| |
Will I
by Miss Diagnosis
Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
Those early days after the infarction were filled with silences. The initial anger at Stacy burned out, only the ashes of his pain were left behind to consume his waking thoughts. No one seemed to have anything left to say, least of all Dr. Greg House. What could they say that would make any difference to his outcome? There was nothing he could say that they'd want to hear or that could bring back the muscles in his leg. Stacy didn't listen to him when they put him in the chemically-induced coma so he had nothing to say to her now. The nervousness, the concerned glances, they were all unwelcome. Even James Wilson soon learned his cheerleading and empathy weren't appreciated when his friend received them as dishonesty and lies. House's grief was beyond even his friend's wit and humor. His brief foray into self-pity led down a trail mired in fear of the life that lay ahead of him.
Stacy started finding reasons not to come visit him, first in the Hospital, and then with increasing frequency when he was moved to the inpatient rehab unit. Instead of cutting back her caseload to be with him, she found reasons to take on more. The smell of cigarettes gave proof to the heavy load of guilt that had become her new companion, her pack a day habit the result of his bitterness. House had no doubt when he was ready to leave rehab, it would be to return to his home alone. Only Wilson stuck with him like a moth to a quickly dying flame. He knew his oncologist friend had to have shifted a lot of his caseload to free that much time in his schedule. Left alone with his thoughts in between his rehab sessions, the fear crept in around the edges of his consciousness, eating at his strength of will like battery acid. Always so independent and self-reliant, House couldn't reach an acceptance that life had simply dealt him a bad hand.
Having to tolerate help to do everything was making life an unwanted burden. Too stubborn to use a bedpan, the first time he experienced the urgent call of nature, he was forced to let Wilson help him to the bathroom, barely making it. He didn't even have the strength to hold himself up and wipe his own ass, and he felt humiliated in spite of his friend's lack of fuss over the situation. The strength of his runner's body was betraying him, and since his sarcastic wit had always pushed people away, he was now left wondering who would care enough to be there if he couldn't help himself.
He went to rehab reluctantly, but the sight of the other inmates who were confined to wheelchairs or walking on crutches spurred him to bargain with the devil to find a way to still walk. In spite of Wilson's encouragement with every small step towards his goal, House sunk into depression. The rehab physician signed him up for group therapy, thinking that House would be able to find support from kindred spirits.
House wheeled himself to the door of the group therapy session, but held back entering the room, staying just out of sight of the open door. He listened and wasn't comforted by what he heard. The room was full of scared bastards. Where was the solidarity in that? Paraplegics, quads, blind....all of them with a disability that took away their freedom in some form or another. They could comfort each other all they wanted, but they couldn't escape the sorrow that glued them together in that circle. He turned away and went back to his room, the fear still with him.
He wasn't left alone for long. His ever present shadow appeared at the door of his room.
"Shelton said you were a no-show for group. What's up?" Wilson asked with a practiced nonchalance that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I went. I lurked. I didn't want the T-Shirt."
"You didn't give it a chance, Greg."
"You know I just love all that touchy-feely stuff. Gimps with limps, sitting in a circle, sharing their pain, ooh, I feel so much better." House muttered, turning his back on his friend.
Wilson walked into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed, his thigh purposely making contact with the back of his friend. "You can't shut it all up to fester and eat away at you," Wilson told him in a quiet voice filled with concern.
"Who asked for your psycho-pabulum anyway? I'd tell you not to let the door hit you in the ass on your way out but the damn thing slides."
"Not going anywhere. You can't bully me into thinking you want me to leave. So I won't."
A cold stillness met Wilson's stubborn refusal to leave. And yet, the trembling of the thin shoulders next to him gave proof that his persistence over the last few weeks was finally getting through to his friend.
In a rare moment of truth, the sarcastic voice melted. "Is this what it's gonna be? Pretend there's nothing to complain about? Life's closing in on me---I can't breathe. I'm sinking under the waves and don't know how to swim." House said softly, tears threatening to overflow yet stubbornly held back.
"You've got to let go of what was and start reaching for what you can have." Wilson told him, a warm hand stroking comfort up and down his friend's back.
House turned back to face his friend, no longer trying to hide his fear. "You don't know what it's like to wake up wondering if you're lost in the circle that can't be broken or a horrible nightmare."
Taking hold of his friend's hand and lacing their fingers together, Wilson let House see the affection on his face. "Call me the king of cliches, but forget about yesterday, and don't worry about tomorrow. You've got to let go of regret so you can start kicking life in the ass again."
Although House was poignantly quiet, Wilson heard the unspoken words loud and clear. "There's only us, right here, right now. I'm not letting go, Greg."
"Live to dance another day? I get to lead, I'm taller." House told him, the first hint of a smile reaching his eyes.
"Another day for me to buy you dinner. Pizza and a movie? I've got a VCR in my office."
"Beer, too, and it's a deal."
"Don't push your luck. Root beer, and I'll be back at six."
Wilson went back to work, and House fell back in the bed, still heavy with the weight of his worries. His problem was just held at bay for awhile, distracted by his friend's good intentions. And yet a lifeline had been tossed and grabbed by the man drowning in aloneness. Both the tensions of the day and the turmoil in his mind conspired against him to bring him the blessed relief of his mind's shutdown.
No other road, no other way.
No day but today.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|