Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters from the show belong to their respective Copyrights. However, the patient, her family, and this particular storyline are mine. Enjoy!
"My wife needs help; I think she's having a stroke," a middle aged man shouted as he stumbled through the doors of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, half-dragging a protesting, slightly irate lady at his side.
"I told ya I'm fine," she slurred, visibly trying and failing to escape his sturdy grasp.
"You are most definitely NOT fine," a tense female voice refuted from behind the duo. "Dad, I already told you her blood pressure is fine. If anything, it may be too low. You and I both know what the REAL problem is."
At the commotion, Dr. Gregory House peered over the magazine that he was using as a shield to "hide" from Cuddy's all-seeing eye, though his cane would immediately give away the fact that the person occupying the chair in the clinic waiting room wasn't merely a patient – only a stranger would mistake him as such. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed their almost daily game of cat and mouse, and he knew that underneath the administrator façade – Cuddy did as well.
His interest was immediately peeked as he studied the 'stroke-victim'; she showed no visible signs of a stroke apart from the slurred speech – no facial drooping or impaired mobility that would indicate any numbness or weakness in her limbs. However, she was staggering slightly, which might indicate dizziness but she seemed oriented enough – and her attempts to escape indicated that she may already know what was wrong, and it was nothing immediately life threatening. Interesting, he thought. So what was she attempting to hide from her family? Obviously, the daughter had more insight into that mystery than the husband.
As they passed him on the way to the admissions desk, the daughter still bringing up the rear, he noticed something that escaped his attention while he had been observing the woman. Her daughter did have symptoms similar to a recovering stroke victim. Her coordination seemed off, and her left foot dragged the floor ever so slightly. She walked stiffly – her gait unsure – and her hip swung awkwardly to one side with each step. Mild case of cerebral palsy, he diagnosed internally. As if sensing his gaze upon her, her head swiveled in his direction, and she glared at him, before looking away in obvious embarrassment as he continued to stare. They had reached the desk, and the receptionist, who was absorbed in a consultation on the phone, waved a clipboard at them impatiently, while simultaneously gesturing for them to have a seat and fill it out.
"But this is an emergency! My wife needs to be seen now! She can barely walk on her own and last night she didn't know where she was and was mumbling to people who weren't even there. She was slurring her words, and her lips looked kind of blue. She's still acting out of it," the concerned husband and father insisted desperately.
The daughter rolled her eyes and whispered something to her father, but he shook his head impatiently in response. She visibly deflated at his dismissal – the frustration and worry for her mother evident in her pinched expression.
House stood up rather stiffly, reaching for his cane as he leaned on his left foot to give his aggravated thigh a chance to adjust to the abrupt change in position. When he looked up, he found the daughter studying him in a fashion similar to his own perusal moments ago. He glared at her, and she smirked slightly in a 'two can play at this game' sort of way before looking away in silent understanding.
As if coming to a sudden decision, she turned toward her oblivious mother, grappling to pry a purse from her vice-like grip. At this innocent action, the mother seemed to snap out of her current complacency, her face contorting in fear and rage. She yanked the leather bag furiously from her daughter's grip, the harshly abrupt motion throwing the young woman off-balance, and she fell backwards, her head hitting the floor with a deafening snap.
"Leave my purse alone!" the mother mumbled, her words thick and borderline incoherent. "I didn't take nothing."
The young daughter maneuvered herself into an awkward sitting position, leaning heavily on her elbows. "You know what?!" she screamed after a minute or so of failing to push herself off the floor. She turned to her dad, pointing a finger accusingly in his direction. "I am through taking care of everything for her, while you enable her pill-poppin' habit. You go to work, come home, and pretend that all is well. It is not my responsibility! She found my hiding place; that's what's wrong with her. I've tried to be supportive and understanding – to be a listening ear for her, but I can't take any more lies, excuses, or empty promises," she finished, her voice trembling.
House limped forward then, capturing the attention of the stunned receptionist and father. "Get a nurse to evaluate Mommy Dearest here. Make sure she gets a CT scan, CBC, and a full chem panel . . . oh, and snag her purse as well; she is currently more protective of that right now than her own flesh and blood. There has to be a reason for that; don't you think?"
A nurse approached him as he finished, having witnessed most of the disturbance. "Should I call security?" she asked apprehensively.
"Nope, just run those tests to rule out any probable causes and when those come back negative, give Supermom a good dose of 'sober-juice' to bring her back down to planet Earth with the rest of us."
