Author's Note: Was going to be part of the Hudson (House/Cuddy/Wilson) fan series I've been working on, but I couldn't fit Cuddy in here. Or House, for that matter, so Wilson got the spotlight. Go Wilson! This takes place at the start of Wilson's career.
Warnings/Notes: Rated for language later on. All scientific lingo in this story has been brought to you buy the power of research. Yes, I did my research. I like things being REAL and ACCURATE. Of course, two years from now this will be scientifically off, but for now, it's accurate.
House MD © David Shore
Acceptance
byMint Pizza Queen
Wilson's career as an oncologist had not started out all that great.
Fellow employees and friends would've scoffed if they had heard that comment now, but a few years ago, they would've nodded their heads gravely if it was brought up in conversation and say 'Yes, yes it's a shame, really'.
It wasn't as if he wanted anybody to die.
His first patient was doomed from the start. It could've been his direct department lead's fault for giving him such a hard case on his first day at work, fresh out of medical school, but it could've also been his for not seeing the signs so soon.
The patient had relapsed and died within twenty-four hours of admittance from a cold.
Cancer patients and colds was a forbidden dance where the cold was usually the victor.
His second patient faired slightly better, but has also relapsed and died, but this one was within thirty-six hours.
That right there was sixty sleepless hours he was never going to get back, and that's not tagging on the after shocks that scared him into sleepless nights for weeks on end.
His third patient was probably his first patient that even his boss couldn't have saved. A single woman, no children, at the young age of twenty-eight, struck with stage four ovarian cancer. He did biopsy after biopsy, trying to pull out pieces and somehow yank a miracle out of the air, but it all came down to the inevitable.
She was going to die.
Wilson flipped through the files once again, just to make sure. He didn't want to tell her that she was going to die when in actuality he could--
"How does it look?"
The oncologist jerked his head up to find that his boss was staring back at him from the doorway. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
"She came in with stage IV ovarian cancer."
The other man frowned, shaking his head in unperturbed disbelief. Wilson felt his insides coil at the thought of having to break the news to her and stared back at her files.
"You know," Wilson spared a glance and saw a thoughtful look on the man's face. "You have a couple of options."
----
"Your ovarian cancer has advanced to become stage IV."
The pale brunette stared back at Wilson wordlessly and he continued. "The cancer has spread into the abdomen, and has reached your liver."
She blinked once before looking to the floor, face remaining indifferent and unmoved. She didn't shake her head, she didn't freak out, she just--took it all in.
It worried him.
"We have a couple of options," he started, bringing her attention back to him. "We can start treatments, or we can--"
"Make me comfortable," she broke him, voice hoarse and pinched in tone. It was as if she was trying to prevent herself from crying, but it was hurting too much.
He didn't want her to hurt anymore than she already was.
"Well, yes," he began to reach to rub his neck but hesitated. "But treatments have become advanced. We know a lot more about cancer than we have before, and we have new drugs and treatment available for all sorts of cancer."
She sniffed softly, but nodded.
He took this as a good sign and continued once again. "Treatments can come as clinical trials. Since stage IV cancer is often the most difficult to eradicate because it has spread throughout the body, and the cells are very difficult to remove, the survival rate is low."
She coughed slightly. "Yeah, I understand that. But what is the survival rate?"
"Ten percent."
She closed her eyes, making a face like she had just been slapped. He wanted to hit himself for answering so fast, so bluntly.
"What is the treatment?"
"We can perform surgery and chemotherapy," he pulled out a file and shuffled through it. "The surgery that is performed is called 'surgical debulking'. During debulking surgery, we attempt to remove as much of the ovarian cancer as possible. Debulking is beneficial because it reduces the number of cancer cells that ultimately need to be destroyed by chemotherapy and therefore, decreases the likelihood of the cancer developing a resistance to chemotherapy. Initial debulking surgery in ovarian cancer is currently considered the standard of care because clinical studies have shown that 'optimally' debulked patients live longer and have a more prolonged time to cancer recurrence than 'suboptimally' debulked patients."
The woman wrapped her fingers around the hem of her shirt and clenched onto it, refusing to answer. He pressed on, hoping that she'll take one of the options.
"After surgery, we perform three cycles of chemotherapy. After the cycles, you are reevaluated. If there is no cancer, then we don't have to perform any more surgery and you go through another three cycles just to make sure it's all gone. Patients who have this done survive up to twenty-six months."
"Compared to--" She waved a hand questioningly.
"Thirteen."
"Two years," She whispered, biting her lip and readjusted herself on the couch, staring at the wall awkwardly.
"Of course, there are risks," he warned. "There is a fifteen percent chance of complications, but they are always minor."
She nodded as if she were mentally debating. Without looking up, she asked, "Is there any other treatment?"
"Yes, we perform chemotherapy directly. Instead, this form is with platinum compounds, like Platinol or Paraplatin. It's administered every three weeks for six to eight cycles. Unfortunately, since this is a new form of treatment, survival rate is still low, but it's gradually increasing."
She smiled, brown eyes meeting his. "You've done your research, Dr. Wilson."
He felt his ears start to burn. "Well, I--"
"So without any treatment, I'll die?"
He hesitated. This was the point where every patient freaked out, broke down, or got angry. Denial, Anger, and Depression. After those, they always tried to make a deal, they tried to get hope; it always came crashing down.
"Yes," he finally admitted. "You'll die in less than a year. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. It's unpredictable."
He waited for it. He waited for the screaming, the tears, the fists, but nothing came.
She was smiling at him.
"I think I have lived my time."
His mouth began to open into a gape. She was twenty-fucking-eight and she was accepting that her time was up? No way, it--it just wasn't real.
Nobody ever had Acceptance down so fast. "Wha--"
She continued to smile at him as she rose to her feet. She was smiling when she lent down to take his hand in hers; she was smiling when she placed a gentle kiss to his cheek and hugged him; she was smiling when she said the two words that made him a legend in the history of oncology.
"Thank you."
-----
"This buddy of mine, I gotta give him ten bucks every time somebody says 'Thank you'. Imagine that. This guy's so good, people thank him for telling them that they're dying."