" ... meanwhile, MTV and all involved with the dance competition show, 'America's Best Dance Crew' were all left reeling when one of it's judges, thirty three-year-old JC Chasez walked off stage mid-taping and was never seen or heard from for the last week. Sources from the show say that he has been on edge for the last few weeks and very desponded. Usually very social and carefree, it has raised a lot of questions about Chasez and his personal life ..."

A shaky hand reached for the dial on his radio, shutting it completely off before the voices that drifted through the speakers drove him insane. Every station from where he was (where was he again? Memphis? Milwaukee?) at that moment from New York City had been discussing his disappearing act and what could be the reason. Everything from a bitter break-up, drug use/alcoholism and family emergency had been mentioned; though, family emergency, he thought, was probably as close as anyone had gotten since the talk started.

He felt he wasn't part of his body, that he had been floating above and watching himself just go through the actions of the day without any emotions. It had probably been like that for the last week when his world finally gave and began to fall apart around him as he could only hold up walls, desperately trying to keep the foundation below him from cracking. It had only happened to him one time in his life before then, but it had been a good out-of-body experience. It was when his second official CD with his old group reached double platinum in it's first week. He felt like he could walk on water; this time, all he wanted to do was drown in it.

He could only imagine how many texts and voicemails that awaited him on his cell phone that sat, shut off, on the passenger seat of his Audi TTS Coupe, the $56,000 present he had gotten himself for his 33rd birthday in a beautiful all-black motif and, as his brother Tyler liked to call it, manned up with a stereo system that, if even put at medium-range, could break an eardrum. It was his baby, one, that as the days went by now, didn't seem so great anymore.

Nothing seemed to be.

He always credited himself to be a very observant person that could pick up things quicker than many people would after six or seven tries. He learned words mid-way through listening to the song the first time, picked up dance moves as they went along; hell, he read faces of people and could tell someone exactly what they were going to say before they had said it.

Then his doctor's appointment came.

It was as routine as he expected it to be: the faint-inducing needles for routine blood tests, heart-listening, knee-knocking-type of physical. The doctor, a nice woman who listened to every little hypochondiatic thing he would whine about, questioned him about a rather irregular bruise on his upper back. He shrugged it off, telling her it was probably from a rowdy game of tackle football that he had played the weekend before with his cousin's kids, they a particular rough bunch of preteenagers. She believed him and lowered his shirt, again asking him how his judging career was coming along. He laughed, her concered question forgotten about only moments later.

Two hours later, as he stood in his dressing room, preparing to go through the dress rehearsal before the actual taping of America's Best Dance Crew, his cell phone rang. It was unfamiliar, one that he normally would not answer, but the ring (and he could only chuckle at the time as the thought crossed his mind) sounded urgent. He just knew it was important.

"Is this Joshua Chasez?"

He remembered fidgeting with his tie at the sound of the man's voice on the other side of the line. His voice was low, strong and very, very serious. As he cleared his throat and gave him the proper acknowledgement, he suddenly wished he had not answered the phone.

"This is Doctor Ramirez, an associate with your PCP, Doctor Truman. Your blood tests have just returned from our lab with an alarming result and we need you to come down to the office as soon as possible to discuss the results with you."

He shrugged it off. Maybe he was anemic. ... that could explain him being very tired all the time. It could also be the answer as to why his appetite had somewhat diminished and he always seemed to want to wear a sweater - even in early October.

Just like that, it had been forgotten. For the next 48 hours, at least.

He was driving down a local road when he stopped at an intersection, eyes casting over towards his doctor's office and suddenly remembering they had wanted to speak with him. Having nothing else to do, he decided he'd stop in, see when they were available next and get on with his day. That didn't seem to be the result when he spoke to the receptionist, who had gotten the wide-eyed look as he stated his name and she looked in his file to get the information to put him in as an appointment the following Wednesday, she getting up and excusing herself before appearing about five minutes later with Doctor Truman in tow and who he would later learn as Doctor Ramirez.

He was ushered into the back where the real offices of the doctors' were located, sitting down in the plush, leather swivel chair as Doctors Truman and Ramirez sat at the desk and on the edge, looking at him with nothing to read on their faces.

He was stumped.

"Josh, I'm going to get right to the point," Doctor Truman said softly, she always having a soft spot for her sweet, very likeable patient. "Your blood tests are not where they need to be. When you left, I began to think of that bruise and called for the lab to run a complete blood count. Your blood came back with isolated decreases in your platelets and red blood cells; your white blood cells were also pretty low, which is uncommon."

He looked at them. He was an entertainer, not a doctor; these words meant nothing except that they were low. How would he get them back to normal? What kind of medication did he need?

"It's not that simple, Josh," she said, sighing deeply. "We need to do a complete and thorough bone marrow aspiration and biopsy."

His stumped look gave them all the more to continue on. "We need to do a procedure to withdraw your marrow through the bone and have it tested."

"Josh, we need to do this right away."

They gave him no time to consider the procedure. After a signed consent and his file faxed over to the building next to his PCP, he stood in front of the glass door that read Doctor Harry Cohen, Oncology Specialist.

Oncology.

His brain started doing laps, trying to remember what oncology meant, exactly. He knew it dealt with a disease, knew that he had heard about it before then. But where?

He took a deep breath, pushing open the door and getting hit in the face with cool air and a sterile smell that he had hoped would rid once he left. The office was sparse, only an older woman in the corner and the two receptionists behind the window in his line of eyesight.

No one had said needles were involved. Nevermind the needles being the size of a football field (okay, exaggeration), but being jabbed twice, painfully? He really hoped that it would never happen again - having needles shoved into his skin, only inches away from his backside, especially, were not going to be welcomed back. It felt as if it were hours, but as he walked out of the office and headed back to his car to grab the bottle of Propel he had left in the car to save himself from fainting and getting liquids back into his system, he went back to his own doctor's office to await the results.

And then, just like that, the hustle and bustle of the day beyond the window behind Doctor Truman, the noise behind the door in the waiting room of patients laughing, talking, some coughing, slowed, if not stopped completely.

Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

Cancer.

He did not remember leaving the doctor's office that afternoon; did not remember getting into his car and going home, putting himself to bed. He did remember though, waking up in the middle of the night and vomiting until his entire body ached.

It did not leave his brain for even one second to give his erratic thoughts a moment to breathe and settle down, to stop him from feeling so panicked and desperate. He slowly lost his appetite and for the better part of the two weeks that he withdrew from the world against his better judgement and the doctor's pushing for immediate treatment, he became a hermit and his performance on the show began to lack.

Which brought him where he was at that moment. On the middle of a highway in the middle of God knows where, depressing himself with his thoughts and wanting to runaway from the world. He wasn't ready to die, that he was certain, but he did not want to be suffering in the middle of the busiest city in the world, caught on a camera when the given would occur (his hair, gone; his bodyframe, frail), did not want to be under a microscope unless it was his blood or marrow being tested.

He was relocating to his home away from home, away from his friends, his family, the media. He needed to do this alone, even if it meant hiring a private nurse to pick his weak ass off the floor when he couldn't do so himself. He couldn't suffer when there were people around.

He couldn't win this when people were hovering over him, either.

But he knew, he knew that if he lost this fight, he was going to hate himself for not letting people in.