It started with a twinge in the mornings when he got out of bed. At first, Wilson just attributed it to stiffness and the aches and pains of general aging. He was a little older, a little heavier, and his body was going to protest a little more at the positions he placed it in. Nights spent on couches and generic hotel mattresses left him sore and stiff in the morning, but that was just another external symptom of everything rotten in his life, and it eased once he started the antidepressants.
The pain returned when he moved in with Amber, but this time a change of mattress — one they bought together — made all the difference. But it didn't last. Nothing lasted.
The twinge turned into an ache that he could relieve with a hand pressed into the small of his back or a shift in posture. He tried to walk straighter, abandoning the lilting gait that he had adopted unconsciously to match House's, but some things were too ingrained to change, even with the best intentions. He iced, took over-the-counter NSAIDs, and called Ingrid for a massage. He had it under control.
At least until his left leg buckled as he pivoted to walk away from the duty desk, and he had to grab the edge of the counter to keep from falling. He laughed self-deprecatingly and said he'd tripped over his own feet, but an hour later, Kutner knocked on his office door.
"House sent me," he said superfluously, and led Wilson through a series of movement tests, cataloguing each flinch carefully, then tested his reflexes and raised and bent his legs. "It's lumbosacral radiculopathy," he said finally. "Most likely from a herniated disk at L4. How long has this been going on?"
Wilson shrugged gingerly. "Not long."
"House said your back was bothering you in the spring. Before..."
"That was the mattress," Wilson said quickly. He didn't want to talk about her with Kutner, who was kind and meant well, but had found the last secret she'd kept from him.
Kutner nodded, and while the words that spilled unwittingly from his mouth occasionally made him seem insensitive, Wilson thought that he truly understood. It occurred to him that House had sent Kutner for reasons other than his specialty.
"House is going to want an MRI," Kutner said, but Wilson shook his head quickly.
"I don't need an MRI; I just need physical therapy and some anti-inflammatories."
Kutner looked disappointed that he wouldn't get to play with one of Cuddy's expensive machines. "I'll write you a prescription for diclofenac," he said. "And a referral for PT. But if there's no improvement in the next couple of weeks, I'm scheduling an MRI."
Two weeks later, the pain was undiminished, despite daily physical therapy sessions and a faithful adherence to the exercise regimen. If nothing else, he could at least set a good example for House. House had never been interested in examples, though, only results.
"You're an idiot," he said, bursting into Wilson's office and dropping a file folder on his desk. For a moment it was as if nothing had changed.
Wilson glanced down and saw that it was his own file. "You're an ass. Next round."
House ignored him. "The PT isn't working. You're still in pain. You need surgery."
"It's unnecessary. Most herniated disk issues resolve themselves without surgical intervention."
"Most," House stressed. "But you could be at risk for cauda equina syndrome. Both Foreman and Kutner think surgical intervention is going to be necessary eventually. Are you going to ignore the advice of a neurologist and a sports medicine specialist?"
"Why not? You do all the time."
House ignored that as well. "You make idiots look like Einsteins. Are you holding out for incontinence? Permanent nerve damage? Paralysis? Let me see your feet," he demanded.
Wilson tucked his feet defiantly under the desk, though he knew resistance was futile. House just stared at him until Wilson pushed his chair back and swivelled to face him. House dragged a chair over and patted his lap.
"The heels of your shoes are creased and scuffed because you've been slipping them on and kicking them off without bending over." He slipped Wilson's shoes off and removed his socks. "Your socks are bunched and crooked. Left foot worse than right. You can't reach as far down on that side." He shook his head. "You'll be in top-siders and bare feet soon."
"It is sailing season," Wilson said, not willing to admit to the struggle that the simple act of putting his socks on had become.
"That's another thing," House continued, as he ran a pen along the outside sole of Wilson's foot. "Your brother called. He said you cancelled out of the annual sailing trip."
"Because my back hurts."
"He also said that he suggested going to an all-inclusive in Mexico instead, but you claimed you couldn't get the time off. Which is crap. Cuddy would give you a week off in a heartbeat."
"It's not that simple. I have responsibilities to my patients, to my staff."
House tapped Wilson's ankle a little harder than necessary. "He's worried about you. When was the last time you talked to your parents? When was the last time you talked to anybody but your patients or your staff?"
"I'm talking to you right now," Wilson retorted. "And I love my family, but I can't be around them right now. I don't expect you to agree, but I thought you'd at least understand."
