This has been pushing at me ever since I saw Wednesday's episode. I wrote it this morning when I should have been working. It is tearing me up to watch Jed struggle valiantly through this, but did we ever think he wouldn't, placed in the situation?
The Lotus' Stem
A West Wing Story
Post-ep for "In the Room"
by MAHC
POV: C.J.
Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals;" "In the Room"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were –
"The lotus' stem is as long as the depth of water,
So men's height is just as great as their inner strength."
Tiruvalluvar, Temil sage and poet
Fifth Century A.D.
He should have looked small. He should have looked weak. He should have looked vulnerable.
He should have. But somehow, he didn't.
Despite the fact that he couldn't stand, that he was forced to sit in that horrible chair, despite the fact that IV lines ran into the back of his hand, feeding him the precious medicines his body needed, despite the obvious severity of the attack that had almost paralyzed him. Despite all that, he didn't.
Instead, he sat, dignity wrapped around him even more impressively than the dark three-piece suit Millie had managed to get on him. He sat, calmly informing a stunned press corps about the episode, then announcing that the China Summit would continue on schedule.
C.J. Cregg stood to the side, still not completely sure she was really witnessing this. The President had said they shouldn't pretend they didn't know this was going to happen. But she didn't know. Not this. Dear God, not this. She knew he might begin to have subtle symptoms. Maybe a limp when he walked too much. Maybe blurred vision when he worked too late. Maybe even a moment or two of daydreaming in a marathon budget meeting.
But not this.
She dragged her eyes away from him to assess the reporters' expressions. Shock, of course. Maybe a little fear. Pity. He'll hate that, she thought. Don't let him see the pity.
No one had to be told something was wrong, not after being awakened in the early morning hours, and certainly not after he appeared in the threshold of the press corps seating. The usual protocol after the announcement of the President of the United States was for the group to stand, led by a senior reporter. Respect for the office, for the authority.
But he caught them off guard this time, some half-up, some still seated. They remained frozen in their various positions for several seconds, brains not completely comprehending what they were seeing.
He glanced at C.J., and she was surprised to see a flash of amusement in his eyes, even past the pain, past the fear that she knew was there.
But the moment of indecision lasted only a short time and they remembered where they were. As one, the group stood, the only sound in the room that of the chair seats flopping back and the plane's engines humming.
"Good morning," he greeted, nodding for them to sit again, his words a little crisper than they had been an hour earlier. C.J. heard his effort not to slur, not to give in to that part of his body's betrayal.
She saw the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the flush of color on his cheeks, and realized he must have taken the long hallway on his own, must have fought to arrive under his own power. Another monumental effort.
"I have a brief, but probably superfluous, announcement to make," he said with a faint smile. "Earlier this morning, I experienced an episode of – numbness – due to my cond – " He paused and took a breath, correcting himself. "Due to my multiple sclerosis."
C.J. clenched her jaw, blinked against the burning in her eyes, knowing what it had taken out of him to make that confession, to use those words.
"As you can see, some physical limitations are the result, but these have not affected either my mental abilities or my plans to continue with the China Summit. Wheels down in one hour. I'm looking forward to productive talks that get real work done in our relationship with China and the increasing of freedoms there."
He stopped and met the eyes of the reporters. C.J. took a breath at the confidence that virtually blasted from the deep blue, and she did not yet know how he was doing it.
"The Surgeon General is here now to answer any medical questions you might have."
Millie stepped forward, clad in her official uniform, calm on the surface, but C.J. felt the tension beneath, not just for herself, but for her boss – for her old friend. It took a moment, no one knowing exactly where to start, but finally the questions came.
Has the President been having symptoms before this?
How long will the episode last?
Exactly what physical limitations is the President experiencing?
Does this mean the President's MS might be moving into secondary progressive?
How will it affect his ability to conduct his duties at the Summit – and later?
She dispensed with each efficiently, but truthfully, just as the President had insisted. As she spoke, the reporters' eyes switched back and forth between her and the man that sat quietly in the chair, their expressions still bordering on disbelief.
When she had finished, no one moved. They sensed something else was coming and, for once, waited patiently for it.
After letting what they had heard soak in a little, the President lifted his chin and smiled. "Now, we have quite a few issues on the table for the summit. Anybody interested?"
No one spoke for a long moment. No one even turned a notebook page to find a question. C.J. shifted, sketching out in her head how she could wrap it up and get him back to bed – if he would allow it. The silence stretched out awkwardly. They could not get past the bomb he had just dropped.
Finally, one hand rose. C.J. held her breath. A veteran. The one who had asked the hard question at the first conference after they had announced the MS five years before.
"Yes, Sandy?" he said, tilting his head up in lieu of pointing.
"Mister President," she asked. "What's your response to reports that the IAEA is about to announce that South Korea has admitted to conducting an experiment to enrich uranium?"
C.J. pressed her lips together to fight the smile that threatened, and let her gaze brush across the President's. He didn't even try to hide his grin, even though it seemed a bit out of place with the situation. She nodded slightly to acknowledge her debt.
How much you wanna bet I can yet them to ask me about South Korea?
How much ya' got?
She watched as he answered the question, his words clear, his response eloquent, even. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine him in the press room of the West Wing, braced casually at the podium, tossing a hand with his natural inclination to gesticulate.
His voice was level, relaxed. I'm paralyzed. No big deal. Business as usual.
But she could not get away from reality, none of them could. He didn't stand casually at the podium. He didn't gesture with his hands. He sat in that damned chair, legs useless – at least for now – arms still.
But somehow, it didn't matter as much. As he spoke, the shock of the press corps, the dismay – the pity, even – gave way to other expressions. And these expressions were much more in line with what they had seen before, with what he truly was and what he truly deserved.
Admiration. Amazement. Pride.
He spoke with power about a better world. He spoke with fire burning in his eyes for the possibilities of freedom. He spoke with the passion that had drawn them all to him in the first place, his words electrifying the room.
And when he finished, they came to their feet again. This time it wasn't out of respect for the office or the authority. It was for the man.
He should look small. He should look weak. He should look vulnerable.
But he didn't.
At that moment, in front of the media of the world, Josiah Bartlet looked tall. Taller than he had ever looked before.
And that, C.J. thought, her own already substantial admiration swelling, was saying a lot.