Chapter Eleven
Kutner was getting twitchy. The ancient magazine House had left him had occupied his mind for about 15 minutes. An orderly had brought him some unpalatable breakfast, something liquidy, gross, and tasteless and completely appropriate for someone recovering from major surgery. He had managed to ingest about half of it, slowly, over the course of another 20 minutes, before his stomach completely lost interest. Now, here by himself, he was just staring straight ahead, his foot wiggling rapidly back and forth beneath the blanket as he tried not to think about the fact that…well, quite frankly, he was excruciatingly bored. He had no clue how long he had been staring like that. Sleep was out of the question. The lower morphine dose meant that he was more alert, and not as fatigued as he had been the night before. He briefly wondered if he had been a bit premature with his insistence that he didn't need so much medicine. The pain wasn't the problem; physical pain could always be bearable, because it was usually temporary and, besides, it proved you were alive. No, the problem was the awareness. Sleep, while not necessarily fun or stimulating, was at least time-consuming. Kutner was a kinetic person; he had trouble just sitting still and doing nothing. It wasn't quite ADHD – he could concentrate on things for quite extended periods. But he had to move around. And being confined to a hospital bed was nothing short of torture for him.
His thoughts kept bouncing around like House's red and gray tennis ball, virtually ricocheting off the walls of his skull.
Bored, bored, bored…I wonder when Taub will be back. Maybe he could bring me a book or something. At least provide some conversation. There has to be someone to talk to around here…There are exactly 121 tiles on the ceiling. I hate that I actually know that now… Didn't Taub say something about a detective last night, someone who really bugged him? Can't remember, but I guess a cop will be by to ask me questions. Hmmm. It would be so awesome if they sent over someone like that hot chick from the Law and Order show – what's-her-fancy-name, the one with the smoking body? That'd be sweet...This room really needs a TV. Coma patients get TVs and I'm wide awake and get nothing. I wonder when I can move into a regular room. One with a friggin' TV in it...House has been gone for a while, I wonder if the patient is okay. I could still participate in the differential – I wonder if he'd let me... Did House ever answer my question about my parents? I wonder where they are. I can't believe NO ONE would have called them. Did something happen to keep them from coming? Maybe I should try to call them, reassure them I'm ok. At least they wouldn't worry. There's no phone in here, but I think I can make it out to the lobby. I feel ok. I bet I can do it – it's not that far, really. It's about time I get up and walk around anyway – need to keep the circulation going, keep the muscles from atrophying. Ok, so just a quick phone call, then right back to bed before Taub shows up to lecture me or House shows up to beat me with his cane.
Kutner used the bed control to sit up fully. He removed the few wires connecting him to the monitors, making sure to kill the alarms that began to beep as they lost their various signals. Bracing himself and gritting his teeth against his soreness, he very slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He felt his stitches stretch uncomfortably and his wounds throb with the effort. He paused to catch his breath and steel himself for his next move. Then he carefully stood up, using his morphine drip as a crutch. He winced at the stabbing feeling in his body. His side hurt a little worse than his chest and shoulder. It's okay, I can do this. Just go slow. It's fine….Ow.
He took a tentative step forward, then another. He was able to bear his own weight, with the support of the IV pole. His legs felt a little achy and wobbly from being horizontal for so long, but he could still shuffle forward. He tried to ignore the dull pain that continued to swirl inside his body and the sweat that was already beading on his skin. It didn't enter his mind that this was probably a bad idea. He was too focused on making sure he didn't fall as he dragged himself across the room.
He reached the door and leaned carefully against the wall as he slid it open. That was a bit harder than he had expected, given that his dominant arm wasn't fully functional. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe a bit slower as he braced his body in the open doorway. This was ridiculous; he had only walked about 8 feet and he felt as though he had just sprinted around the block. His eyes snapped open as he heard a voice ask, "Sir, what are you doing?"
Startled, Kutner opened his eyes and found a security guard who looked all of sixteen years old, attempting to stare him down in the hallway. He started to explain, "I, uh, I just needed to go to the nurses' station for a moment…"
"I'm sorry, sir. You need to stay in your room." The kiddie cop crossed his arms authoritatively.
