Clinic Blues

Introduction

"Checking into clinic. 12:00." The scruffy doctor quipped to the secretary. "Be sure to tell Ms. Cuddy I'll expect extra credit for signing in 10 minutes early today."

The secretary nodded vaguely. She was new on the job, but the first word of advice she had received on her first day at Princeton at Plainsboro was to avoid engaging the doctor with the cane. Unless she wanted to be treated to an onslaught of blunt analyses and sarcastic remarks, that is.

The misleadingly chipper doctor took no notice of her refusal to respond, and instead turned, and hobbled over to the door of exam room 1. After a brief struggle with a faulty doorknob, he entered, somehow managing to strut while using a cane.

Ms. Owens, the secretary, breathed a sigh of relief. She had heard about what an ass Dr. House was and hoped she wouldn't see much of him. Already, he was a legend around here.

"I don't know what's wrong with her. She was fine yesterday. I think it might be the avian flu. I mean, she had chicken last night, and it might have…"

As the woman continued to speak, the corners of House's mouth, already twisted into a scowl, began to sink even lower as the monotony of the situation heightened. "Your child has a runny nose," he said firmly. "Go to the pharmacy and pick up two things: a bottle of Motrin for her, and a chill pill for yourself. Next!"

"I just don't know what's wrong," the teenager mumbled blearily. "No matter what I eat, I'm hungry, and its making me feel really up tight."

"Your shoes are untied," Gregory House stated, matter-of-factly. "Which indicates a loss of muscle coordination. That, added to the burnt smell that seems to follow you around like a lovesick dog and your bloodshot eyes virtually screams one question:" he paused. "How much pot have you been smoking?"

"Couple blunts a day."

"THC causes all of the symptoms you've described," Greg concluded. "Drop the dope, and you'll be perfectly normal…whatever normal is for you."

The youth nodded and lurched out the door as House casually popped a pair of Vicodin tablets into his mouth.

The doctor didn't even wait for the next patient to sit down. "'General Hospital' starts in 41/2 minutes, so that means 3 minutes for you to tell me what's wrong, 1 minute for me to diagnose your cold or fever and 30 seconds of boring chit chat before you have to leave. Start…now!"

The patient was old. Not terribly old, right around her mid-forties. She was slender, and though not as attractive as she once must have been, she was still quite pretty. "I have a lump," she said firmly.

"In your tummy?" House responded playfully. "Because if so, then I believe the technical term for that is 'baby'."

"No," the woman said, clearly and justifiably irate at this physician's levity. "In my right breast!"

House stood up and slowly hobbled over to the exam room table where the woman was sitting. Lifting her shirt he gingerly felt his way around the outline of the mass.

"Why are you such a jerk?" she asked suddenly.

"Shh…"

"I…"

"I'm concentrating!" Greg hissed emphatically. "Do you want me to examine you or not?"

The patient gave a look that clearly indicated that she would prefer not, but said nothing.

A moment later House put down her shirt. "The bad news is," House said soberly, "It looks like you may have a tumor. The good news is you caught it early. Your chances of survival are strong." Walking over to the counter, he took out a small pad of paper and began writing. "I'm going to arrange for a biopsy of the mass. Tomorrow at noon."

As the woman walked nervously out the door, House's eyes wandered up to the clock. He'd missed the start of 'General Hospital' by five minutes.

The apartment was dark when Dr. House returned home. He limped up the stoop, entered the door and flicked the light switch on with amazing speed for a crippled person. Quiet as a tomb. Sinking into a Chaise, he picked up his dog-eared, open copy of Commentarii de Bello Gallico. Greg's mind refused to settle into Caesar's exploits, however, and he instead found himself gazing aimlessly across the room. His eyes finally settled on the small collection of cards resting on his piano, the fruits of the birthday he'd had yesterday. Feeling reminiscent, House, with effort, stood up and slowly limped over to his prized Baldwin and sat down at the bench, examining each card in turn.

Of course Cameron had sent one; a nice, sweet hallmark card with a birthday puppy on the front and kind wishes on the inside. It was touching in its own, naïve, quaint way. So like her.

Wilson, who rarely sent cards, had for some reason decided to break with normality this year. He'd sent a pithy card wishing Greg a happy forty-first and inviting him to stop by for a late night game of poker sometime.

Even Cuddy had sent him a card, thanking him for all the work he had done. However, this attempt at warmth had not prevented her from adding in a side note that House still owed her twenty-five clinic hours. The aging doctor smiled in spite of himself.

Most surprising of all, though, was the fact that he'd actually received a birthday card from Stacy. House smiled ruefully as he studied the loopy, yet firm and consistent hand writing in the personal note she had written. As he gazed at the script, a fervent, futile hope that she still loved him awoke within his heart. This dream captured his imagination and raised his spirits momentarily, but then floated away into the night as he remembered Mark.

Still staring at Stacy's card, House slowly and mournfully returned it to its place among the others. He lowered his hands to the keyboard, dancing them across the broad white row of keys, and began to spell out the sorrowful tune of "As Time Goes By."