Tracking Time Part 2
Sep. 5th, 2005 01:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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2000
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When word came down that Wilson had been granted tenure -- becoming the youngest tenured doctor on staff -- House was still an inpatient at PPTH’s rehab wing.
“Don’t you have something else you should be doing, like moving into your new office?” House asked when Wilson showed up that night.
Wilson knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that House had heard. House may not have many friends, but he always had an inside line on hospital gossip, much of it garnered by loitering around various nurses’ stations and doctors’ lounges. But that system had been shut down to him for weeks now. Stacy may have told him, but then the official list wouldn’t be sent out until the first of the month.
“Do you know, it turns out there’s something called ‘staff’ at the hospital that can actually do things for you,” Wilson replied, settling down into his usual seat and dropping his bag onto a table. “Some people actually prefer to delegate responsibilities.”
“Sure, but then you never know where they’ll put your stuff.”
“If you didn’t try so hard to piss off the janitors, they might not try so hard to lose your toys.”
“I prefer to think of it as a little game we play. I say something, they take offense, they somehow forget where they’ve moved something during cleaning and I have to find it. It’s not retribution, it’s a challenge.” House was silent for a moment, shifted slightly in the chair. “God, it’s going to be a bitch finding anything when I get back.”
At least today House was talking about when he’d return to work, rather than if he would. Wilson took that as a sign that the therapy had gone well today. House had also opted for one of the easy chairs in his room. Some nights Wilson would come in to find House stretched out on the bed, awake but barely responding unless asked a direct question. Those nights, they’d both stare at the television, Wilson occasionally making a comment on whatever show happened to be on the screen, House grunting out an answer, if he bothered to take note of it at all.
House had the set tuned in to a reality show Wilson knew had been in the news. He turned his attention away from Wilson to comment at the naked man on the screen and Wilson took the opportunity to study his friend.
Wilson had been at a conference when the infarction was diagnosed. He and House were supposed to go for a run the morning he left, but House begged off, saying his leg was a bit stiff.
“You gonna wuss out on me?” Wilson taunted.
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to take your place in the foursome at the tournament, and I don’t want you bitching that I didn’t come through,” House said. “I’m just trying to collect on your bet with McGreevy.”
“A hundred bucks,” Wilson reminded him. “Cash. Ignore him if he says he’ll pay up later. It took me six weeks to collect last time.”
Stacy called four days later, catching him just before he was slated to give his presentation. House was in surgery -- his first surgery, the one to remove the clot. It was clear from the moment she said Wilson’s name that something was wrong. She stammered out an apology, began one sentence, stopped herself, and started over. He could scarcely believe it was the same woman who had always spoken directly, who prided herself on her ability to think on her feet and win over every jury during closing arguments.
Wilson got the story in bits and pieces. Stacy apologized again.
“I wanted to call you,” she said. “But Greg said I shouldn’t bother you, that you were giving a keynote and that there was nothing you could do anyway.”
“Who’s overseeing his treatment now?” One of the conference organizers was signaling to him, trying to get his attention.
“Lisa Cuddy. I don’t know her that well, neither does Greg.” Wilson could hear her take a drink of something, and waited her out while Stacy paused. “She said he might be better off with an amputation.”
The word echoed through Wilson’s head for a few moments and he leaned forward, rested his head against his hand, elbow propped up on his knee. He could see the conference organizer pacing the length of the speaker ready room, glancing at his watch.
“And Greg refused,” Wilson said.
“Mmm hmm. Said he stood a better chance of saving his leg this way.”
“He’s right, but then depending on the extent of muscle damage, Cuddy may be right too.” Wilson considered his options, gestured again to the organizer to keep the man calm.
“Listen, I’ll check on flights, see how soon I can get back there. It probably won’t be until tomorrow, though,” Wilson warned. “In the meantime, just hang in there. Greg’s a better doctor even doped up than a lot of other ones sober.”
“What about Dr. Cuddy? Can I trust her?”
“Yeah, sure,” Wilson reassured her. “I’ve worked with her before, and we’re on some committees together. She knows what she’s doing, but if you're worried, call me. Hell, call me once House is out of surgery. And I’ll give you a call once I’ve got a flight booked.”
“OK.”
“And tell House I’m going to kick his ass when I get back. He could have given me the perfect opportunity to get out of this gig, if he’d just let you call.”
“You’ll have to stand in line.” Stacy seemed calmer now, but Wilson knew she could hide her emotions nearly as well as House. “And it’s a very long line.”
“Yeah, well you and I get special dispensation to cut into the front of the line, just for putting him with him on a daily basis.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and Wilson saw the organizer headed his way.
“Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be there soon, OK?”
“Yeah.”
“And thanks for the call.”
Wilson was right. He wouldn’t be able to get a flight out of the resort town until morning, and even then had to pull strings to get a seat, using the excuse of a medical emergency requiring his attention. He barely remembered giving the speech, thinking only about how House had told him to spice up a section here or trim another part later on. His colleagues praised it regardless. He only remembered the brief message handed to him just before the panel discussion: “Out of surgery. Looks good so far.”
He packed and repacked that night, trying to make sure he was carrying nothing that would slow him down in the airport. He ditched the thank you gift the organizers gave him to make sure he wouldn’t have to waste time checking luggage. He left a message for Stacy with his flight plans. She answered the third time he called.
“How’s he doing?”
“God, James, it’s ...”
“Stace? You OK?” Wilson could hear her breathing, shaky. He heard her draw in one quick breath, then another.
“I’m here. It’s just ... I didn’t think it would be this bad. God, James, he’s in so much pain. I’ve never ...” she trailed off again.
“They’ve got him on IV morphine?”