House looked away and tapped again, almost gently. "Plantar and Achilles reflexes reduced," he said, though not with his usual satisfaction at identifying a new symptom. "What about saddle paresthesia?"
Wilson pulled his feet away. "It's not cauda equina. L4 is too low and there's no bladder or bowel dysfunction. The pain and diminished reflexes are consistent with sciatica. I just need to give the physical therapy more time."
"We don't know that it's L4, because you haven't had an MRI," House retorted. "You're booked in an hour and I'm putting Chase on stand-by for a microdiscectomy."
"I'm not authorizing surgery," Wilson said flatly.
"If it's cauda equina syndrome, emergency surgery is the protocol. And even if it's not, surgery is the next step when conservative treatment isn't working."
Wilson shook his head. "No elective surgery. It's my body. I'll have the MRI, but I'll make the decision." A bolt of pain shot down his leg, but he ignored it. He could live with pain. House had been doing it for years.
"It's the wrong decision," House said. "You have two choices. You can agree to the surgery now or I can knock you out and authorize emergency surgery myself."
"Right. Because that worked out so well for Stacy." Part of him wanted to take the words back the moment they slipped out, but another part wanted the words to hurt. It was all he knew now.
But House just gazed steadily at him. "It's not the same. She crippled me and left me in pain. I'm trying to prevent you from being crippled and in pain."
"She saved your life." But that was an argument that never worked with House. He would rather have died than been proven wrong. Stacy had known that. Wilson knew that, but he had always wondered if he would have had the courage to make the same decision, knowing he could lose House either way. Now he knew what it was like to throw the dice and come up snake eyes. "I'm not dying."
"You're not living either," House snapped. "When was the last time you did anything other than work or sleep? When was the last time you played golf?"
Mini-golf, Wilson thought. Play date. There wouldn't be any more of those.
House stood up and paced around the front of the desk. "You're just going through the motions. No wonder the PT isn't working. Do you want to be in pain?"
Wilson looked away. "It's better than feeling nothing at all." When the first sharp grief had finally subsided, all that remained was numbness, a paresthesia that had nothing to do with nerve compression. He didn't even have sorrow to remind him that he was still alive.
House stopped pacing abruptly as if he had slammed into an invisible wall. "That's never been your problem," he said quietly and left Wilson alone again.
It wasn't until the sun had set and Wilson's office was lit only by a dim desk lamp that House returned. He stood framed in the doorway, just a slouched silhouette against the hallway light. Wilson looked up, but didn't say anything. He'd stopped knowing what to say to House weeks ago.
"I don't want to be miserable," House said, so softly that Wilson could barely hear him. "I don't want to be in pain. But more than that, I don't want you to be miserable. I couldn't save..." House never mentioned her name. He didn't have to. She was still there. With them. Between them. "I can't fix that. Let me at least fix the pain."
The words hurt in a way that Wilson had thought no longer possible. But House's pain had always been more important to him than his own, even when he was the one to cause it. "You did everything you could and more than I had the right to ask," he replied, his voice breaking slightly.
"You had the right." He shuffled over to the desk and dropped a file in front of Wilson. "No compression on the cauda equina, but there's a lesion on the sciatic nerve." He nodded to himself when Wilson couldn't quite hide his surprise. "You never thought the pain was real. That's why you've been ignoring it."
"It got worse after she died. After Amber died." Saying her name sent pins and needles through his heart, as though it were waking up after a long, still sleep.
"You were in pain when you were happy."
Wilson had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to hold back the tears, from the memory and House's acknowledgement. He heard House shift uncomfortably and looked up.
"Coblation nucleoplasty will decompress the disk and reduce the sciatic pain almost immediately," House said evenly, taking refuge in the medicine. "Minimally invasive, low risk, and a short recovery period. But if you want a second opinion, I can send the scans to McNeill at Princeton General. He's not a complete idiot."
It wasn't like House to suggest a second opinion, but then Wilson had a history of making House doubt himself. He closed his eyes against another pulse of pain. "No," he said firmly. "I trust you." He opened them again and forced himself to look directly at House. "Schedule the procedure."
House crossed over to the couch and sat down, resting his chin on the curve of his plain wooden cane. Wilson missed the flame cane. He missed a lot of things. But when he looked at House and saw him smile with satisfaction, he knew that not everything was gone.
"It'll get better," House said, and Wilson knew he wasn't just talking about the back. "There'll always be some pain, but you can play golf again. Go sailing again. Get your life back again."
Wilson didn't think he was ready for that yet, but he'd lived too long with paresthesia and pain. Maybe it was time to start healing.