Chapter 33: PT Redux

Hours later, Wilson was coaching a cursing, red-faced House, holding an emesis basin to catch the neon mucous House kept coughing up, and thinking that this too he deserved. Except that House wasn't cursing at him.

"You giant son of a—"

Wilson winced as another fit of coughing shook House's bony upper body. House clutched a pillow tightly around his ribs and gasped between long, painful series of coughs. At length, he spat into the basin and glared at the large man whose hands were resting on his left foot.

"—bitch," House finished, trying to catch his breath.

Masterson returned House's glare. "Not very creative with your cursing today, House," he said. "I won't say that I rely on you to tell me something I haven't heard before, but I have come to expect it."

"Sorry to let you down," House sneered, squeezing the pillow and grimacing at a sudden stab in his chest. Wilson offered him a towel to wipe the various fluids from his face and neck.

House's coughing fits had slowed the PT session significantly. They hadn't finished a full round with the left leg yet.

"I know you're only doing it to ruin my day," Masterson snipped. He patted House's foot. "Five more on this leg, then we get started on the right."

Masterson helped House lift the leg, careful to minimize the strain on his abdominal muscles, and began flexing the hip joint to work the quad and hamstring. House rested his back against the upraised bed and let him manipulate the limb.

"We'll keep doing this until you contribute," Masterson said.

Mouth in a thin line, House angrily complied, trying to breathe shallowly and resisting the urge to satisfy Masterson with a hail of creative curses. Wilson understood his thinking: if he spoke, he'd breathe deeply, and then he'd be coughing again.

The left leg was easy. It was uninjured. Masterson helped lower it, then moved to the right leg.

"Hip first," he said, watching House's eyes for anger, resentment, pain—all of the usual markers of a PT session—and waited for House to indicate that it was okay for him to move the leg.

House gripped the pillow tightly, took a shallow breath, and nodded.

Holding his breath worked. Sure, he tensed, paled, and screamed inwardly as the movement grated his knee, but he didn't hiss and hence didn't start coughing.

Masterson watched and waited again, holding House's leg in position to flex the hip. House let out the breath he'd been holding, took another one, and nodded again.

They worked slowly, allowing House time to exhale and inhale between reps. Every ten reps, Masterson held the leg still while House caught up on oxygen. That way, they worked through each hip joint exercise without triggering a coughing fit.

A combination of amazement and incredulity flashed over Wilson's face as he exchanged a glance with Masterson, who was equally surprised.

House bared his teeth at the two of them and would have snarled if not for a long list of very good reasons to keep quiet.

Then all three tensed: now for the hard part.

Masterson waited for House's nod, then slowly bent his knee. What little color remained in House's face fled immediately as every muscle in his body contracted, but he made no noise. Once the knee was still again, he exhaled. Wilson noticed a light sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. House inhaled, his eyes closed, and Masterson proceeded.

Seven reps later, streams of sweat had formed dark patches on House's gown and his lips were as bloodless as his face. He had abandoned the breathing technique for shallow gasps.

"Last one," Masterson said quietly, more to himself and Wilson than to House.

As soon as Masterson placed his leg back on the bed, House collapsed against the mattress, every muscle loosening simultaneously. He shook and shuddered involuntarily, still gasping shallowly.

Masterson withdrew into himself, accustomed as he was to the sight of his patients relaxing, but Wilson remained uncomfortable. He'd seen worse—he'd seen House worse—but still, this was House, and if he and Cuddy hadn't been total morons, House would have gotten this PT yesterday.

Wilson picked up the towel he'd given House earlier and hesitated. Masterson watched him move his hand indecisively, first toward House, then back to the tray where the towel had been, then to House, then back again, but offered no counsel. Like Masterson, House had withdrawn inwardly—a normal reaction for him to physical therapy. He too withheld his help.

Eventually, Wilson gave up and put the towel down. Masterson took the action as his cue to wrap up the session.

He clapped House's left foot. "Good work today," he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. "I'll see you this afternoon."

Except for the rise and fall of his chest, House appeared to be dead.

Masterson dried his hands and looked to Wilson. "Three o'clock."

Wilson nodded. Masterson returned the nod and left.

Wilson studied House. His vitals had begun to stabilize—pulse down in the 120s from its peak in the 140s, pulse ox up to 94 from 89, diastolic down to the low nineties; relatively stable—but his color was still absent. Wilson knew the signs of pain. He rapped a knuckle on the bed rail, wanting to give House some chemical help but wanting House to communicate with him first. It wasn't an admission he sought. Just communication.

He told himself he wasn't screwing this up.

"Let me know what you need and I'll get it for you," he said.

Yet the sense that he was handling this situation the wrong way persisted.

Not sure what to do, Wilson filled a cup of water and left it within House's reach, then plopped down in his chair and buried himself in paper.