“Yeah. They say they can’t give him any more.”
“It’s going to take time,” Wilson tried to reassure her with words he wasn’t certain he could believe himself. “Greg’s tough, you know that.”
“James, you don’t know. You can’t see him.”
Wilson felt a chill. He wondered again whether he should just rent a car, drive through the night to get someplace else, someplace he could gain an hour or two on the travel time.
“I’m sorry.” Stacy interrupted his thoughts. “I know you’d be here if you could. I don’t think you could do anything different, but it’d be good to have you here, you know?”
Wilson sank down onto the bed in his empty hotel room, looked out the window at the deepening darkness in the surrounding mountains.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Listen, I’m going to head back in there. I’ll have my cell, but I won’t be able to keep it on all the time. I’ll let you know if anything changes, though.”
“Or just call if you need to talk,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry about what time it is. Greg never does.”
“Thanks, James. I’ll see you soon.”
Wilson listened to her line disconnect. He held the phone in his hand a minute longer before hanging it up. Nearly 9 p.m. there. Nearly 11 p.m. in Princeton. The flight wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m.
He counted down the hours, then dug into his bag again, looking for something to do. He found sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the gym. Five treadmills, no waiting.
It was 2 a.m. before he dropped into anything like sleep. He tossed and turned for maybe an hour before bolting awake, something prodding him up, a half-remembered dream of House, running along one of Wilson’s favorite street loops and a car veering off the pavement, straight in his direction as Wilson watched, and Wilson unable to reach House in time to pull him out of the way. He lay back down, staring at the blank ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow. Another 20 minutes and he gave up, started the in-room coffee maker and hit the shower.
Wilson successfully fought the urge the pick up the phone and call a half-dozen times. He actually made the call just as often. He’d ring through to Stacy’s cell phone, only to have it bump into voice mail. He left a message the first two times, but didn’t bother after that. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He knew the cell wouldn’t be allowed in the ICU.
Too often in his career, Wilson had needed to calm down a parent, a spouse, a daughter or son. He’d convince them they needed to let the doctors do their work, and assure them that they should try to relax and instead focus their energy on positive thoughts, prayers, whichever seemed more appropriate. Now here he was, with a friend who needed him, and nothing he could do.
He left for the airport more than two hours early, and the terminal wasn’t even open yet when he arrived. He paced the sidewalk in front and watched the lights come on inside. He saw the ticket agents open up. He was first to the counter, with nothing to check in. Even the tiny coffee shop was closed and Wilson settled for walking loops around the tiny baggage claim area. He tried Stacy’s number again. Listened to it ring: four times, five times. He was about to hang up when he heard her answer, her voice soft and uncertain.
“Stacy? It’s James. I’m at the airport and I should be headed your way soon. How’s he doing?”
“I’m going to lose him James,” her voice came back thin and distorted over the cellular connection. “God. I think I’m going to lose him.”
“What? What happened? What’s going on?”
Stacy’s answers came back in a combination of layman’s terms and clinical language, but it was clear that the muscle death was worse than House had hoped and the delicate balance of medications he needed was overwhelming his team. Wilson could feel the waves of despair building one after another. He knew it would be worse for Stacy, but could barely manage to keep his own head above the flood.
“A minute,” he said.
“At least,” Stacy confirmed. “Felt like forever.”
Cardiac arrest. House had left him -- had left them all -- for a minute. Wilson could picture the familiar outlines of a treatment room, he knew where the equipment would have been stored. He knew the process of running a code, he could the medical team working to restart a patient’s heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to picture House as the patient.
Wilson could sense that the airport was beginning to buzz with the start of a new day. He knew there were other people around him, but felt alone and adrift. The telephone and the voice on the other end the only things that were real.
“How is he now? Has he been awake?”
“They’ve got him stabilized again, but James, he’s in so much pain. It’s not getting better and he still won’t authorize the surgery. He’s got this idea about a chemically-induced coma, to let him sleep through the pain.”
“It could work.” Wilson considered the concept. “At least it might give him a chance to ride it out, if they can keep everything else monitored.”
“But they couldn’t handle it last time. He was the one who caught it and God only knows what will happen now.”
Wilson could see the case laid out for him. The alternatives. The best chance for the limb. The best chance for survival. He knew what he would recommend.
“He’s still against the, the ,,,” Wilson couldn’t bring himself to say the word: Amputation. Instead he let the sentence hang there, but Stacy caught his meaning.
“No. I’ve tried. I’ve begged.”
“Try again.”
“James, he won’t listen to me.”
“Don’t give him a choice. Tell him he’s going to have to have the surgery. He may back off if you force him into a corner.”
“Or he may fight harder.”
“Stacy, listen. He could do it for you. You’re the only one who could force him into it. He listens to you. Just don’t let him think he’s got a choice.”
“If I don’t give him a choice.”
“Exactly.”
Wilson would replay the conversation later in his head, consider what he’d said. What she’d decided. He was certain now that something in her tone had changed just there. That she’d made up her mind. Become certain about something. At the time, he passed it off as confidence, that she’d seen how she could talk into the amputation and save his life.
As it was, he’d hung up when Stacy said she needed to get back to House, continued pacing until the flight and spent half the air time standing near the galley, tapping at the plastic trim and trying to distract his imagination.
He had a text message from Cuddy waiting for him when he turned on his cell phone at the airport in Newark that House had gone into surgery. He ignored every speed limit on the drive back to Princeton, constantly changing lanes to try and get to the hospital a few minutes faster.
He grabbed the closest space in the parking garage, not caring who it belonged to, and raced up to the surgical floor, still unable to decide if he was grateful his friend was alive, or horrified at the thought of House undergoing amputation. He saw Cuddy first. She was dressed in scrubs and sneakers, so different from her normal power suits or lab coat.
