I wish I could remember what day it was. The exact date, I mean. But I don’t. I don’t think he does either – we’ve debated over this before. All we know is that it was sometime in April, and for me, it was just another day where I was glad to wake up and even happier to fall back to sleep.
I had been in the hospital for a few weeks. I know that much because I spent my twenty-third birthday there, and my birthday is in March. There’s an exact date I do remember: March 15, 2003, the day I got a new set of bandanas for a gift and puked up my birthday cake and ice cream. Ahh, the memories.
Anyway, by April, I’d spent a few weeks enduring chemo hell. My new bandanas went to good use covering up my bald head, and the thought of chocolate cake was enough to make me vomit on command. I’d done so much vomiting that I was skinnier than I’d been in years, at least since the last time, and while some would look at the weight loss as an added benefit (namely, Dianna), I couldn’t even show off my new figure. While Dianna was out prancing around in her new spring clothes, I was stuck schlepping around the hospital in a robe and slippers. And that was on a good day. On the bad days, I barely left my bed.
Those were the chemo days. Even though I woke up every morning glad to be alive, I dreaded those days because I knew exactly what they had in store. I’d be taken down to the chemo room in the morning, get shot full of potent chemicals, and be wheeled back to my room to vomit and sleep the rest of the day away. If I was lucky, I’d sleep. If I was unlucky, the constant urge to throw up would keep me awake, even through every fiber of my weakened body was telling me to zonk out so that it could rest. It was a miserable way of living, but I supposed it was better than dying.
On the non-chemo days, I battled boredom instead of nausea. There’s just not a whole lot to do in the hospital. I had a private room, which was nice when I was puking every twenty minutes (really, who wants to be in a room with that going on?), but kind of lonely the rest of the time. I’m a talker; I like companionship. I had visitors, of course, but with my parents in Gainesville, my brother working, and my friends spread out all over the place, they couldn’t hang out with me all the time, and I couldn’t expect that of them either. It was bad enough that I was cooped up in the hospital; why inflict that monotony on anyone else? They had better things to do, all the things I wished I could be doing. Instead, I watched a lot of daytime TV, took walks up and down the hall, read books to the kids in the pediatric ward, and wore out the brand new Linkin Park CD, Meteora, on my Discman.
That day was a chemo day, and there was nothing special or unusual about it. I don’t remember what I wore or what I ate for breakfast. (Knowing me, I ate a lot, wanting to get something in me, even though I knew most of it would come up again later. As far as the outfit, they were all pretty much the same at that point – pajamas, robe, slippers – probably those furry leopard-print ones I loved.) I do remember that the chemo room was a lot emptier than usual that morning, and that when I asked Flora, my nurse, about it, as she was putting the IV in my arm, she said, “We’ve had to make some scheduling adjustments to accommodate a VIP patient on the floor.”
She lowered her voice to tell me this, as if it were some big, hush-hush secret, and I laughed in response. Well, la-dee-freaking-da, I thought, rolling my eyes when she wasn’t looking. Who was so flipping special that they couldn’t have anyone around while they got chemo? And why did everyone else have to adjust their schedules? If I were in charge, that VIP snob could just get their chemo at midnight, if they insisted on that much privacy.
“Is it gonna be a problem that I’m here?” I asked, with some sarcasm. “If so, I don’t mind waiting till tomorrow to do this… in fact, I’ll be happy to rip this thing out and head back to my room right now,” I added with a smirk, indicating the IV she had just finished setting up.
“Nice try,” replied Flora, with a wink and a smile. She started the drip, patted my shoulder, and walked away, leaving me with no one to talk to and nothing to do but stare at the yellow walls and wonder how long it would take for the nausea to kick in this time. I had it timed at about half an hour.
So, I stared at the walls and watched my IV drip, wishing I’d brought my CD player along, for about twenty minutes, until Flora left with an empty wheelchair and returned with someone in it. I looked over with interest, wondering if this was the VIP diva who had thrown everyone off their chemo schedules. I dunno why, but I was expecting her to look like Cruella De Vil – you know, from 101 Dalmatians? Some old, eccentric heiress with wild hair and an English accent, wearing a fur coat and fine jewelry. Silly, considering I’d never seen anyone this side of Disney World who fit that bill, but that was the image I had in my head. So I was surprised when the person in the wheelchair was the complete opposite of what I had pictured.
First of all, he was a guy, not a woman, and he was young. About my age, I figured; early twenties. He was wearing a hospital gown – not even a robe or anything, just that crappy gown – and he looked like a regular guy. He also looked terrified. Absolutely terrified. And… familiar.
I had just started thinking that, no, this couldn’t possibly be the “VIP” they had made such a big deal over, when I recognized him. I wasn’t sure at first, but there was something about him that was definitely familiar, and after staring at him for a few seconds, while Flora pushed him in, I realized why.
