I thought that the nurses didn’t know who I was, so it was cool until one of them asked for an autograph. I tried hard not to look sad, because I was lonely and I didn’t want people to talk to me because of who I was. Also, I was afraid I would be kicked out of the group if I wasn’t nice to everybody, no matter the condition.
I finished eating, which was harder than I thought it would be, and I excused myself. It felt like I’d eaten rocks and that they were stuck in my stomach. The nurses apologized to me about not being able to get me a nicer room. I waved it off though, because apparently I was lucky I even got a room. They told me some patients had to sleep in stretchers in the hallways. That made me feel bad and guilty, until I thought about the man. He deserved a room less than I did, because he’d get stoned on a whim and then gets a hospital room on top of it. Talk about major injustices.
When I got back to the room, the man was sitting cross-legged on my bed. He was wearing his clothes this time – thank God – but he wore this angry expression on his face.
“Where did you go? You can’t go anywhere without telling me, I forbid it,” he crossed his arms and tried to look scary. For him it wasn’t that hard, believe me.
“Get off my bed,” I commanded, getting up off of the wheelchair. I carefully held the back of my hospital gown and limped over to the bed.
“You talk!” he exclaimed, leaping off of the bed and jumping so close to me that I had to take a step back.
The food I’d eaten had made me tired, so I tried to get away from the guy before the moment passed.
“I’m tired, can you please move?” I asked him nicely. I was too tired to put up with his games, so he was lucky that he moved or I would’ve pulled out my guns.
He watched me limp to bed and get in. It was a difficult maneuver because I had to hold on to my hospital gown and stay off of my sore foot. I managed to do it by sitting down on the bed so that I was facing him. That way I could take my hand away from the back of the hospital gown. I had to lift my legs into the bed that’s how little strength I had.
When I’d covered myself up, I heard the man step closer to my bed. “What?” I asked him. I was getting really annoyed because I wanted to sleep.
“What’s wrong with you? I mean why are you here?” the man looked very serious and concerned.
“I don’t know yet.” I could afford to tell him the truth. If I had known then if I had cancer for sure, I wouldn’t have told him. It was none of his business.
“Oh, I was expecting you to say “none of your business” or something snotty like that. Not that you’re a snot!” he corrected himself, waving his arms around. Then he changed the subject. “It’s so hard when ya dunno. So ya gotta shove some dough up doctor’s ass, get some answers.”
I was starting to drift away and the man took off behind the curtain. I fell asleep for a good long time; maybe it was worth it to eat that much after all.
When I woke up, I noticed that I had a visitor. At first I suspected that it was the man, and he’d pulled a seat up next to my bed. But when my eyes began to focus, I saw that it was really Denise. It wasn’t like I was happy to see her, because I was afraid she’d make me do the tour for some reason. Generally, people aren’t supposed to happy to see Denise because suddenly she had turned all business.
“Hello Nick,” was the first thing she said to me. By her tone of voice, I could tell that she wasn’t too happy to see me either.
I got up so that I was in a sitting position and I looked in her direction. For a moment I thought I saw pity in her eyes, but its presence was weak. She had something in her hand and she was tapping it on her leg. It was a magazine, but I didn’t know of what. I only thought the worst, and the worst was what I got.
“What the hell is this Nick?” she screamed at me and pointed to the paper. She threw it into my face and I didn’t expect it so it made full contact. I let it drop and put my hands to my face. She told me to stop being a baby and look at it.
I looked to my left and saw that she had brought me some clothes. That surprised me; I didn’t think that she would care that much. But I decided I wouldn’t mention it until I looked because I was afraid that she wouldn’t give it to me. I assume a lot of things sometimes.
The magazine was a tabloid, and I didn’t think that Denise would make a big deal about something in a tabloid. It was face down, so I turned over. I wished I hadn’t though. Even though it was so long ago now, it was the one thing that stuck out in my mind more than anything else. I’d never experienced such cruelty in my life and I have yet to sue them. Not for the money, like most people may think, but for the revenge, the justice. Maybe you’ll understand this if I tell you what was the cover. Sorry for the cliffhanger, but this hard for me to say even now.
In writing that screamed at me the cover said “Does Nick Carter Have a Breast?” and there was a picture of me about to pass out. They had circled my tumor and enlarged it in the picture. They’d even moved it over a bit to make it look like a breast.
Under the headline it said in smaller letters “The REAL reason why Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys fainted.” I couldn’t look in the inside, I felt like throwing up just from the cover.
Denise was still giving me the evil eye in the corner and I wanted to tell her that it was wrong. I wanted to show her the lump, which she could probably see from under my hospital gown. But I couldn’t; I didn’t have the guts to do it.