She told him about Stacy’s decision, how she had used her medical power of attorney and taken charge for House’s care and that he was undergoing debridement as they were speaking. Wilson had thought nothing could shock him any more. He was wrong.
“And you just, what, went along with this?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Cuddy protested. “I got her to wait for a while, see if his stats improved, but they were getting worse, and she has the power of attorney.”
Wilson knew she was right. Knew he would have been forced into the same action, at least legally.
“Besides,” Cuddy continued. “Whether I agree with her or not, she probably saved his life.”
He and Stacy were both with House when he woke up. He watched House’s face from across the room. Saw him go through the post-anesthesia fog, saw his eyes register confusion and surprise, then lock on Stacy’s face as Cuddy was left to explain what had happened, the extent of muscle removed. House said nothing until Cuddy asked him about his pain level. He seemed to consider it for a minute, closing his eyes and finally turning away from Stacy.
“It’s better,” he said. “Not bad. Maybe, I guess, a three.”
“OK. I’ll see about adjusting the morphine again, see where we need to take it from here.”
House just nodded and Cuddy gathered up her files and excused herself.
Wilson didn’t know what kind of a reaction he expected from House. Anger? Resentment? But he saw nothing -- not then anyway. Whatever was going through House just now, he wasn’t telegraphing any signs. Stacy wasn’t saying anything either. Just sat next to the bed, watching him, holding his hand.
Wilson wanted to stay, but could see that Stacy was desperate for time alone with House. “I better check in at my office.” He pushed himself away from the window where he’d been leaning.
“You were someplace,” House said, searching his memory past the confusion of the past week. “Conference. Idaho? Someplace with fly fishing rather than golf.”
“Wyoming.”
“Hmmm. Catch anything?”
“Would you believe me if I said I did?”
“Maybe. You’re a lousy liar.”
“I never lie about the important stuff.” Wilson hesitated a moment or two longer before heading to the door. “Anyway, gotta make some calls.”
“See?” House’s voice was soft but Wilson could still hear it as he slipped out the door. “Lousy liar.”
Two days later, House asked Wilson to stay behind when Stacy left after her lunch break.
With House stable and in recovery, Stacy had even returned to work, but begged off any potential court time to instead stick close to House from her office.
He was doing better. Looking better, too, although they were still trying to find the right combination of medications to control his pain. Wilson was beginning to believe that the pain could no longer be written off as post-op, but rather a chronic condition, though he hadn’t discussed it yet with House, Stacy or Cuddy.
For that matter, he hadn’t had time to speak to House alone. Either Stacy was there, one of the nursing staff interrupted or -- often -- House was asleep or so zoned out that he could barely follow the conversation.
Stacy looked back from the door at the bed when House asked Wilson if he had a minute, shifting her gaze between the two of them.
“Go ahead,” House told her. “We’ve got important stuff to talk about. Guy stuff.”
“It may involve fart jokes,” Wilson added. “Action movies. Blowing stuff up.”
“Carmen Electra.”
Stacy rolled her eyes and walked off. House watched her leave before turning to Wilson.
“Don’t ask,” House warned.
“OK. Don’t ask what exactly?”
“How I’m doing, how I’m feeling. How I’m,” House let out an exaggerated sigh. “Coping.”
“OK.”
“Because everyone asks. Everyone. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, Cuddy. I feel like I have to have a nine-page statement ready on my state of health -- both mental and physical -- every time Stacy walks in the room.”
Wilson settled himself into the chair Stacy normally occupied, slouched down and propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress.
“Hate to break it to you, pal, but in case you haven’t noticed, this is a hospital. You’ve got to expect a few health questions to pop up from time to time.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious, I had taken that into account.”
“So, what, you want to talk sports? Because the Mets still can’t beat the Braves, and that’d actually be a depressing subject. I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Or maybe college football,” House suggested. “But then sooner or later someone would bring up Princeton, and I’m not about to enter that tunnel of suckitude without some decent tequila at hand.”
“Or indecent tequila.”
“The best kind.”
Wilson looked out the window through the half-open blinds. Blue sky, a few clouds. Heat was building up with predictions of temperatures in the 90s before the afternoon was out. He stole a quick glance at House. House was staring up at the ceiling. His face was thinner than normal, almost gaunt. Stacy had worried that he wasn’t eating and Wilson had tried to assure her that he would, once his appetite returned.
“I need to see it,” House said, turning from the ceiling to Wilson. “My leg. To really see it, without nurses or Cuddy or Stacy standing there, waiting to see what kind of a reaction I’d have. I’ll need some help.”
Wilson nodded. “I’ll get some supplies.” He put his feet on the floor, pushed himself out of the chair. “If you’re ready now?”
House was looking up at the ceiling again, but nodded. Wilson gathered everything he’d need to remove the bandages and replace them, then stopped off at the nurses station to warn them not to disturb them.
House had raised the head of the bed, so he was sitting nearly upright. Wilson slid the door closed behind him, closed the blinds.
Wilson placed the supplies on the bedside table, went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Everything done according to procedure, but he realized he was also delaying the moment. If House was ready, though, he would be too.
He moved the table up to the side of the bed. House had already pulled the sheets back. Wilson could see the remnants of an inked message along the length of the limb, appearing out from the edge of the bandage that covered much of the thigh, extending down to House’s ankle.
Wilson picked up the scissors and looked at House. House just nodded.
A few moments later, the gauze was stripped back and there it was. The long line of the incision, the cross-tie of black stitches. Medically speaking, it looked good. No sign of infection. Everything as he would have expected it.
