Hello everyone!
Here's a new chapter, as promised. More progress is being made - I expect to be able to publish the next one in September.
Thank you for your feedback, and for taking the time to read. I'll see you guys soon!
Chapter Forty-Nine
Night had fallen when Wilson found him.
The oncologist stepped around the mess in House's office and pushed open the door of his balcony. House was still sitting there, his back against the wall, staring into the distance.
"House," his friend called out. "'You okay?" he continued, as he had obtained no reaction. House gave a light shrug.
Wilson pulled his penlight out of his lab coat pocket and kneeled down, resting a hand on his friend's forehead. "Fuck off," House growled, pushing the penlight away as the light reached his eyes.
Wilson sighed and stood back up, resting his hands on his hips. "Cuddy had a seizure. Half an hour ago," he informed him. House whipped his head towards him. "I gave her ten milligrams of diazepam and put her on magnesium sulfate."
"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, a hint of resentment in his voice.
"Would you have picked up?"
He didn't reply, and turned away instead. "'She conscious?"
"Yeah." There was a pause. "She told me everything, you know."
Still, House didn't turn to him, his eyes riveted to the tip of his sneakers.
"Whatever feelings you have towards her… push them aside," his friend advised him. "I don't care if you resent her about Mary. In a few days, weeks, months… You're gonna regret not being there for her. When Amber…" His voice trailing off, Wilson exhaled loudly and pulled himself back together. "Cuddy encouraged me to wake her up. To say goodbye. Very few of us have that chance, House. I see people who don't all the time."
House didn't move or even look up.
Dejectedly, Wilson handed him a familiar, small orange bottle. "I don't care how you do it, just… don't lose this time with her."
House looked at the pills his friend was giving him – Vicodin.
Sure, Vicodin had helped him deal with things before. A couple pills took the edge off, made him forget about his pain. He could walk into Cuddy's room on autopilot and be there for her without having to think about it. He could even down the whole bottle and never have to deal with anything again.
But he didn't want to.
He'd gotten clean twice because of her. For her.
Imagining the bitterness of the pills on his tongue didn't give him a tingling sensation all over his body like it used to – it just made him nauseous.
"Put that crap away from me."
Wilson frowned. He put the bottle back in his pocket, staring at his friend.
"You're a coward!" he exclaimed. "You're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, but she's the one dying alone in a hospital bed!"
"She's not alone, she has you," House retorted.
"You can't let her die alone!"
"Well, I can't live without her!" he shouted.
Wilson shook his head in disgust, before he turned away and stormed back inside.
While he had been sitting there all day, House had found himself thinking of the few times when he'd been in the hospital, in enough of a bad shape that he thought he wouldn't make it. His infarction had been one of them – the pain had been so intense and overwhelming, he hadn't imagined it would ever get better. He remembered the helplessness, the terror. He remembered he hadn't wanted Stacy to leave, even for a few minutes.
Wilson was right. He could not leave her alone.
He just couldn't wrap his mind around why Cuddy hadn't told him she was sick. Although he had insisted he wouldn't have made her terminate, he had to admit it would have been his first instinct had she been any other patient: in these situations, he saved the mother first, because the mother was his patient, unlike the cluster of cells in her womb that didn't fit his definition of a living human being.
But Cuddy wasn't just any other patient, and their daughter wasn't just a cluster of cells.
He had no idea what his decision would have been.
And for this reason, he could not say he didn't understand Cuddy's: her maternal instinct had kicked in, and she had tried to protect her baby. Even if it involved lying to him. Even if it involved putting herself in danger.
Before his surgery, Stacy had asked him if he would give up his leg to save her life. His answer had been an immediate yes; he loved her, his leg was nothing compared to her life being at stake. This hypothetical situation was not so different from Cuddy's: she loved her baby, and decided to put it first.
Besides, just a few hours before, he would have been ready to do anything if it could save Cuddy's life, and he still was. He would chop off his own leg with a butter knife, jump from the balcony, if it meant she got to walk away unscathed.
But things didn't work this way – she was still dying. Now that she'd had a seizure, it was only a matter of hours.
Tomorrow at the same time, she'd be gone, and there was nothing he could do.
He covered his face with his hands – he was breathless, crushed by panic. He wanted to be inside her arms. He wished that none of this had happened.