“Show it to me Nick, prove them wrong,” she commanded coming closer to the bed. I just stared at her though; this blank stare that cut right through her. I liked my blank stare, with it I couldn’t see her and I couldn’t see her mad at me. But as usual I snapped out of it and started to tear the magazine apart page by page, starting with the cover. I did a thorough job and only stopped for a second to fuel up with anger when I saw a page that said “Breast surgeries gone wrong, could Nick Carter’s be one of them?” I never supported tabloids and I guess I had a better reason to hate them then. The paper started to cut into my fingers and my fingers were getting sore. But I wouldn’t stop until I finished the job completely.
By the time I was done, which didn’t take very long, my hospital bed and the floor beside it was completely covered with paper. My breathing had increased in my rage and it felt good to physically tear the lies apart.
“You thought you had it all figured out didn’t you!” Denise screamed at me, “Well I’ve got news for you buddy, if you don’t come up with some answers for your “boss” I won’t feel sorry for you if you lose your fucking job! What the HELL Nick! What the hell?” After that dramatic speech she stormed off and left me with one of the most difficult decisions of my life. In fact, at a point I felt as though it wasn’t worth living the last days of my life as a slave to my management. Plus, I still felt betrayed by everyone, including my fans. They were everywhere and they always wanted something. Somehow that was a crime to do to me then.
For a long while I just sat there, looking at the shreds of paper with my head hung low. I even got up to search through the bag Denise had left me. I’m sure that she wouldn’t have left it if she weren’t in such a hurry to make a dramatic exit.
The bag was small, so she couldn’t put much stuff in it in the first place. I found a pair of boxers and slipped them on quickly so that the woman across from me wouldn’t see. She probably saw anyway, because she was smiling.
After I put them on, I shook the shreds of paper off of the blanket and crawled back into the bed. At first I wondered why I didn’t cry like at the concert, but I figured out that I was in shock. After I crawled into the bed and looked at the paper on the floor I started to cry again. There was no one to tell me to stop, so I turned so that my face was buried in the hard pillow and I cried.
I cried longer than ever before, for hours, but I didn’t want to stop. It was relaxing in a way and I didn’t care if I looked like a wimp. I was certain that these people didn’t know who I was, so I just did as I pleased.
When I stopped, it was the evening. I sort of turned my head to the side so that it wasn’t in the pillow and felt the cold air rush onto my tears. I didn’t feel bad, even so I cried because I was lonely. The thought that no one cares can be a scary one sometimes. And that’s how I felt; I felt like my life was a job and I had to do it. I thought all about taking control over my life from then on and if that meant getting plastic surgery then so be it. Even now I still have kept my own promise and I have the control of my life that I needed so urgently before.
The nurse had left my supper on the trolley, so I took it down and started eating it. It was cold, but surprisingly it was still quite good. I guess I must have been getting special food because the nurses knew who I was. I hoped that the food would make me sleepy again so that I could sleep on my second night here.
Midway through my supper, I saw the man poke his head through the curtain. I gave him this aggravated look but he approached me anyway.
“Who is that bitch, your mother?” he asked me.
Even though I didn’t feel like answering, I did anyway. “No,” I said, “That’s my friend’s mom.”
“Whoa, and you let that bitch talk to you like that? You’re Nick Carter, you can slap a lawsuit faster than…”
I cut him off. “What did you say?”
“I know who you are funny man! That be why I’m so nice to you! Everyone knows who you are.”
I was starting to get a relapse; I could feel the tears pouring down my face. It was still sore from me wiping it so often, so every tear stung. I put my tray on the floor and stared straight ahead. The tears ran freely and I let them stain my hospital gown.
“Oh gee, man I’m sorry, I thought you knew! I was just joking; I’m honestly nice to you because I like you. And I can prove that I’m sober too!” he laughed and I turned my head slowly to him with this serious expression on my face. I must have been a sight with my puffy red eyes and my soaking face.
“Okay that wasn’t funny. I understand that. How about this one; it’s a story about my big bro Danny. Okay, uh, once upon a time, my big bro Danny got high off of a shitload of shrooms. Uh, he couldn’t get home from a party other than to drive his car home; and he was too high to care. So he’s like driving, and uh, he thinks his car is an airplane. He’s too high to care where he’s going and plus he thinks the whole street is like, the sky. Then he crashes into the ditch but he thinks it’s a cloud so he keeps going. There’s mud jamming up his breaks so he can’t stop. So keeps going and ends up somewhere in the police station. Hauled his ass for twenty years.”
It was a nice try, I’ll give him that, but it wasn’t funny. He made me feel better though, because the police finally did their job right. Or maybe I shouldn’t pin it all on them; I should be blaming the law.
Anyway, he could tell that it wasn’t all that funny, so he took off behind the curtain. I was glad too, because I was actually feeling tired.
I woke up at ten thirty the next morning, which is pretty late for me, to find a couple of doctors at my bedside. Moments later, I was convinced to come with them to get some tests done. I knew what they were for, but I didn’t mention that to them. They should know that they have to tell a patient what they’re up against.
Chapter 12
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