But forget expectations. The leg looked pale, the shaved skin only adding to its alien nature. There was a depression where there should be a swell of muscle. House slid his hand down along the edge of his thigh, gingerly touching the flesh on either side of the incision.
Wilson stepped back to the end of the bed, giving House what privacy he could. On the other side of the door, he could see someone going over charts at the nurses’ station. Another nurse was walking slowly down the hall with a patient, guiding him while wheeling the IV pole along. He looked across the room again at the window. Clouds were beginning to form, raising the chance of a summer thunderstorm.
He heard House shift and looked back at the bed. House was sitting back now. Eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight.
“Done?”
House just nodded. Wilson reapplied the bandages and wrapped the leg with gauze, apologizing when he heard House grunt as he shifted the leg.
“It’s OK,” House said. He didn’t bother opening his eyes.
Wilson finished his work, gathered up the supplies , and paused at the door.
“I need to get back to work,” he said. “I’ll stop by again later.”
House nodded again, and Wilson slid the door shut behind him.
A week after House’s final surgery, he was released to the PT specialists. Stacy had questioned the move, since Cuddy’s team was still trying to find the right pain medication, but both Cuddy and Wilson assured her that it was time.
“Rehab’s all about pain,” House muttered as the staff settled him into his new room. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
Wilson wasn’t certain who he was trying to convince. He had scouted out the staff before House even arrived. He’d seen most of them around the medical complex before, knew their reputations. Had even handed off patient care to them often enough -- bone cancer survivors trying to balance their joy at still being alive with the reality that they’d lost a limb in the process.
He’d brought the head of the department over to meet House a few days before the transfer, then bought him lunch as they compared notes about the team.
“What about Ford?” Wilson had suggested. “I’ve heard good feedback from patients about him.”
“Ford’s good,” Ed Ransom agreed. “But his style tends to be a little heavy on the motivational speeches. Something tells me that’s definitely ...”
“Not House,” Wilson agreed.
House had banned everyone from his therapy sessions. Wilson obeyed. Stacy snuck in one time, only to end up crying on Wilson’s shoulder when he found her hiding out in House’s empty office.
A day later, he took her to Ransom’s office where together they talked about ways they’d need to adapt the condo, about construction companies that specialized in retrofitting bathrooms.
Wilson concentrated on getting his work done during regular work hours -- a schedule either of his wives would have admired if he’d managed it for them. He’d clock out at a little past 7 p.m., paperwork in order. He got into the habit of driving offsite to pick up either fast food or take-out at some of House’s favorite haunts in case he’d be able to tempt him into eating.
House’s appetite had suffered with every change in his pain medication. One dosage might leave him nauseated, another strip away any sense of hunger at all, a third leave him in so much pain he didn’t want to eat, and yet another make him so groggy he rather sleep than eat.
Wilson made it to House’s room a little before 8 o’clock most nights, about the time Stacy headed home. Sometimes they crossed paths, but it seemed lately that Wilson was seeing less of her. He assumed she was overseeing the renovations.
“I smell something fried,” House said from his chair as the television show went to a commercial break, forcing Wilson’s attention back to the present. “Nothing good, I hope.”
“I’ve been reading up on the latest research on deep-fried cheese products. It’s all the rage.” Wilson handed over the bag from the Wok-Thru, a cheap Chinese take-out House had introduced him to shortly after they’d met. “Don’t eat all the General Tso’s.”
“You always wimp out on the spices anyway,” House said as he dug through the bag. “Did you get the crab meat?”
“You didn’t notice the grease blot the size of Jersey?”
“A lot of things could have done that,” House protested, then pulled out a waxed paper container, nearly transparent from the oil. “This is more like it.”
He broke apart the crisp won ton to reveal the center, then popped it into his mouth.
Wilson opened a foam clamshell and the smell of chilis and MSG spilled out, temporarily overwhelming the odor of antiseptic cleaners and medical supplies. He dug into the chicken and tried not to let House catch him as he monitored how much House ate. Most nights he took home nearly as much as he brought. He’d need to clean out his refrigerator soon.
“There’s hot and sour soup too,” Wilson pointed out as House broke open another won ton. He was satisfied to see House reach for the bag to root out the cup and a plastic spoon.
“So where’s the new office going to be?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not even official for a couple of weeks.” He considered the possibilities and took another bite of the chicken. “Probably on the sixth floor, though.”
“God, those ones are tiny,” House said, setting the cup down. Wilson fought the urge to nag him to eat more. He’d heard enough Jewish mother comments already. “The admin assistants on five have more space.”
“They have ...” Wilson considered his words. “Character.”
“They have crappy ventilation systems.”
“The windows actually open.”
“Which will come in handy in January when the boiler starts pumping all the heat for the entire wing into your closet.”
“Office.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
“Keep it up, pal, and I won’t invite you to the office warming party.”
House quieted for a bit, began tearing the napkin into long strips. “I don’t know if I’ll be ready by the time you move in.”
“I’m not in any rush.” Wilson set aside his own food and stretched out his legs. “It’ll wait.”
“The department will want to mark the occasion right away,” House pointed out. “You should celebrate. You did good.”
“Thanks.”
House picked up the soup again, took another spoonful, “Of course if you really want to impress them, I’d suggest having the party at that strip club over on Fourth.”
“I thought for sure you would have gone for Chesty LaRue’s on 12th.”
“Nah, Deja Va Voom’s got a third pole installed now I hear. Now they’re pulling in all the high class acts.”
“Strippers with a heart of gold.”
“And breasts of saline.”
“The wonders of modern medicine.”
“Yeah.” Wilson saw the emotion flash across House’s face -- anger, frustration -- for just a moment. “Where would we be without it?”