"I'll check her spawn over," he added as an afterthought.
House approached the quivering girl, offering her his cane as an anchor to assist her in standing. She accepted it with a tentative smile, shuffled onto her knees, and then pushed herself up using the sturdy staff as a lever. Once she was somewhat steady on her feet, she handed it back to him – avoiding his gaze as she did so.
Her dad walked over to his daughter hesitantly as a nurse chauffeured his wife to an exam room. She didn't put up much of a fight against the nurse's efforts – the endurance she displayed a few minutes ago had faded entirely, resigned exhaustion materializing in its place.
"I'm fine, dad. Go be with mom; she needs you right now," she mumbled, staring at a spot somewhere above his shoulder.
The weary man complied, looking at her with a mixture of remorse, irritation, and respect as he walked away. House indicated she should follow him with a miniscule twitch of his head. "Come on. Exam room 2 should be free."
"So you're a doctor?" she said, gazing timidly at House as he kicked a stool her way so she could easily hoist herself on the sheet-covered table.
"Yep," House replied, somewhat impatiently. "Thought I was a patient, huh?"
"Well, most doctors wear the traditional white coat, and you were sitting in the waiting area where sick people usually are expected to be; so yeah," she admitted.
"So, the cane and limp had nothing to do with your hypothesis?" he asked, smirking.
"Why would it, Doctor . . .?" she enquired lightly, a touch of admiration coloring her voice.
"House," he responded shortly – interpreting the first half of the question as rhetorical; therefore, he chose to ignore it, although an almost indecipherable smile tugged as his lips. A comfortable silence settled between the two as he checked her vitals. He frowned slightly at her elevated heart rate and blood pressure, but knew it was stress related.
"So . . . Serena," he drawled, looking at her chart. How long has your mom been a pill-poppin' drug addict?" he asked as he examined the bump on her head. Satisfied with its condition, and seeing no blood or any further indication of a concussion – her pupils were both equal and reactive in the initial exam of her vitals – he sat back to gauge her reaction.
Serena flinched at the harsh description of her mother and looked away with shame. "I never said I viewed her that way."
"Oh, but you did."
"I guess I did." She paused, drawing in a shaky breath before continuing. "I know she does not deserve to be categorized as just an addict. She is much more than that . . . there are precious moments in-between the bad days where I get a glimpse of the dedicated mother she used to be. Her mistakes shouldn't define who she is. But sometimes, it's so hard to distinguish between the person I see now and the person I know – deep down – still exists," Serena admitted. "Everyone depends on something or someone to get through each day – right?" She paused again before whispering, "I just wish my dad and I were enough for her."
"You're right," House said. He fished out a prescription bottle from the hidden depths of his jacket. Her eyes widened as she read the label: VICODIN. He popped the lid open with ease, and dumped three pills into his palm.
"This is Vicodin," he began, peering at the white tablets with obvious adoration. "These babies have often been the only reliable thing in my life – sticking by me through thick and thin. They help manage my pain so I can function from day to day. Labels should not define a person, but they do. You can change, but the label remains immortalized in the subconscious mind of others, often leaking into their consciousness and therefore, becoming factual data to them. Addicts are more than mere addicts; jerks are more than mere jerks. Cripples are more than mere cripples. Labels are just labels; they don't depict anything about the true character of the person. However, once a person gets stuck under a certain name, such as addict or cripple, people began to believe that's all they really are – that's just how it is. Even if your mother gets help and remains clean for the rest of her life, she will wear the scarlet A forever."
Serena picked up one of the pills, examining it closely. " But this isn't Vicodin; it's prescription-strength Ibuprofen. I've got some of these at home," she said, furrowing her brow in confusion. "Why would you pretend…?
"Doesn't matter, kid. Gotta play the part. At least this way I get to choose which role."
A knock on the door jerked them from their individual contemplations, and House abruptly realized that he had left the door ajar – allowing any nosy passersby to eavesdrop.
"Come in," he called, hoarsely.
A trembling hand pushed the door open the rest of the way; slowly, hesitantly, and Serena clambered down from the table to embrace the almost unrecognizable figure standing in the threshold – her mother. She wrapped her arms around her child; despite her tear-streaked and shaken appearance, she looked determined.
"I'm ready to get help," she declared, sounding clearer than she had in a long time. "I know it won't change how the world sees me, but I don't care. My family needs me."
House allowed a rare smile to grace his lips, before popping the remaining two pills. "Everybody lies," he muttered, smirking as the mother stiffened slightly.
THE END or is it?