Kutner was confused. Why was this guy here, in front of his door? Was the hospital in lockdown or something? Why was he confined to his room? "No, it's cool. I just need to run to the lobby for a quick second. I'll be right back."
"That won't be possible at this time. Do you require assistance?" The kid was doing his best to sound grown-up, even though his voice kept cracking around his incredibly prominent Adam's apple. Kutner briefly wondered if he could take the guy down, but quickly dismissed that idea. The last thing he wanted was some Barney Fife-wannabe getting overzealous and accidentally shooting him AGAIN. I wonder if either Taub or House set this up. They both made such a big deal about me moving around too soon. This is a bit much though, he though, choosing to ignore the fact that he actually was out of bed and sort of "making a break for it," in defiance of their warnings. And the fact that being up actually was causing a significant physical strain on his body. He tried a different approach.
Assuming his most mature tone of voice, Kutner looked patronizingly at the younger man. He was about an inch or so taller than the guard, and not skinny as a rake, but it was still rather difficult to assert one's authority while barefoot in a hospital gown. "Look, Officer, I am a doctor at this hospital. I am perfectly capable of walking down the hallway under my own power. I have a brief call I need to make, and then I will return immediately to my room. Whoever put you up to "guarding" me never has to know. I obviously can't go very far," Kutner smiled, indicating his attire and IV line. "So just give me five minutes, and I'll be right back."
The guard briefly looked like he was considering it. Then Kutner's hopes were dashed when he shook his head and said firmly, "I'm sorry, Dr. Kutner, but my orders are from Dr. Cuddy. I can't let you leave your room and I can't let anyone in without proper identification. If you need assistance I can call a nurse or your attending, but you'll have to stay put for the time being."
"Dude, come on! It's important!" Kutner exclaimed, dropping his "Trust me, I'm a Doctor" façade. He paused to take a deep breath – why am I sweating so much? – and resume his argument, when a third voice joined the exchange. "Is there a problem here?" Both heads turned to the stranger.
Kutner didn't recognize the man who had walked up to them. He wore a suit, had close-cut hair, and was chewing a large wad of gum. He sort of reminded Kutner of a rottweiler. He was surprised when the man pulled out a police badge and flashed it with his identification. The young security guard stood at attention. "No problem, Detective. I was just explaining to Dr. Kutner that he needs to remain in his room."
"And I was just explaining to the Eagle Scout that I need to run out to the nurses' station for just a moment, because there's no phone in my room," Kutner retorted in frustration, wiping the chilly moisture from his brow.
The plainclothes police officer looked at Kutner and smiled. "Dr. Kutner, I apologize for butting in like this. I'm Detective Tritter, New Jersey PD. I've been here for some time, waiting for news of your condition. I was hoping to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it." Detective? Kutner thought. Was this the guy Taub was talking about last night? He doesn't seem so bad. Maybe Taub was just overly stressed out when they met and made a snap judgment.
"Yes, I just need to make a call, and then I will be glad to tell you whatever I can." Kutner said politely, attempting to push forward into the hall. To his surprise, Tritter put a gentle but firm hand on his uninjured shoulder and held him back.
"Dr. Kutner, if you'll forgive me for saying so, you don't look so hot right now. I understand you had rather complicated surgery yesterday, and I think you're stressing yourself a bit too much. Why don't we go back into your room and talk for a bit? You can use my phone if you need to call someone," Tritter smiled sympathetically at him as he attempted to steer Kutner back into the room. Despite House's assumptions that he had no clue about medical conditions, Tritter had seen victims, and even fellow cops, with these sorts of injuries before. He had enough practical knowledge to deduce from the pale, clammy skin and the heavy breathing that Dr. Kutner would probably wind up collapsing if he attempted to walk any further. He had been pleased and surprised to discover the young man alert and coherent, but he would need him to stay that way in order to get his answers.
Kutner, feeling slightly light-headed, decided that perhaps he should sit down for a moment. It might have been a bit of a stretch thinking he could walk all the way to the lobby. Besides, if this Tritter guy let him use his phone, then that problem would be solved at least. He reluctantly allowed himself to be herded back into his room. The detective followed him with a discreet nod to the young security guard, and allowed the door to slide closed behind them.