A/N: Just something I wrote in my free time. Feel free to tear it apart.
Disclaimer: I don't own House or the title of this story. I got the title from an Iron & Wine song I listened to while writing it. Sorry.
My hands are always cold.
Though I am always the sensible one, I usually forget gloves. How easy is it to sign files and type reports when your hands are encumbered with thick woolen gloves? Not to make my job sound hard or anything. In fact, I'm almost entirely sure a monkey with a large stick and a stethoscope could do my job. Not to say it's too easy. In fact, my job is in the gray area for right now.
I'm just being hard on myself, surely. My job is hard and I do it damn well. I went to way too much school to be beating myself up about sitting behind a desk. In fact, the whole reason I went to school was so I could sit behind this desk, wasn't it?
Sure, you go to medical school with the hopes that you'll cure cancer and someday win the Nobel prize but everyone knows you'll probably just end up the next run of the mill gynecologist. In fact, I didn't become the next run-of-the-mill. I was the first woman and second youngest to take this position. I should be proud of myself. So why am I so unhappy?
Why do I spend more time here than I do in the real world?
That's an easy one. This is my real world. This is my only world. Let's face it, Lisa. You don't have any friends to go home to, no family, no husband waiting at home with the baby. There's nothing there for you except empty rooms with dust in the corners and last night's left over pasta. And after the pasta gets cold for the second time since you made it, you'll go to bed and watch the darkness creep over you and wish you had someone there with you to make it seem less cold. You'll think back to better times, when things were less complicated and you weren't so alone and you'll fall asleep in the past. As if any night was different. The only thing that changes is the menu.
And people wonder why I spend so much time at work.
I live in a Tylenol and coffee induced coma that is only pierced by the occasional prodding by Gregory House or the occasional horror that he causes. There are moments where I find myself loving him simply for pulling my out of my own jungle of self-hatred long enough to yell at him and do damage control. I can never gauge that love for him though. As quickly as I feel it, it's gone. He sends more mixed messages than anyone I know and I have to force myself to remain the boss as he remains the employee – although the disgruntled one.
I am not happy. Not with anyone or anything. My job is all wrong, my life is all wrong, everything is all wrong. When I was a little girl I imagined a great wedding with everyone I'd ever met attending. The fact is, I'm 41 and I don't think my prospects are high. It was wrong of me to think I could raise a baby on my own though. I practically live in that hospital. What was I going to do? Set up a crib in my office? I need help.
The problem is, I have so much love to give and no one to love. It aches all the time and there's nothing for me to do about it. I wonder if other people feel this way and I'm sure they do. I can't be the only 41 year old female who has never been married and doesn't have children of her own. Honestly, this isn't the time for a pity party.
I miss the rush of residency. I miss being a doctor. The fact is, House was right all those times he told me I wasn't a real doctor anymore. I honestly don't think I could do some of those intricate procedures anymore. I don't know if I'd trust myself with a simple lumbar puncture. It's been too long. I miss that. I want that.
Life is a cruel thing. It's based on decisions. Daily decisions that change the course of everything. I made the decision to be Dean of Medicine and that changed everything. For the worse? Maybe not. Then again, maybe.