Seeing is Believing (Part 11)

House, M.D.

by Cheers

The loud whir of the CT scanner didn't bother Bobby at all. He held still just as he was told. He could feel the rotation of the scanner head within the housing of the unit.

Robert and Eric watched through the observation window and awaited the images as each slice was parsed by the computer and flashed up on the screen. As the slices neared the level of the vestibular ducts both doctors straightened in their chairs.

"What's that?" Eric asked out loud.

"The displacement is most likely causing the pain," Robert offered, referring to the obvious malformation noted on the left side. Robert leaned forward to get a better look. "There's fluid in the tympanic cavity. Cholesteatoma?"

"Maybe a tumor like an acoustic neurinoma," Eric replied. He blew out a breath. "Either way, it means surgery."

Robert leaned back and looked up at the boy in the scanner for a moment. "Do you think House knew which?"

"He suspected something," Eric said thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't have admitted him. Did he know what it was?" he paused before continuing. "We'll probably never know."

The initial response from Robert to this suggestion was shocked resentment. Slowly, the implications of Foreman's assessment began to ring true and Robert looked away from his one-time colleague. Everyone suspected the last hypoxic episode may have done permanent damage. No one wanted to talk about it. The chance that House might not be House any longer was too frightening to put into words.

Silently, both waited patiently for the scan to finish with the last few slices. They would need the best images to determine which condition they were looking at. Robert programmed the scanner to target the inner ear region, this time taking the smallest slices the CT scanner was capable of producing.

Doing so gave him something to think about other than House.

It was like being a goldfish in a bowl.

Allison worked to finish the History & Physical note on Robert Damron's chart. She sat at the desk in the department conference room. A steady stream of onlookers passed by the department stopping to gaze at the lettering on his office door. Some were patients currently in PPTH, some were visitors, some were employees – all of them were curious. They wanted to see the place where Dr. House worked. For the first time since she had come to work with House, Allison wished the walls were not made of glass.

As she typed she thought about the new type of fame House now had and the attention that would garner. He would hate it. Everyone who knew him at all understood that he didn't need affirmation, didn't desire acclaim. She looked through the wall that connected the conference room with his office.

Already the office was beginning to fill with flowers, cards, faxed messages, and other gifts from well wishers. Cuddy had no other place to put them so she opted to have her staff bring the items to his office. Allison made a mental note to check House's email and to print and empty his inbox to prevent bounced messages. She was certain he hadn't bothered to change his password.

It had annoyed her that House used her like a secretary at times. It was chauvinistic beyond belief. But, it had allowed her to figure him out a bit. He was a man that was incredibly hard to figure out. Reading his mail had given her a small look into what his life must have been like. The sheer number of demands for his time was staggering. Despite his misanthropy House was well respected in medicine. He had a reputation as a bastard but an honest and brilliant bastard. Even Vogler had want House to be a spokesman because when Dr. Gregory House spoke he influenced others. That, and the fact that his expertise in diagnostic medicine meant that he saved lives - lots of lives. He was disliked but he was also envied.

The voyeurs that funneled past his door only knew what they thought one poor quality video and hospital rumors told them about House. They didn't know, just as she didn't know, what he felt at the moment the robber shot him. They didn't know, just as she didn't know, if he would live. They didn't know, just as she didn't know, if the thing he would most likely be remembered for was a simple act of bravery or the mind that others desiderated.

Most likely be remembered for? Was she already giving up on his chances for survival?

There was a time when she had wanted nothing more than for House to love her. Her need for him had felt so strong. But, as was usual, he had seen the real reasons for her need and with an honesty that hurt as much as it illuminated he confronted her with it – coolly, calmly, without emotion. In an equally unanticipated move, when she had needed him to reach out to her and she was certain he would not, he did. 'I'm proud of you,' he had said.

House was the most infuriating person she had ever met. To some extent, he was also the most influential man in her life. Cameron had changed, in very tangible and fundamental ways, since meeting him. She simply could not imagine who or what she might be without having known him. The thought of House dying now made her feel as if the light was being drained from the world around her.

Fighting the tears, she realized she had stopped typing and was staring at the computer screen, unseeing. Shaking her head to center her attention back on the task at hand, she bent back over the keyboard to complete her note and print it for the patient's file.

Blythe sat at her son's bedside and gently stroked the back of his hand. Her husband had gone to find military grade coffee if it could be found. Greg remained paralyzed by some medication and he now had two tubes coming out of his chest. The doctors had told them that his lung had collapsed again. The pressure from the respirator had caused it – the respirator that was forcing oxygen into his lungs because he couldn't breathe on his own. Because some crazed druggie shot him while he was trying to save a woman and young boy.

The tears rolled down her cheeks again. She dabbed at them with her handkerchief.

Everyone had been kind. Doctors and nurses expressed their concern and care for their son. James was just wonderful. So was Dr. Cuddy. And the young doctors who had worked for her son. They had all recently left Greg's department. Each of them had refused to talk about the circumstances of their departure but both she and John had a good idea why.

She had no delusions about her son. Greg was not well liked by most of the people he worked with. That was as it had always been. He had always had a few, a very few, close friends with whom he shared the parts of his life he was willing to share. James Wilson was such a friend and Blythe thanked God for the man. James kept Greg from being too lonely. At least, she prayed that he did.

Greg had carried the loneliness of his childhood into his adult life. Blythe blamed herself for that. She should have done more to get Greg involved in the normal activities of boys his age when he was growing up. Somehow her son had always resisted joining. He was athletic and played sports – lacrosse and basketball mostly. Greg was also musical. By the age of thirteen Greg could already play four instruments. His favorite was the old guitar John had bought him for Christmas one year. But her son never really gained large groups of friends from participating on teams or in bands. He preferred the company of books, as her mother used to say. She had never known a boy to read so much.

She and John always knew their son would succeed at whatever he chose to put his mind to. He read so many things, and different things, while growing up that they never really knew what he wanted to do. When he told them he was going to go to medical school they were a little surprised, though. Not that Greg wasn't a good doctor, without question he was. It had always struck her as odd that her son, who shied away from dealing with people so much of his life, would choose such a profession.

But then, it wasn't about the people for Greg. It was about proving he was able to beat the diseases. Blythe understood better than her son thought she did. Greg trusted science, he didn't trust people.

And that was another thing she blamed herself for.

There had been times in his youth when she should have done things differently. When she should have intervened. When she should have stopped John. She hadn't done it. He son grew up thinking he could never make his father happy, make him proud. She had tried to tell him that John WAS proud. They both were. John had never been a man able to share his feelings with Greg. Their son had grown up to be the same, a man who wasn't able to express his own emotions. They were more alike than either of them would admit. Greg didn't believe her when she tried to tell him how his father felt – the love and pride he had for his son. Somewhere along the way he had stopped trying to believe. And when he did the part of Greg that could reach out to the world and try to belong had died.

Or had it?

Greg had saved those two people and not with medical science. Her son. The man who had so much anger, so much resentment toward his father had done exactly what John would have done.

Now James and Dr. Faxton said that act of charity might kill him.

She didn't think she could bear it if he died. Sons weren't supposed to die. Not her son. Not her only son. Dear God in heaven, not Greg.