2000
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When word came down that Wilson had been granted tenure -- becoming the youngest tenured doctor on staff -- House was still an inpatient at PPTH’s rehab wing.
“Don’t you have something else you should be doing, like moving into your new office?” House asked when Wilson showed up that night.
Wilson knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that House had heard. House may not have many friends, but he always had an inside line on hospital gossip, much of it garnered by loitering around various nurses’ stations and doctors’ lounges. But that system had been shut down to him for weeks now. Stacy may have told him, but then the official list wouldn’t be sent out until the first of the month.
“Do you know, it turns out there’s something called ‘staff’ at the hospital that can actually do things for you,” Wilson replied, settling down into his usual seat and dropping his bag onto a table. “Some people actually prefer to delegate responsibilities.”
“Sure, but then you never know where they’ll put your stuff.”
“If you didn’t try so hard to piss off the janitors, they might not try so hard to lose your toys.”
“I prefer to think of it as a little game we play. I say something, they take offense, they somehow forget where they’ve moved something during cleaning and I have to find it. It’s not retribution, it’s a challenge.” House was silent for a moment, shifted slightly in the chair. “God, it’s going to be a bitch finding anything when I get back.”
At least today House was talking about when he’d return to work, rather than if he would. Wilson took that as a sign that the therapy had gone well today. House had also opted for one of the easy chairs in his room. Some nights Wilson would come in to find House stretched out on the bed, awake but barely responding unless asked a direct question. Those nights, they’d both stare at the television, Wilson occasionally making a comment on whatever show happened to be on the screen, House grunting out an answer, if he bothered to take note of it at all.
House had the set tuned in to a reality show Wilson knew had been in the news. He turned his attention away from Wilson to comment at the naked man on the screen and Wilson took the opportunity to study his friend.
Wilson had been at a conference when the infarction was diagnosed. He and House were supposed to go for a run the morning he left, but House begged off, saying his leg was a bit stiff.
“You gonna wuss out on me?” Wilson taunted.
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to take your place in the foursome at the tournament, and I don’t want you bitching that I didn’t come through,” House said. “I’m just trying to collect on your bet with McGreevy.”
“A hundred bucks,” Wilson reminded him. “Cash. Ignore him if he says he’ll pay up later. It took me six weeks to collect last time.”
Stacy called four days later, catching him just before he was slated to give his presentation. House was in surgery -- his first surgery, the one to remove the clot. It was clear from the moment she said Wilson’s name that something was wrong. She stammered out an apology, began one sentence, stopped herself, and started over. He could scarcely believe it was the same woman who had always spoken directly, who prided herself on her ability to think on her feet and win over every jury during closing arguments.
Wilson got the story in bits and pieces. Stacy apologized again.
“I wanted to call you,” she said. “But Greg said I shouldn’t bother you, that you were giving a keynote and that there was nothing you could do anyway.”
“Who’s overseeing his treatment now?” One of the conference organizers was signaling to him, trying to get his attention.
“Lisa Cuddy. I don’t know her that well, neither does Greg.” Wilson could hear her take a drink of something, and waited her out while Stacy paused. “She said he might be better off with an amputation.”
The word echoed through Wilson’s head for a few moments and he leaned forward, rested his head against his hand, elbow propped up on his knee. He could see the conference organizer pacing the length of the speaker ready room, glancing at his watch.
“And Greg refused,” Wilson said.
“Mmm hmm. Said he stood a better chance of saving his leg this way.”
“He’s right, but then depending on the extent of muscle damage, Cuddy may be right too.” Wilson considered his options, gestured again to the organizer to keep the man calm.
“Listen, I’ll check on flights, see how soon I can get back there. It probably won’t be until tomorrow, though,” Wilson warned. “In the meantime, just hang in there. Greg’s a better doctor even doped up than a lot of other ones sober.”
“What about Dr. Cuddy? Can I trust her?”
“Yeah, sure,” Wilson reassured her. “I’ve worked with her before, and we’re on some committees together. She knows what she’s doing, but if you're worried, call me. Hell, call me once House is out of surgery. And I’ll give you a call once I’ve got a flight booked.”
“OK.”
“And tell House I’m going to kick his ass when I get back. He could have given me the perfect opportunity to get out of this gig, if he’d just let you call.”
“You’ll have to stand in line.” Stacy seemed calmer now, but Wilson knew she could hide her emotions nearly as well as House. “And it’s a very long line.”
“Yeah, well you and I get special dispensation to cut into the front of the line, just for putting him with him on a daily basis.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and Wilson saw the organizer headed his way.
“Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be there soon, OK?”
“Yeah.”
“And thanks for the call.”
Wilson was right. He wouldn’t be able to get a flight out of the resort town until morning, and even then had to pull strings to get a seat, using the excuse of a medical emergency requiring his attention. He barely remembered giving the speech, thinking only about how House had told him to spice up a section here or trim another part later on. His colleagues praised it regardless. He only remembered the brief message handed to him just before the panel discussion: “Out of surgery. Looks good so far.”
He packed and repacked that night, trying to make sure he was carrying nothing that would slow him down in the airport. He ditched the thank you gift the organizers gave him to make sure he wouldn’t have to waste time checking luggage. He left a message for Stacy with his flight plans. She answered the third time he called.
“How’s he doing?”
“God, James, it’s ...”
“Stace? You OK?” Wilson could hear her breathing, shaky. He heard her draw in one quick breath, then another.
“I’m here. It’s just ... I didn’t think it would be this bad. God, James, he’s in so much pain. I’ve never ...” she trailed off again.
“They’ve got him on IV morphine?”
“Yeah. They say they can’t give him any more.”