“I Want It That Way.”
I will forever associate that song with finals week, my freshman year of college. It had just exploded onto the radio and MTV, and everywhere you turned, someone was listening to it or singing it. I wasn’t much of a pop fan at all, and my roommate Jenn only listened to indie bands no one else had ever heard of, but when the “I Want It That Way” craze swept the halls of our dorm floor, we had no choice but to get swept up in it too. It was a good stress-reliever, singing along to that song and making fun of its video. Sure, we mocked, but it was such a catchy song, we had no choice but to kinda like it. Everyone liked it, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
I was no Backstreet Boys fan, but I looked into this guy’s pale, scared face, and in my mind, I had a sudden flash of the blonde boy from the video singing “Tell me why-ee…” And it clicked. Nick Carter. This was Nick fucking Carter, the Backstreet Boy, being wheeled into the chemo room of Tampa General. He looked a lot different from the guy in the video, without the floppy hair and the baby face and the cute smile. The hospital gown he wore completely washed him out, and his leg was in a brace, and he had this defeated look about him. But I felt sure it was him.
My suspicions were pretty much confirmed when I heard Flora say to him, “Your doctor tried to arrange it so you could be in here alone for your treatments because of your celebrity status, but there was a bit of a conflict today. Don’t worry though, Claire won’t spill the beans about you.”
She gestured, and he followed her gaze over to me. I offered a smile that I hoped was pretty subdued, which he acknowledged with a nod before avoiding eye-contact. I continued to stare at him, as Flora got him set up two chairs down from me, my mind reeling. At first, I was just floored at the fact that I’d encountered one of the freaking Backstreet Boys at the hospital, of all places. And then it hit me, as I watched Flora thread the IV into his arm. Hospital… chemo room… Nick Carter the Backstreet Boy had cancer? What?!
I stared at him with as much persistence as he avoided looking at me, as if he were some fascinating new species of animal at the zoo. I’ll admit it; I was intrigued. That was my first reaction: not sympathy, but curiosity. What did he have? How long had he had it? Why didn’t I know about this? And why was he here, in this hospital, of all places?
I made a few inferences while Flora finished with the IV. I remembered hearing, from the mouths of the girls on my dorm floor who had gotten the rest of us hooked on that stupid song, that Nick was from this area. A few of them had met him before. Now it made sense that he was in Tampa General; he must live in Tampa, I realized. Odd that I had lived in the same city my whole life, but never crossed paths with him. Then again, Tampa was a big city, and for all I knew, I had and just didn’t know it. Like I said, I was no Backstreet Boys fan.
As far as what kind of cancer… my guess was bone cancer of some sort. The leg brace was my clue there. And when I heard him ask, “How long is this supposed to take?” I knew he couldn’t have had it long.
“So is this your first time?” I called over to him, once Flora had left his side.
He had closed his eyes, but now he opened them again and gave me a look that said clearly, Don’t talk to me. “Yeah,” he muttered, and closed his eyes again.
Prick, I thought, immediately turned off by the attitude he seemed to project. I got that he was newly-diagnosed and about to delve into chemo hell for the first time and most likely scared out of his mind, but he didn’t have to be an ass about it. I didn’t feel sorry for him. I’d been there too, and I hadn’t acted like a bitch. But maybe that’s just how he was. An over-inflated ego to match his overplayed songs. Hence the need to play the celebrity card and insist on total privacy during treatments. I rolled my eyes; I hated people who acted entitled. Did he think he was better than everyone else? Well, the hospital may have been giving him special treatment, but he wasn’t too special to get cancer, and in a way, as horrible as it sounds, that realization was satisfying to me.
Don’t get me wrong; I would never wish the C-word on anyone, not even a big-headed popstar. And sure, I empathized with him. I had been in his place; I remembered how scary it was. But his standoffish attitude irked me. I felt the urge to mess with him a little, see if I could get him riled up. Mean, I know, but hell, I wasn’t going to pander to him either.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you,” I said loudly, letting my voice project across the room, even though he was only a few feet away from me.
He kept his eyes shut, though I could see the look of annoyance flicker across his face. “No problem,” he grunted, barely moving his lips.
I smiled. I was glad he had his eyes closed because I’m sure the smile was more devilish than friendly; behind it, I was trying not to laugh. “I’m Claire Ryan, by the way,” I introduced myself sweetly. I had decided that the more irritated he acted by my talking to him, the more I was going to talk. I guess I’m just an obnoxious person that way – it must come from being the baby of the family.
He sighed, already exasperated, I’m sure, and finally looked over at me again. I guess he realized he had no choice. I forced myself to keep smiling at him as his hard blue eyes gave me the once-over. Finally, he said, “I’m Nick Carter.”