He couldn't shake off the idea that if she had told him, if he had seen the signs, they wouldn't be here.
Yes, he resented her. But he had to suck it up.
Westhall is waiting for them when they exit the elevator on the maternity ward. Next thing she knows, Cuddy's sitting on a wheelchair and someone is handing her a gown.
"When was your latest contraction?" Westhall asks her as they wheel her to her room.
"Uh, half an hour ago. My water broke about an hour before that."
The elderly doctor nods. "This is still the earliest stage of labour. Contractions are short and spaced out. But you were right to come in early, we want to take every precaution."
When they get to the room, they give her time to change into the gown and settle on the bed. Westhall then wraps the two belts of the electronic foetal monitoring around her belly and hooks it up to a monitor, where the baby's heartrate and the strength of her uterine contractions appear.
"We're all set," he announces. "This is the part when you might want to relax, perhaps take a nap."
"Take a nap?"
He smiles warmly. "I know it seems counterintuitive, but it's the best way to gather the strength you're gonna need when you're pushing."
"I'm not leaving your side," House promises as he takes her hand.
She smiles, and acquiesces.
"Alright, then," Westhall concludes before heading outside. "I'll check back on you in an hour. Page me if there's anything."
Cuddy turns towards the monitor and stares at her daughter's heart rate until she falls asleep.
When House gently slid open the door of Cuddy's room in the ICU, Wilson was sitting by her bed, holding her hand. Seeing his friend, he caressed Cuddy's hair and whispered something in her ear, before kissing her forehead. Eventually, he stood in front of House and put an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
"I'll be around."
He gave a slight nod. "Thank you," he said, hoping Wilson would understand that it comprised not only his kind words and gesture, but also everything he'd done for Cuddy while he was gone.
Wilson shut the door behind him.
House limped slowly towards Cuddy. She was lying there with her arms resting at her sides, the oxygen mask still covering her nose and mouth. The night shift had just begun and the lights were off, save for the emergency lights.
Looking at her face, he stood beside her and gently took her hand.
She slowly raised her other hand and moved the mask away from her face. "I didn't know if you'd come."
Her eyelids looked heavier than they'd ever been, her cheeks lacked some of their plumpness. Even in the dim light, he could see the yellow hue of her face and the hint of red around her eyes. He was amazed by how different and sicker she looked – he'd only been gone a few hours.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears springing to his eyes. He leaned over and touched her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. She turned to him and put her hand on his arm, before she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. They could feel each other's breath on their faces.
"Stay," she demanded, though her hesitant tone made it sound like a question. It tore his heart apart that she wasn't sure she could count on him.
"Yes."
Her mouth found his, softly and lovingly.
Cuddy is pacing again.
She was able to sleep for an hour, which is a godsend given how little she slept the night before.
There was a third contraction that only lasted a few seconds. They waited for a fourth one, but Cuddy fell asleep again in the meantime. it is now around dinner time, and after a few naps interrupted by contractions which are now twenty minutes apart, Cuddy decides that it is taking too long and unhooks herself from the foetal monitor, standing on her feet again.
"Just lay back down," House advises, quietly sitting on a chair by the bed. He has been watching her walking around with her hands on the small of her back for a few minutes and is now slightly worried that she'll pace a hole into the floor. "Try to relax."
She shakes her head. "It's taking too long."
"You could always let me play with your nipples." She turns to him, barely shocked – coming from him, she's heard worse after all. "Release oxytocin. Induce labor."
"I'll pass."
"You're an endocrinologist, you know I'm right."
She smirks. "I'm only an endocrinologist when that's convenient for you. The rest of the time I'm a pencil pusher."
"Well, I'm sure even a smart pencil pusher like you knows about oxytocin." As he stands up and limps up to her, she playfully crosses her arms over her chest.
"Hugging also releases oxytocin."
"But it's not as fun," he replies with an exaggerated pout. Cuddy rolls her eyes. "I'll settle for a back rub, though."
"Works for me," she agrees as she turns around, her hands clasped below her belly.
"No, I meant… You would be the one giving me a back rub."
She just gives him the evil eye over her shoulder. Smirking, House does not waste any time and proceeds to rub her lower back, causing her to hiss. "I don't know which is more painful, my back or my uterus."