“It’s going to take time,” Wilson tried to reassure her with words he wasn’t certain he could believe himself. “Greg’s tough, you know that.”
“James, you don’t know. You can’t see him.”
Wilson felt a chill. He wondered again whether he should just rent a car, drive through the night to get someplace else, someplace he could gain an hour or two on the travel time.
“I’m sorry.” Stacy interrupted his thoughts. “I know you’d be here if you could. I don’t think you could do anything different, but it’d be good to have you here, you know?”
Wilson sank down onto the bed in his empty hotel room, looked out the window at the deepening darkness in the surrounding mountains.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Listen, I’m going to head back in there. I’ll have my cell, but I won’t be able to keep it on all the time. I’ll let you know if anything changes, though.”
“Or just call if you need to talk,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry about what time it is. Greg never does.”
“Thanks, James. I’ll see you soon.”
Wilson listened to her line disconnect. He held the phone in his hand a minute longer before hanging it up. Nearly 9 p.m. there. Nearly 11 p.m. in Princeton. The flight wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m.
He counted down the hours, then dug into his bag again, looking for something to do. He found sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the gym. Five treadmills, no waiting.
It was 2 a.m. before he dropped into anything like sleep. He tossed and turned for maybe an hour before bolting awake, something prodding him up, a half-remembered dream of House, running along one of Wilson’s favorite street loops and a car veering off the pavement, straight in his direction as Wilson watched, and Wilson unable to reach House in time to pull him out of the way. He lay back down, staring at the blank ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow. Another 20 minutes and he gave up, started the in-room coffee maker and hit the shower.
Wilson successfully fought the urge the pick up the phone and call a half-dozen times. He actually made the call just as often. He’d ring through to Stacy’s cell phone, only to have it bump into voice mail. He left a message the first two times, but didn’t bother after that. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He knew the cell wouldn’t be allowed in the ICU.
Too often in his career, Wilson had needed to calm down a parent, a spouse, a daughter or son. He’d convince them they needed to let the doctors do their work, and assure them that they should try to relax and instead focus their energy on positive thoughts, prayers, whichever seemed more appropriate. Now here he was, with a friend who needed him, and nothing he could do.
He left for the airport more than two hours early, and the terminal wasn’t even open yet when he arrived. He paced the sidewalk in front and watched the lights come on inside. He saw the ticket agents open up. He was first to the counter, with nothing to check in. Even the tiny coffee shop was closed and Wilson settled for walking loops around the tiny baggage claim area. He tried Stacy’s number again. Listened to it ring: four times, five times. He was about to hang up when he heard her answer, her voice soft and uncertain.
“Stacy? It’s James. I’m at the airport and I should be headed your way soon. How’s he doing?”
“I’m going to lose him James,” her voice came back thin and distorted over the cellular connection. “God. I think I’m going to lose him.”
“What? What happened? What’s going on?”
Stacy’s answers came back in a combination of layman’s terms and clinical language, but it was clear that the muscle death was worse than House had hoped and the delicate balance of medications he needed was overwhelming his team. Wilson could feel the waves of despair building one after another. He knew it would be worse for Stacy, but could barely manage to keep his own head above the flood.
“A minute,” he said.
“At least,” Stacy confirmed. “Felt like forever.”
Cardiac arrest. House had left him -- had left them all -- for a minute. Wilson could picture the familiar outlines of a treatment room, he knew where the equipment would have been stored. He knew the process of running a code, he could the medical team working to restart a patient’s heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to picture House as the patient.
Wilson could sense that the airport was beginning to buzz with the start of a new day. He knew there were other people around him, but felt alone and adrift. The telephone and the voice on the other end the only things that were real.
“How is he now? Has he been awake?”
“They’ve got him stabilized again, but James, he’s in so much pain. It’s not getting better and he still won’t authorize the surgery. He’s got this idea about a chemically-induced coma, to let him sleep through the pain.”
“It could work.” Wilson considered the concept. “At least it might give him a chance to ride it out, if they can keep everything else monitored.”
“But they couldn’t handle it last time. He was the one who caught it and God only knows what will happen now.”
Wilson could see the case laid out for him. The alternatives. The best chance for the limb. The best chance for survival. He knew what he would recommend.
“He’s still against the, the ,,,” Wilson couldn’t bring himself to say the word: Amputation. Instead he let the sentence hang there, but Stacy caught his meaning.
“No. I’ve tried. I’ve begged.”
“Try again.”
“James, he won’t listen to me.”
“Don’t give him a choice. Tell him he’s going to have to have the surgery. He may back off if you force him into a corner.”
“Or he may fight harder.”
“Stacy, listen. He could do it for you. You’re the only one who could force him into it. He listens to you. Just don’t let him think he’s got a choice.”
“If I don’t give him a choice.”
“Exactly.”
Wilson would replay the conversation later in his head, consider what he’d said. What she’d decided. He was certain now that something in her tone had changed just there. That she’d made up her mind. Become certain about something. At the time, he passed it off as confidence, that she’d seen how she could talk into the amputation and save his life.
As it was, he’d hung up when Stacy said she needed to get back to House, continued pacing until the flight and spent half the air time standing near the galley, tapping at the plastic trim and trying to distract his imagination.
He had a text message from Cuddy waiting for him when he turned on his cell phone at the airport in Newark that House had gone into surgery. He ignored every speed limit on the drive back to Princeton, constantly changing lanes to try and get to the hospital a few minutes faster.
He grabbed the closest space in the parking garage, not caring who it belonged to, and raced up to the surgical floor, still unable to decide if he was grateful his friend was alive, or horrified at the thought of House undergoing amputation. He saw Cuddy first. She was dressed in scrubs and sneakers, so different from her normal power suits or lab coat.
