"WHISPER OF THE WIND"
Betz88
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a story of life and death, loss and gain. It's a test of faith and the power of perseverance. It's a statement that love … all kinds … has the power to move the world, and it questions whether Gregory House's theory that you can't die with dignity might be held to slight revision.
Everyone leaves behind a part of him/herself, good or bad, to be remembered by future generations; supposing that someone will be a little better tomorrow because we were here today!
These revered characters belong to David Shore, and I borrow them here out of deep respect.
BF, 2008
Chapter 1
"Backtracking"
Mountain View Hospice
Michigan:
January 2, 2026
I didn't want to go to his memorial service because I wasn't sure I could handle it. I would rather have stayed back at the apartment remembering Leather as he was before, and crying myself to sleep. Rather a lousy excuse for someone who has always prided herself on being a tough cookie, huh? So much for the stiff upper lip. In a moment of weakness I'd allowed Billy to talk me into going with him and Whit so they wouldn't have to stand beside that plain, simple casket alone, but I regretted it immediately because I knew they wouldn't be alone at all. There were many others who cared about that brave, angry man. He had touched many lives during his Earthly journey.
That's how it happened that night when we met the others behind the mansion, all of us in casual attire because that's the way Leather would have wanted it. We walked into the glade together. My parents were waiting, and we moved quietly along the path. Whit had organ music playing in the background, and I thought at the time how he would have scoffed at the sentimental stuff if he'd had to be there in person.
Leather would have preferred a New Orleans jazz piano.
Reflecting back now, I've learned perspective and the infinite wisdom of 20/20 hindsight. But the night of Leather's gathering, all I was aware of was my own sorrow and how, at any cost, I must hide those feelings from Billy, who'd been so kind and patient for so long.
That night, however, my thoughts were not in Lansing, Michigan. They were somewhere else on another plane of existence with that beautiful and unique silver-haired man. I only knew he was gone from my life forever. Leather was gone, and I had to come to grips with strong emotions and the permanent realization that the only person I'd ever truly loved was lying cold and dead in front of me.
By my side, Billy Travis and his brother, Whit; Lisa Cuddy Rothberg of Syracuse, New York; Allison Cameron Noble, Atlanta; Robert Chase, Head of Internal Medicine, PPTH; and Eric Foreman, Assistant Dean of Medicine at PPTH, stood very stiff and very silent. In the background, Dr. Strange stood like a sentinel among the trees.
Just behind them, my parents hung back. Mom, in her power wheelchair, was closely flanked by my Dad, always protective, always watchful. They knew the whole story now, and were as astounded as I had been at first. But they were there mostly in support of their daughter, who had an astonishing story to tell, even though they had been long-ago friends of Leather's.
When I looked around at some of the gathered faces, I could see wetness glistening in Billy's eyes, and in Whit's and Lisa's and Allison's. The other men appeared calm, but they were moved as well. My hand gripped Billy's so tightly that my fingernails must have dug ruts in his palm. He never moved, so I guess his emotions, though not on the same level as my own, were just as strong. I'd always known there was a strange closeness between him and Whit and Leather that took me a long time to understand.
A first-year med student learns early on to mind her own business and keep a tight lid on things during that vital initial learning experience. I guess that was the reason I never really asked them exactly what was going on until they volunteered the information. When that happened, I was already "gone with the wind" … sort of.
If you will be patient with me, I'll tell you the whole story. Believe me, it's not the way you've heard it over the years. It was much more complicated. Even after all the time that's passed, I can hardly believe some of this stuff myself.
I can assure you though, I didn't earn my position as Director of Mountain View Hospice and Rehab Center by practicing emotional chess, and I'm sure the whole thing, after I had so long to reflect on it, had everything to do with my becoming the person I am today. I had some very large shoes to fill. I was touched by a miracle, or something non-religiously close to it, and I still feel transfigured by the way it finally played out.
If there is a "Plateau", as Leather said, then I know he waits for me there with his friend Whitey. I've been content with that.
I was born longer ago than I care to admit, in one of those obscure little Pennsylvania Dutch farming communities scattered along the banks of the Susquehanna River. Even if I mention the name of the place, you wouldn't recognize it anyway, so why bother, right? I spent my earliest years tossing grain to ducks and chickens, herding and milking cows, currying horses and bouncing around the fields on dad's John Deere tractor.
The only time I ever managed to get a glimpse of the "big city" was when I had to go along with mom and dad to Harrisburg when mom had her doctor appointments. Some of the doctor stuff was scary to me then. I was barely big enough to be allowed in the same room with some of the treatments they did on my mom.
Even back then I knew I wanted to become a big-time doctor someday. I wanted to heal people and watch them get out of bed and walk around again and all that wonderful stuff. I saw doctors as heroes and miracle workers because of what they did for my mom, and I wanted to be one of those as well.
I had no idea of the drudgery and bone wearying pressure of the work, or the downright misery and sleeplessness involved in the long years of study in order to learn the ancient profession. I saw prestige and glamour, and I wanted some of that for myself too, rather than the uncomfortable sensation of hayseeds chafing beneath my dirty tee shirts, and hands blistered by farm work.
As mom's condition deteriorated, she had some problems that puzzled her doctors in Harrisburg. That's when she was referred to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey. A team led by diagnostician Dr. Gregory House and oncologist Dr. James Wilson became more than just a pair of names on an appointment slip.
