Part 4 – Depression

Wilson decides that there's little in life more degrading than being a patient, other than being a patient in the hospital where you work and having your best friend who also happens to be Greg House as your attending physician, especially when you don't want him to be but don't have the guts to do anything about it.

He's dressed in a patient gown, which he thinks may be the single most humiliating item of apparel anyone has ever worn. The gowns all have the same quasi-detergent smell from having been washed too many times in harsh cleaners. They're just short enough to give nurses access to every muscle and vein in your body while not covering anything you might want covered.

They've put an IV in his hand, a pulsox meter on his finger, EKG leads on his chest, a blood pressure cuff on his arm and a nasal cannula pouring oxygen into his nose. At least they've spared him the indignity of a catheter – for now.

They make him cough sputum for a sample. It hurts and no one thinks to give him anything for the pain.

The whole thing wouldn't be so bad if House were . . . well, House. He can deal with the caustic House, the outrageous House, the determined House, the cynical or frustrated House. But this House is . . . normal, only not normal for House, and Wilson's not sure what to say, what to do, or how to take it. House limps into the room as they're hooking up the antibiotic. Generic for now, he says, until the cultures come back.

Wilson wishes House would yell at him for getting so drunk that he gave himself aspiration pneumonia or make some caustic comments about Candy or give him grief about the hospital gown. But it's as if some normal, professional doctor has taken over the body of Greg House.

"I don't need to be here," Wilson says, hoping to provoke a response.

"Speech pathologist says you do."

Yeah, the speech pathologist, the one who made him swallow little bits of water, applesauce, pudding, ice cream, and other gunk from small spoons, which made him feel like a baby, while she decided what he could safely eat without aspirating more gunk into his lungs. As if the alcohol he downed two days ago wasn't enough.

She's left a little sign over his bed indicating he has to be supervised for all meals, soft diet only, with the proviso that he chews each bite at least five times and swallows it at least twice – to make sure it goes down. He rebels at that, but the alternative is TPN and that's something he wants to avoid at all costs.

"Since when do you listen to speech pathologists?" he asks.

"Since you said I needed to start listening to pain management specialists."

"A speech pathologist isn't a doctor."

"But I am, and I say you need to stay here."

He wonders if House means it or merely wants to make him realize how miserable being a patient can be. He doesn't think so because Cuddy agreed to keep him here and Wilson doesn't think she'd let House do it without good cause.

"Do you need anything?" House asks.

He needs to get the IV out of his arm, needs to be able to eat real food without aspirating, needs to get out of the hospital bed, needs to see his patients, and a laundry list of other needs that invade his thoughts. Needs to have House start acting like House. "No," he says with resignation.

House turns to leave. At the door, he pauses and turns back around. "By the way, the test results are back for your patient, Evan James."

He stares at House in marvel and horror.

"Negative," he says, pulling them from his inside jacket pocket and tossing them onto the bedside table. "You're lucky." He pulls out the bottle of Vicodin, pops one in his mouth, and walks out the door.
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Four days later, he's released from the hospital. Normally, House would insist on taking him home, watching over him like the mother hen he could sometimes be. This time, House isn't even there to sign his discharge papers. House is on his way to Singapore with Cuddy, and he's on his way to his room-in-a-bag at his heartbreak hotel.

He takes a cab, convinces the hotel desk clerk he's still James Wilson and is given a new key card so he can get into his room. It looks the same as it did when he left, only the bed is freshly made and pajamas he'd tossed on the bed are now neatly folded on his pillow.

He checks his voicemail. There are a bunch of get well messages from people who preferred leaving voice mails to actually visiting him. At the end, there's a call from Bonnie, telling him Hector died. She doesn't sound too sad in relaying the news, but it's hard to tell with her. Wilson slumps at the desk. Hector was old for a dog and hadn't lived with him for many years, but it still hurts. He wants to talk to someone about this, about Hector, about loss, but Bonnie didn't ask him to call back and no one else will give a shit.

Well, House might. Or, House would rent Benji and make him sit through entire thing while slurping on a beer and munching on pizza. But House isn't here; House hasn't really been here for weeks now.
He kicks off his shoes, leaves them in the middle of the floor. Pulls off his tie thinking that only a moron would wear a tie home from the hospital. Thinks about pouring himself a glass of wine then reminds himself that alcohol is part of what got him into this mess in the first place.

He sits down at the desk with the power outlet already installed, turns on his computer and pulls up the page with the checklist he was reviewing before his unplanned stay in the hospital.

Persistent sad, anxious, or empty mood, he reads. The keyword here is persistent. Check, he thinks to himself.

Sleeping too little or too much. Possible – hard to say. Loss of pleasure or interest in activities - just feeling blah or don't care. Check.

Feeling restless or irritable or just being crabby, if it isn't typical for you to feel this way. Check.

Fatigue or loss of energy, running out of energy even when the task is not physically or mentally challenging. Check.

Feeling guilty, hopeless, or worthless. Check, check, check.

He reads the next line of the on-line article and picks up the phone.
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The room is designed to look cozy, inviting and non-threatening. The warm, soothing colors, deep, plush chairs, rich woods, and subtle lighting are all intended to relax the room's inhabitants. Even so, Wilson feels uncomfortable, unwelcome, and threatened. And knows that's probably not healthy.
"Dr. Wilson." Dr. John Spencer, board certified in psychiatry and an expert in treating depression in cancer patients, reaches out to shake his hand. Spencer himself is dressed to inspire confidence and trust without invoking fear. Wool slacks, tasseled loafers, collared shirt, lightweight sweater with earthtone colors. For his part, Wilson's wearing a freshly pressed grey suit, heavily starched white shirt, and conservative blue tie. Definitely not healthy, Wilson thinks to himself.

"After talking to you on the phone so many times," Spencer continues, "it's good finally to meet you in person." He invites Wilson to sit in one of the very plush comfortable chairs and seats himself in a similar one directly across from him rather than behind his massive desk, which is completely empty other than a single patient chart and a flatscreen monitor.

Wilson starts to relax into the cushions then pushes himself forward so that he's hovering on the edge of the seat.

"So," Spencer says, "I understand you wanted to talk about my speaking at your upcoming oncology conference. About depression."

He nods, more than willing for Spencer to carry this conversation.

"Now, would that be about depression in cancer patients or their doctors?" Spencer asks seriously, although Wilson detects the slightest twinkle in his eyes.

Gotcha. For a moment, Wilson stares at his hands, clasped between his knees. Finally, he forces himself to meet the psychiatrist's eyes. "I'm afraid I lied to your receptionist when I told her this would be a social visit."

"Really?" Spencer sounds anything but surprised.

"I--, I want to see you as a patient."

Spencer steeples his hands, peering at Wilson over them. "Okay," he says slowly. "I'm fine with that. It's not as uncommon as you might think, oncologists needing to talk to someone. So, what's on your mind?"

"You don't want to start with my life story, my childhood, all that?"

"Only if you want me to. There's plenty of time to get into that, if it's even necessary. I'd prefer to start with what brings you here today."

Wilson takes a deep breath, knows that once he opens his mouth, once he shares his secret, there's no going back.

"I have a friend," he says. "I think he's depressed."

End