Joe was supposed to recover. I remember the little boy with the bald head as if I had come across him yesterday. It had been way back before I discovered my tumor and I had to visit the hospital to treat the injuries to my hand, ankle, and nose. I made friends with the children there, but I still had a special bond with little Joe, the boy who sat in the corner by himself and liked to bite people. The boy who laughed when I sat down on the jacks and made a total ass of myself and who signed my cast like he had never been more honored in his life. The boy who was also in recovery the last time I had seen him.
Outside the door I begged my dad for a moment alone with him. He promised that we would visit the other children some other time, but he wanted to know what this was all about later on. When he left, I wheeled myself carefully through the door, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise that could awaken the sleeping child. Although my wheelchair creaked and moaned despite my best efforts, Joe still remained asleep. I wondered if maybe he was in a coma or even worse, he was dead. All the same, I made my way to his beside and took his tiny hand in mine. My hands moved as though they had been ruined by arthritis but I forced the stiff fingers to curl around the little boy’s hand.
He was no longer bald, I saw, but had thick, flaming red hair. I took my other hand and ran it through, feeling the soft, smooth hair as gently as I could. Joe squeezed my hand and that told me that he could feel everything. Soon after, he was awake.
“Mama?” he mumbled without opening his eyes. His grip around my hand tightened and he could feel that it was much larger than his mother’s. Slowly he opened his eyes and before he had them all the way open, I spoke.
“No,” I informed him, “it’s me.” Deliberately, I didn’t mention my name, perhaps in hope that Joe would remember on his own.
“Nick!” he exclaimed, his eyes now wide open. We hugged each other as best we could for as long as we could. I could feel the bones in his arms rub on the bones of my back, sending tiny bolts of pain from the friction. The pain wasn’t that bad; compared to most I’ve had, it was pleasant. We regarded one another after the hug and waited until the other spoke.
“I thought you were dead,” Joe whispered, resting his heavy head on my bony shoulder. “The newslady said that you had died.”
“Which newslady?”
“The MTV newslady.”
I ground my teeth together in resentment. “All of the newscasters have been spreading crap about me. Just whatever you do, promise me that you will not believe what you hear on television or read on the Internet. Always question someone’s authority and never let anyone tell you different. I wouldn’t be here if everything on television was true.”
“I know now Nick, and I promise,” he mumbled quietly into my shoulder, “although I don’t have much time left to make these kinds of promises.”
“Hey, buddy, don’t say that...”
“Don’t flatter me Nick, ‘cause I know it’s true. I’ve known since remission that I’m gonna die. Unfortunately, only my doctors and I can admit to it. My mom keeps on clinging to this false hope she has that I’m going to live forever. I guess I can understand her; it’s hard to believe when your kid is going to die before you do.” He paused to look me in the eyes. “Just by looking at you I know you can see what’s going to happen. After the third remission I had to start believing it myself.
You know what Nick? Even though I’ve been pumping the death stuff I really think that you can win this. You’ve been through more, I know that much, but you’ve got a chance to beat this. It’s like a bully, just look it in the eyes and it will back off fast. Don’t let it be the bitch that keeps coming back.”
I could tell that the kid grew up a lot since I left. It’s corny to say it that obviously, but it’s true. His words forced me to think back to all of those times I wished that the cancer would finish devouring me. These words were coming from the mouth of a kid who didn’t want to give up what he had, no matter how shitty it really was. And then there was I; I whom was willing to throw away my chance at a healthy, normal life. On top of that, despite all I’d been through, I was only at my second remission. Some people kept on going back and forth, like Joe, but I was still only on my second, even with all of the drugs and pain. I’d probably lost more blood in that period of my life than most people do their entire lives.
The child in my arms began to cough and shudder violently, so I laid him down as gently as I could on the white hospital sheets. My mom had brought me my blanket from home, because I was always complaining about sleeping in hospital sheets. When she mentioned she would get my blanket from home, I specifically requested that she retrieve it from my bedroom in her house, not from the bedroom in my LA house. She asked me why and I told her simply that it was because those sheets were white too.
I wondered briefly when little Joe had made the switch from the public hospital to the privatized one. There were many people in this privatized facility that asked me why I had come to a hospital with “other people” in the first place. Maybe they thought I was trying to humble myself because that facility wasn't a special one adapted just for me. If my parents had enough money I probably would have spent the rest of my time in my own clinic. Even if that were so, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, and I wouldn’t have had the same experiences.
The money issue had left my parents devastated. Because of all the money I spent on drugs, my bank account had been turned into Swiss Cheese. On top of that, my parents had used their income to pay off my credit card, which I had used to get cash for drugs. The rest of the money was either used to find me or to feed my siblings’ starving careers.