"Oh, stop whining. You're accomplishing the miracle of life here."
"I'll disembowel you if you don't stop talking."
He grins. "How about an epidural?"
"Labor takes longer with an epidural. I've done my research."
"'T's up to you. But I'd take it if I were you."
"You would."
He keeps massaging her back without a word for a while, trying to get her to relax. After a few minutes, Cuddy leans a hand against the wall with a yelp that dissolves into a groan as the contraction ripples through her belly.
House glances at his watch. "Nineteen minutes apart. Cuddy, it's working!"
"It's a coincidence." She exhales slowly as the pain dissipates. "Keep rubbing."
A few seconds later, Wilson walks in, carrying a brown paper bag that he puts down on the table by the bed. "Got you guys something to eat."
"Oh, thank God," House sighs as he peruses the inside of the bag. "I'm starving." Cuddy rolls her eyes and sits down on the bed.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Wilson tells her with a warm smile.
"I've been in pain for twelve hours. Nothing to celebrate."
"Nine, actually," House chimes in, his mouth full of the burgers that Wilson brought.
"And he's being the most annoying clock I've ever met."
"You've met a lot of annoying clocks?"
Wilson gives him a warning look, whereas Cuddy just sighs. "Thank you for dinner, Wilson." He's about to respond when the pager attached to his hip rings. He glances at the message and opens his mouth to apologise. "Go," she tells him. "We're fine. One last rub?" He grins and holds out his hand to rub her belly. "Hopefully next time I see you she'll be out of there."
"Fingers crossed," he says before he leaves.
"Any contractions since last time?" Westhall asks as he walks in, barely a moment after Wilson has left.
"They're nineteen minutes apart now."
"Alright then. I'd like you back on the monitor for a few minutes."
Cuddy lies back and House helps her wrap the belts around her belly again. "Should it be taking this long?" she asks.
Westhall peers at the monitor. "Foetal heartbeat is normal. There's no cause for worry. You're still within range, really."
She sighs. "It's been an entire day."
"Nine hours," House adds. Cuddy glares at him.
"Oh, I once assisted women who were in labour for over forty hours."
"Dear God," she whispers.
"Feel free to pace around or squat, find what's best for you. It can speed up labour a bit. I wouldn't resort to medications as long as everything looks normal."
"Of course."
As soon as Westhall exits the room, Cuddy unhooks herself from the monitor and starts pacing again. House resumes eating. After a few minutes, she sits back on the bed next to him, hiding her face in her hands.
"Hey," he says as he nudges her with his shoulder. She lets out a wobbly sigh and he immediately lets go of his food and kneels down in front of her. "Look at me," he demands, pulling her hands away from her face.
She shakes her head. "I just… I just want her to be born. I want her to be alive and safe, instead of…" She vaguely gestures towards her belly. "Midway through where anything could happen."
House rests a hand on her knee, looking into her eyes. "I won't let anything happen to her," he promises. "Or you."
Cuddy smiles and leans her forehead against his, their eyes closing. "Ugh, you smell of burgers," she complains after a few seconds.
House reaches into the paper bag, unwraps a burger and holds it millimetres from her mouth. "'Want one?"
She smiles ever so slightly. "Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
After they'd kissed a few times, House had sat beside her on the bed. Cuddy was sitting up, her head resting against his chest and their arms were tangled together as they held on to each other.
"I thought it would work out just fine," she admitted. "If I held on long enough, we'd both make it. You would never have to know."
He sighed. "But you knew what the consequences would be if it didn't work out just fine."
"It was worth the risk. What if – what if I had gotten an abortion? I would have lived never knowing what would have happened if I had given it a try. There's no coming back from that. I would have mourned her my entire life. Maybe resented you."
"It can't end here, you and I. Not after everything we've been through."
"Do you think I want it to?"
"Dammit, Cuddy, I was supposed to die before you!" He sighed. "You could have told me."
As she kept silent, he thought of the impossible choice she had had to make. The choice that she'd prevented him from making when she'd sacrificed herself.
Kill one and save the other.
What would he have done?
Would he have agreed with her sacrifice, thus ending up in this exact same situation – Mary gone and Cuddy dying in the ICU?