“I know,” I replied, fighting the urge to laugh again. I was a girl, clearly between the ages of thirteen and thirty; did he think I wouldn’t recognize him?
He nodded and didn’t say anything more. But now that I’d gotten him to speak – and in a complete sentence, even! – I was eager to talk more. I was still curious and wondered how much information I could get out of him.
“So, um… I hope you don’t mind me asking this,” I went on, “but what kind of cancer do you have?”
“Ewing’s Sarcoma,” he answered, looking like every cell in his body was against him telling me. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear himself say the words aloud. I remembered how hard it was to tell people when I’d first been diagnosed, and for the first time, I felt some sympathy for him. “It’s a kind of bone cancer.”
Bingo, I thought, pleased with my deductive skills. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Sorry.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I expected from him, but certainly not the one I got. “That’s what you thought?” he repeated, his eyes widening. “Why, did you hear something about me somewhere?” He sounded so paranoid that I started to laugh; I couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“What? No. Your leg brace – that’s what made me think maybe it was bone cancer.” Chill out, dude, I added internally, looking at him in amusement.
“Oh… ohh… okay…” For the first time, he smiled, a doofy, sheepish sort of grin. “I just thought maybe the media had found out.” He seemed to relax a little, but now his face was red. Well, I had succeeded in riling him up, though not in the way I had intended.
“I understand,” I said, smiling genuinely this time, and he smiled back. He had a great smile, just like in that music video.
“So… what kind of cancer do you have?”
I was impressed; I’d gotten him from one word responses to two, to full sentences and, now, questions! We had progressed to an all-out conversation!
“Leukemia.” It wasn’t hard to say it anymore; I was used to it by now. It was a part of me, and I wasn’t self-conscious or in denial about it like I once had been.
“Oh. So, how long have you had it?”
“Almost three years… I just came out of remission though.” That part was harder to say; I wished so much that it wasn’t true. But I’d had since Christmas to get used to the idea that my cancer was back. Now I was just concentrating on getting to the point where I could say I was back in remission.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said. I didn’t want his sympathy, but at least he sounded genuine. I smiled… maybe he wasn’t such an ass after all.
“Yeah, it sucks, huh? But…” I trailed off, distracted by the sudden queasy feeling in my stomach. Oh man, this was it. I closed my eyes and lay back against my chair, trying in vain to fight it, but the nausea wasn’t going away. I could feel my breakfast oozing back up my esophagus..
“But what?” Nick asked from far away.
… the burn of stomach acid bubbling in the back of my throat…
“Claire? Are you okay?”
“Uh… just a minute,” I choked out and reached for my basin just in time to catch the contents of my stomach as I puked them up. As I retched over the basin, I couldn’t help but think of how mortifying it was to be vomiting uncontrollably in front of Nick Carter. Or at least, it would have been, if I were anyone else but me, and not too preoccupied with the uncontrollable vomiting. As it was, I was too sick to be humiliated.
Suddenly, Flora was by my side, her hand on my back. “Oh Claire, honey,” she murmured, like my mother would, but there wasn’t much she could do to help. There was such a thing as anti-nausea medication, but it never seemed to work well with me, and that was if I could keep it down. We just had to wait until the urge to vomit passed. I’d already emptied my stomach of all that had been in it; now I was just dry heaving. Finally, that stopped too, and I lay back against the chair, my stomach finally relaxing as the nausea subsided. For now, at least. I knew it would be back in full force before too long, and I was already miserable.
Remembering Nick, I looked over, wondering what his reaction to my impression of Old Faithful would be. But he wasn’t even looking at me. He, too, was leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, his face white and clammy. I recognized the look of someone who was about to either puke or pass out.
Now that she was done tending to me, Flora noticed too. “Nick? You feeling okay?”
“No,” came his weak reply, and Flora hurried over to adjust his chair, so that he was lying flat on his back, with his legs slightly raised. She told him to lie still while she got a cold compress, which she slid underneath his neck to cool him off. As I watched, I found that my empathy for him was increasing. He had a rough road ahead, and unlike me, he didn’t yet know the full extent of the misery that awaited him.
“Does that feel better?” Flora asked, and Nick responded with a yes. Some of the color came back to his cheeks, and when he opened his eyes, he looked over at me. I figured we were about even now, me puking and him almost passing out.
“You doing okay, Nick?” I asked.
“Yeah… you?”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. I always get sick from the chemo.” I paused, then figured I might as well warn him, in case no one else had. “Hate to say it, but you probably will too.”
He groaned. But sure enough, by the time my IV ran dry, he, too, had his head in a basin, puking his guts out. That was my last image of him, as I was wheeled out of the room, struggling with my own nausea, and if you’d told me then that this was the man I would fall in love with, I think I would have laughed.
But there he was. My love, my soulmate. My future.