After I left, my family fell apart – Aaron basically stopped functioning I was told, until I came back. After I did come back, as you know, he refused to see me because I wasn’t who I used to be. The other three members of my family came to me every now and then, but I could tell that there still was some tension between us. Ever since Aaron started his career, I’ve been a lot closer to him, especially when we’re on tour. My three sisters never got over that and it broke my heart. It felt like someone had gorged out my heart and mutilated it with their bare hands for that matter.
Seeing my family this torn only slowed my healing process. Instead of being supportive of my recovery like they should have been, they pushed me backward by avoiding me because my mom was behaving like a dictator. As a result, everyone feared and dreaded their visits with me. You could only imagine how depressed I was when I found out that my own family didn’t want me.
When did I first find this out? Well, I heard nurses talking (when they thought I was sleeping) about my family and their consistent neglect when I was in a coma. They chatted about how one nurse used to sit by my bed every single day, at least twice, and just take my hand between both of hers. Then she would pray for me to get well on behalf of my family. I’ve never met her and I never will, but I still thank her for finally waking me. On the topic of regretting, it appears to be the main theme of my past.
Then, to top all that crap off, there were the guys. They had abandoned me, and I missed them terribly. I just wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Touring seemed like a faint memory – something that had passed through time and was now completely free from my grasp. Although touring was tiring, tedious work, we had fun doing it. People were happy, we were happy – it was all good. I remember each experience as if I was doing each experience while thinking of it. My first trip to a strip club with Kevin, my newfound fascination with toys stuffed with beans, being swarmed by thousands upon thousands of people who adore me and the high I received whenever I performed. It’s a shame that it had to all end for everyone because we were all supposed to be about longevity.
Speaking of performing, I did manage to get over my embarrassing fear of Nsync fans. My psychologist helped me with that in the strangest way you could imagine. He taught me self-defense. It was great because it wouldn’t hurt the attacker (I can’t hit a girl! Come on!) and it wouldn’t involve me throwing out my fragile back flipping somebody over my shoulder. Most of the time I can’t even stand by myself. What he did teach me was system based on pressure points on the neck and back. I won’t go into details because the secret is MINE now (screw you Doc!) but the effect does render my victims unconscious for up to a half an hour. If you’re lucky, the police should be able to make it on time if you’ve apprehended a criminal. But, I’m not making you any promises.
Sometimes my psychologist is good to me. For example; when he was teaching me the pressure points, he gave me this huge book to look into. When I finally had the technique down, he let me practice on him until I managed to force him out of consciousness. He stayed out for fifteen minutes that time because I wasn’t really pressing as hard as I could.
Another example of my psychologist actually doing something useful for me is this: he gets me to stop fearing anything. Now I don’t fear those wretched Nsync fans because of the pressure point technique and because of one intense counseling session with the Doc. Our conversation went, as my memory serves me correctly, like this:
Me: “I’m not afraid of anything.”
Doc: “Then why are you here?”
Me: “. . .”
Doc: “What are you afraid of?”
Me: “. . .”
Doc: “I won’t tell a soul, that’s why I’m here. I’m like a priest during confession, but my results are a little more productive. Now, tell me about your fears. How do you feel right now?” (It was just like Doc to compare himself to someone like a priest. He once compared himself to Napoleon – but that’s a whole other story…).
Me: “I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me.”
Doc: “Progress! Congratulations Mr. Carter, you’ve just confessed your first fear!”
I lift an eyebrow at Doc’s unexpected outburst.
Doc: “But I won’t laugh at you.”
Me: “It’s not exactly a common fear…”
Doc: “What do you mean?”
Me: “Well, it’s eccentric. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Doc: “Tell me about it.”
Me: “Only if you tell me your fears first.”
Doc: “Well, I used to fear heights until I started bungee jumping.”
I motion for him to continue.
Doc: “That’s it.”
Me: “That didn’t make me feel any better.”
Doc: “Let’s see if I can guess your fear. If I actually get it, you have to promise to be honest.”
Me: “I’m confident that you won’t get it, so go ahead.”
Doc: “Is it a type of animal?”
I laugh.
Me: Maybe you ought to be more specific. . .”
Doc: Lizards – amphibians of any kind?”
Me: “No.”
Doc: “Large mammals?”
Me: “Like bears and stuff?”
Doc: “Yes.”
Me: “Nope.”
Doc: “Cold-blooded creatures, like whales?”
Me: “Not really.”
Doc: “People?”
Me: “Kinda.”
(He’s getting a little too close. I hadn’t expected him to pass the game so quickly. If he guesses, I don’t know if I should keep the promise and tell him or drop it and lie...)
Chapter 55
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