We drove there on the god-awful Pennsylvania potholed roads … in a car that ran on gasoline!
Dad and I sat with mom in the crowded corridor outside one of the examination rooms until the famous Dr. House could get to us. He turned out to be one of the tallest men I had ever seen in my short life, and one of the most frightening. He acted like he didn't want to be bothered with us. He towered over me like a skyscraper over a dollhouse, and looked down at me sternly with a pair of hard blue eyes that pinned me to the wall and made me feel about two inches high.
He squinted at me for about two seconds and then ordered me out of the examination room to cower alone on a straight-backed chair in the corridor. Something about: "too young".
I sat in childish anger, and thought nasty thoughts about him for the next fifteen minutes while he turned his formidable attention on my mother. I was not the center ring in this circus, and as an only child, I was a little put out. In more ways than one!
I sat hunched on that uncomfortable chair at the end of the hallway and wished Dr. House would break his leg … and other angry kid stuff. At the time it meant little to me that his diagnostic genius probably added years to my mom's life that day. When he walked out of the exam room at last and approached the place where I was sitting, I was ashamed of myself. I had wished him pain, but he already had it.
Dr. House walked with a cane when he came over to lower himself by my side with a grunt. I could not look him in the eyes. He explained to me that he had not wished to be harsh, but he needed to examine my mother thoroughly while only my father was present. He told me stop acting like a baby and be strong, because my mother was going to need me. She was going to get better. Promise! Right hand up, and all that …
When he limped slowly away after taking time to speak to me, I looked after him in awe. Never had a bad guy turned into a superhero in my eyes in such a short span of time. I hoped that whatever had happened to his hurt leg would get better soon.
Childish wishful thinking.
We stayed overnight, and the next day we met the handsome Dr. Wilson. He and Dr. House came into the room together. They smiled at mom and me and shook hands with my father. And then they took over my mother's treatment, which was an ongoing thing that stretched out over the next few years.
Dr. Wilson literally swept me off my silly, awkward little-girl feet the first time I saw him. He had the twinklingest huge brown eyes, the moppiest brown hair, the highest cheekbones and the most flawless skin of any man I had ever seen in my entire life.
Dr. Wilson's voice was soft as the touch of a breeze, and as gentle. Just like Prince Charming.
My breath hitched up in my throat until I was absolutely tongue-tied and inarticulate and slack-jawed and all that other silly little-girl stuff … just because I'd been smiled at by the most beautiful man in the world. I was in love right then and there, and later I cut his photograph out of the hospital's staff-information pamphlet and carried it around with me for the whole year of sixth grade.
Over the remainder of that summer, mom did get better. She left her wheelchair and began to walk again. We continued to travel back and forth once a month to Princeton, New Jersey to see Dr. House and Dr. Wilson. I worshipped them. I never forgot them.
After a time, Dr. House's disability faded from my mind and I forgot about it. He and Dr. Wilson were my forever-heroes. I would read about them and cut their photographs out of newspapers and magazines and follow the accumulating evidence of their spreading influence in the field of medicine. I would brag to my friends that I knew them, but my friends didn't care one way or another. It wasn't as though I had a casual acquaintance with Beyonce … or Justin Timberlake.
Nobody else in my circle gave a crap about a couple of boring old doctors. But I knew, even then, that my future was etched in stone. I wanted to be such a doctor and perform miracles like my heroes Gregory House and James Wilson. Oh yeah, man! Sometime in the future, perhaps I too would save the life of someone's mother.
Mom and dad stayed in touch with Dr. House and Dr. Wilson over the years, and still drove back to Princeton for annual checkups, trips upon which I didn't usually accompany them. I only met Dr. House one other time after that. When I did, he treated me almost like a grownup, and I basked in the recognition. He was such a good doctor, and I credited him and Dr. Wilson with helping my mother when no one else was able.
Many years later when it came time for me to enroll in college, I knew I would have to work my way through. I aced four years at Bucknell University and was eager to begin medical school. I was ready for the world and hoped the world was ready for me.
As it had been in college, I knew I would have to bust my butt if I hoped to get through the prestigious University of Michigan Med School. I could do it. I had my inspiration in the form of a dog-eared old black and white photograph of Drs. House and Wilson that I kept near me on the bureau beside my bed. Their memories in my mind's eye had dimmed with passing years, but they had saved my mom, and I would repay them if I could by passing the favor along.
The summer after I graduated from Bucknell, I made myself absolutely indispensable to dad on the farm. God it was horrible!
I embarked on my medical mission during my summer downtime by sweating out the months waiting for an acceptance letter from that prestigious university in Michigan. Keeping up with academia would entail much more than an aptitude for answering a multitude of specialized trivia questions. The whole concept left me breathless sometimes, just thinking about it.
Those were the times I would go to my room, listen to music on my brand new Zai-Zo and stare eyeball-to-eyeball at the faded old photo of Drs. House and Wilson and tell them silently and fervently about all the fascinating things I wanted to do with my future. They would look back at me with those compelling expressions on their faces, and agree in some measure that they were there for me whenever I needed them to be.
I wanted to go where they had gone and do the things they had done. Nothing less would ever be good enough. Their faces told me they agreed.
Then a minor miracle occurred. A plump letter came by snail-mail one warm afternoon, welcoming me to the medical school at the University of Michigan … and I was on my way.
I had been accepted by the school of my choice.
Me!
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