She told him about Stacy’s decision, how she had used her medical power of attorney and taken charge for House’s care and that he was undergoing debridement as they were speaking. Wilson had thought nothing could shock him any more. He was wrong.
“And you just, what, went along with this?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Cuddy protested. “I got her to wait for a while, see if his stats improved, but they were getting worse, and she has the power of attorney.”
Wilson knew she was right. Knew he would have been forced into the same action, at least legally.
“Besides,” Cuddy continued. “Whether I agree with her or not, she probably saved his life.”
He and Stacy were both with House when he woke up. He watched House’s face from across the room. Saw him go through the post-anesthesia fog, saw his eyes register confusion and surprise, then lock on Stacy’s face as Cuddy was left to explain what had happened, the extent of muscle removed. House said nothing until Cuddy asked him about his pain level. He seemed to consider it for a minute, closing his eyes and finally turning away from Stacy.
“It’s better,” he said. “Not bad. Maybe, I guess, a three.”
“OK. I’ll see about adjusting the morphine again, see where we need to take it from here.”
House just nodded and Cuddy gathered up her files and excused herself.
Wilson didn’t know what kind of a reaction he expected from House. Anger? Resentment? But he saw nothing -- not then anyway. Whatever was going through House just now, he wasn’t telegraphing any signs. Stacy wasn’t saying anything either. Just sat next to the bed, watching him, holding his hand.
Wilson wanted to stay, but could see that Stacy was desperate for time alone with House. “I better check in at my office.” He pushed himself away from the window where he’d been leaning.
“You were someplace,” House said, searching his memory past the confusion of the past week. “Conference. Idaho? Someplace with fly fishing rather than golf.”
“Wyoming.”
“Hmmm. Catch anything?”
“Would you believe me if I said I did?”
“Maybe. You’re a lousy liar.”
“I never lie about the important stuff.” Wilson hesitated a moment or two longer before heading to the door. “Anyway, gotta make some calls.”
“See?” House’s voice was soft but Wilson could still hear it as he slipped out the door. “Lousy liar.”
Two days later, House asked Wilson to stay behind when Stacy left after her lunch break.
With House stable and in recovery, Stacy had even returned to work, but begged off any potential court time to instead stick close to House from her office.
He was doing better. Looking better, too, although they were still trying to find the right combination of medications to control his pain. Wilson was beginning to believe that the pain could no longer be written off as post-op, but rather a chronic condition, though he hadn’t discussed it yet with House, Stacy or Cuddy.
For that matter, he hadn’t had time to speak to House alone. Either Stacy was there, one of the nursing staff interrupted or -- often -- House was asleep or so zoned out that he could barely follow the conversation.
Stacy looked back from the door at the bed when House asked Wilson if he had a minute, shifting her gaze between the two of them.
“Go ahead,” House told her. “We’ve got important stuff to talk about. Guy stuff.”
“It may involve fart jokes,” Wilson added. “Action movies. Blowing stuff up.”
“Carmen Electra.”
Stacy rolled her eyes and walked off. House watched her leave before turning to Wilson.
“Don’t ask,” House warned.
“OK. Don’t ask what exactly?”
“How I’m doing, how I’m feeling. How I’m,” House let out an exaggerated sigh. “Coping.”
“OK.”
“Because everyone asks. Everyone. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, Cuddy. I feel like I have to have a nine-page statement ready on my state of health -- both mental and physical -- every time Stacy walks in the room.”
Wilson settled himself into the chair Stacy normally occupied, slouched down and propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress.
“Hate to break it to you, pal, but in case you haven’t noticed, this is a hospital. You’ve got to expect a few health questions to pop up from time to time.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious, I had taken that into account.”
“So, what, you want to talk sports? Because the Mets still can’t beat the Braves, and that’d actually be a depressing subject. I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Or maybe college football,” House suggested. “But then sooner or later someone would bring up Princeton, and I’m not about to enter that tunnel of suckitude without some decent tequila at hand.”
“Or indecent tequila.”
“The best kind.”
Wilson looked out the window through the half-open blinds. Blue sky, a few clouds. Heat was building up with predictions of temperatures in the 90s before the afternoon was out. He stole a quick glance at House. House was staring up at the ceiling. His face was thinner than normal, almost gaunt. Stacy had worried that he wasn’t eating and Wilson had tried to assure her that he would, once his appetite returned.
“I need to see it,” House said, turning from the ceiling to Wilson. “My leg. To really see it, without nurses or Cuddy or Stacy standing there, waiting to see what kind of a reaction I’d have. I’ll need some help.”
Wilson nodded. “I’ll get some supplies.” He put his feet on the floor, pushed himself out of the chair. “If you’re ready now?”
House was looking up at the ceiling again, but nodded. Wilson gathered everything he’d need to remove the bandages and replace them, then stopped off at the nurses station to warn them not to disturb them.
House had raised the head of the bed, so he was sitting nearly upright. Wilson slid the door closed behind him, closed the blinds.
Wilson placed the supplies on the bedside table, went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Everything done according to procedure, but he realized he was also delaying the moment. If House was ready, though, he would be too.
He moved the table up to the side of the bed. House had already pulled the sheets back. Wilson could see the remnants of an inked message along the length of the limb, appearing out from the edge of the bandage that covered much of the thigh, extending down to House’s ankle.
Wilson picked up the scissors and looked at House. House just nodded.
A few moments later, the gauze was stripped back and there it was. The long line of the incision, the cross-tie of black stitches. Medically speaking, it looked good. No sign of infection. Everything as he would have expected it.
