could say.
When the
doctor came back about fifteen minutes later, he said, “Well, the good news is,
you don’t have strep. The bad news is,
since the strep test was negative, we don’t know what kind of infection you do
have. It could be bacterial, or it could
be viral. I’m going to go ahead and give
you a prescription for antibiotics. Even
if it turns out not to be bacterial, the antibiotics might help prevent a
second infection.”
I had just
finished my last prescription of antibiotics the other day. But I accepted the slip of paper, along with
two others for the shots and the mouth rinse he’d mentioned, and decided I was
getting off pretty easy. At least he
hadn’t threatened to hospitalize me.
Dr. Woo
shook both our hands again, then gave us directions to the hospital pharmacy,
where we could pick up the prescriptions.
When we finally walked out of the hospital, I dug my phone out of my
pants pocket and checked the time. It
was not even noon; we had hours before we had to be at soundcheck. As we waited for a cab, I looked over at Cary
and said, “I guess that wasn’t that
bad.”
She
beamed. “Are you saying I was right, Nick Carter?”
“Shh!” I
hissed when she said my name, glancing around to see if anyone was looking in
our direction. I guess the good thing
about standing outside a hospital is that everyone who’s coming or going is
preoccupied; they all had bigger things on their minds than whether or not that
guy in the green hoodie was a Backstreet Boy.
“Yeah, you were right,” I admitted in a low voice.
The ride
back to the hotel was a lot more talkative.
***
Cary went
right back into nurse mode the minute we got back to my hotel room.
She spread
the contents of the paper bag we’d picked up at the pharmacy out on my bed and
said, “You aren’t supposed to eat or drink anything for an hour after using the
mouth rinse, so we should probably get you some lunch first, then do the first
dose this afternoon, before we head to the venue. You can take your antibiotic now and then
again after the show.” She tossed me a
bottle of pills; I caught it, turning it over in my hand to read the
label. Cary was still talking. “The injections are only once a day, so do
you want to try one now or wait until tonight?”
Realizing
she had asked me a question, I looked up.
“Huh? Oh… uh… let’s just get it
over with now, I guess,” I muttered, figuring I might as well see how bad it
was now, rather than spend the rest of the day dreading it. I’m not usually a baby about needles – if I
was, I wouldn’t have so many tattoos – but I felt like a little kid, afraid of
getting a shot at the doctor’s office.
I sat
nervously on the edge of the bed, while Cary moved around the room, washing her
hands, setting up the supplies she needed on the table. Finally, she said, “Where do you want the
injection? Arm or thigh?”
Well, at
least it didn’t have to go in my ass.
“Arm, I guess.”
“Okay. Take off your sweatshirt and come over here.”
Leaving my Celtics
hoodie on the bed, I sat down at the table and looked at the syringe she had
set out. It wasn’t too big. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt much.
Cary rolled
up the sleeve of my t-shirt and rubbed the back of my upper arm with an alcohol
wipe. “Little pinch,” she said as she
squeezed my arm fat between her fingers and picked up the syringe. “Now a bee sting.” I sucked in a sharp breath through my gritted
teeth as I felt the needle slide under my skin.
I couldn’t see what she was doing, but a few seconds later, the pain
disappeared, and she said, “All done.”
I let out
my breath, feeling relieved. “That
wasn’t that bad.”
She smiled,
looking relieved herself. “Told you I’d
be gentle.” She checked the back of my
arm again. “Not a mark on you – you’re
not even bleeding.”
“Good.” The last thing I needed was the guys noticing
track marks on my arms. “Thanks.”
She cleaned
up, dropping the used syringe into the sharps container we had to carry around
with the chemo supplies, and then said, “Let’s get lunch. What do you feel like? I saw some takeout places around here if you
want me to go get something and bring it back.”
Nothing
sounded good, but I said, “Yeah, alright… I don’t really care; get whatever you
want.”
She thought
for a minute. “I know it’s June, but
what about some soup?” she suggested.
“That might feel good on your throat.”
“Okay,” I
agreed.
She
nodded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
After she
left, I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes, feeling sorry for
myself. The other guys were all out on
the town, enjoying the nice weather and the rare bit of free time before our
show, and I was cooped up in my hotel room, too sick and tired to go out again
until I absolutely had to. Cary was
running all over to get me food and anything else I needed, and although I
appreciated it, I couldn’t even enjoy it.
It sucked
feeling so crappy. I just hoped that, as
the antibiotics did their thing and my blood counts came up again, I would
start to feel better. Otherwise, I
didn’t know how I was going to make it through the rest of the tour.
***