But forget expectations. The leg looked pale, the shaved skin only adding to its alien nature. There was a depression where there should be a swell of muscle. House slid his hand down along the edge of his thigh, gingerly touching the flesh on either side of the incision.
Wilson stepped back to the end of the bed, giving House what privacy he could. On the other side of the door, he could see someone going over charts at the nurses’ station. Another nurse was walking slowly down the hall with a patient, guiding him while wheeling the IV pole along. He looked across the room again at the window. Clouds were beginning to form, raising the chance of a summer thunderstorm.
He heard House shift and looked back at the bed. House was sitting back now. Eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight.
“Done?”
House just nodded. Wilson reapplied the bandages and wrapped the leg with gauze, apologizing when he heard House grunt as he shifted the leg.
“It’s OK,” House said. He didn’t bother opening his eyes.
Wilson finished his work, gathered up the supplies , and paused at the door.
“I need to get back to work,” he said. “I’ll stop by again later.”
House nodded again, and Wilson slid the door shut behind him.
A week after House’s final surgery, he was released to the PT specialists. Stacy had questioned the move, since Cuddy’s team was still trying to find the right pain medication, but both Cuddy and Wilson assured her that it was time.
“Rehab’s all about pain,” House muttered as the staff settled him into his new room. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
Wilson wasn’t certain who he was trying to convince. He had scouted out the staff before House even arrived. He’d seen most of them around the medical complex before, knew their reputations. Had even handed off patient care to them often enough -- bone cancer survivors trying to balance their joy at still being alive with the reality that they’d lost a limb in the process.
He’d brought the head of the department over to meet House a few days before the transfer, then bought him lunch as they compared notes about the team.
“What about Ford?” Wilson had suggested. “I’ve heard good feedback from patients about him.”
“Ford’s good,” Ed Ransom agreed. “But his style tends to be a little heavy on the motivational speeches. Something tells me that’s definitely ...”
“Not House,” Wilson agreed.
House had banned everyone from his therapy sessions. Wilson obeyed. Stacy snuck in one time, only to end up crying on Wilson’s shoulder when he found her hiding out in House’s empty office.
A day later, he took her to Ransom’s office where together they talked about ways they’d need to adapt the condo, about construction companies that specialized in retrofitting bathrooms.
Wilson concentrated on getting his work done during regular work hours -- a schedule either of his wives would have admired if he’d managed it for them. He’d clock out at a little past 7 p.m., paperwork in order. He got into the habit of driving offsite to pick up either fast food or take-out at some of House’s favorite haunts in case he’d be able to tempt him into eating.
House’s appetite had suffered with every change in his pain medication. One dosage might leave him nauseated, another strip away any sense of hunger at all, a third leave him in so much pain he didn’t want to eat, and yet another make him so groggy he rather sleep than eat.
Wilson made it to House’s room a little before 8 o’clock most nights, about the time Stacy headed home. Sometimes they crossed paths, but it seemed lately that Wilson was seeing less of her. He assumed she was overseeing the renovations.
“I smell something fried,” House said from his chair as the television show went to a commercial break, forcing Wilson’s attention back to the present. “Nothing good, I hope.”
“I’ve been reading up on the latest research on deep-fried cheese products. It’s all the rage.” Wilson handed over the bag from the Wok-Thru, a cheap Chinese take-out House had introduced him to shortly after they’d met. “Don’t eat all the General Tso’s.”
“You always wimp out on the spices anyway,” House said as he dug through the bag. “Did you get the crab meat?”
“You didn’t notice the grease blot the size of Jersey?”
“A lot of things could have done that,” House protested, then pulled out a waxed paper container, nearly transparent from the oil. “This is more like it.”
He broke apart the crisp won ton to reveal the center, then popped it into his mouth.
Wilson opened a foam clamshell and the smell of chilis and MSG spilled out, temporarily overwhelming the odor of antiseptic cleaners and medical supplies. He dug into the chicken and tried not to let House catch him as he monitored how much House ate. Most nights he took home nearly as much as he brought. He’d need to clean out his refrigerator soon.
“There’s hot and sour soup too,” Wilson pointed out as House broke open another won ton. He was satisfied to see House reach for the bag to root out the cup and a plastic spoon.
“So where’s the new office going to be?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not even official for a couple of weeks.” He considered the possibilities and took another bite of the chicken. “Probably on the sixth floor, though.”
“God, those ones are tiny,” House said, setting the cup down. Wilson fought the urge to nag him to eat more. He’d heard enough Jewish mother comments already. “The admin assistants on five have more space.”
“They have ...” Wilson considered his words. “Character.”
“They have crappy ventilation systems.”
“The windows actually open.”
“Which will come in handy in January when the boiler starts pumping all the heat for the entire wing into your closet.”
“Office.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
“Keep it up, pal, and I won’t invite you to the office warming party.”
House quieted for a bit, began tearing the napkin into long strips. “I don’t know if I’ll be ready by the time you move in.”
“I’m not in any rush.” Wilson set aside his own food and stretched out his legs. “It’ll wait.”
“The department will want to mark the occasion right away,” House pointed out. “You should celebrate. You did good.”
“Thanks.”
House picked up the soup again, took another spoonful, “Of course if you really want to impress them, I’d suggest having the party at that strip club over on Fourth.”
“I thought for sure you would have gone for Chesty LaRue’s on 12th.”
“Nah, Deja Va Voom’s got a third pole installed now I hear. Now they’re pulling in all the high class acts.”
“Strippers with a heart of gold.”
“And breasts of saline.”
“The wonders of modern medicine.”
“Yeah.” Wilson saw the emotion flash across House’s face -- anger, frustration -- for just a moment. “Where would we be without it?”