Would he have condemned her and himself to a lifetime of mourning and wondering what could have been? Would their decision have driven a wedge between them and pushed them apart with no hope of reconciliation?
Panic overwhelmed him for a second. He held her tighter without realising it.
Suddenly, decisions weren't black and white anymore. He could not apply a rational logic that was cold and devoid of emotions. He couldn't make decisions like he did for his patients – regardless of any consequences they might have because if he didn't get to know his patients the consequences wouldn't be part of the equation, because the only thing he was interested in was getting them out of the hospital alive and it mattered more than saving a foetus or a limb.
His ancient instinct of running for the hills would have kicked in – it was the one thing he was certain of. If he wasn't around, he wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of his decision. Wouldn't have to feel pain, either – that's why he had run away when Westhall had called Mary's time of death.
No matter how hard he'd tried to be a better man for Cuddy, a man worthy of her, this decision was bigger than him.
And she'd been carrying its entire weight on her shoulders this whole time.
"God, no wonder you were blaming yourself," he whispered into her hair as he caressed her arm.
"Hey." She squeezed his hand, prompting him to glance down at her. "Don't you blame yourself. You didn't see anything because I didn't want you to. It was not your fault." He was about to protest when she added, "Face it, House. I outsmarted you."
He unexpectedly felt a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Your sense of guilt is so perverse, you're absolving me on your death bed."
She smirked. "Believe that if it makes you feel better."
He had a sad smile. "It doesn't."
The night doesn't get any more peaceful.
Cuddy's contractions get longer and closer together and eventually tear screams of pain from her lips. She paces, sits backwards on the chair to ride the contractions, her forehead resting against the backrest. House rubs her back and caresses her hair, eyes riveted to his wristwatch, watches her walk around, survives on coffee from the machine down the hall. They have snacks in between contractions. Westhall drops by every half-hour, eventually begins checking the dilation of her cervix.
The tension in the room increases a notch when at the break of dawn, she's barely dilated four centimetres. Westhall tries to reassure the parents by telling them the baby will be born before the night, but he can tell they're already thinking of the risks of a long labour, faster than they can process.
It's a slow and steady climb towards ten centimetres, which Cuddy reaches by mid-afternoon. By then she's been in bed for a couple of hours. Her hair is matted with sweat, although House does his best to wipe it off from her forehead, and she hasn't slept for twenty-four hours
Westhall settles between her legs, House beside her, holding her hand tight.
"Alright, then," the elderly doctor announces. "Incoming contraction. Get ready to push."
"I want to see her," she requested in a whisper.
House had sat back in the chair a while ago, and they'd kept silent until then. Her hand was still in his, his thumb caressing her skin.
He looked up at her.
"After… They didn't let me," she explained. The sorrow in her voice made his chest ache. "I never held her."
He nodded, knowing what this entailed. "Give me five minutes."
Cuddy was too weak to go downstairs on her own, and he couldn't sit her down in a wheelchair without removing her CPAP mask.
He was going to have to go to the morgue himself and bring their baby back.
However, truth be told, he rather she met her baby in the intimacy of a quiet room than in the cold harshness of the morgue.
He just really didn't want to go.
It had been over two weeks and they had never broached the subject of getting the body back – they were mourning, and he was preoccupied by Cuddy's pain, and they'd decided to focus on getting better.
He kissed her hand, and headed towards the basement. The staff didn't pay attention to him as he limped past them, and he was relieved to know there wouldn't be any witnesses when he would be coming back.
He pushed the door of the morgue open and switched on the overhead lights. Locating the registry, he flipped through it until he found his daughter's name – seeing his last name next to Cuddy's made him a little dizzy.
When he pulled the drawer open, he was struck by how small the body was, lying under a shroud, lost in the immensity of this stainless steel sea. With shaking hands, he reached out and wrapped the body in the sheet, before holding it close to his chest – he could feel the cold seeping through his hands as he made his way back to the ICU.
When he walked back into her room, Cuddy instinctively held out her hands towards the bundle in his arms, and just as naturally held it against her breast, in the crook of her elbow.
Her cheeks were instantly drenched in tears and he had to look away.
"Oh, she's so cold," Cuddy whispered as she moved the shroud away from her face, caressing the plump cheek with the back of her index finger. He felt compelled to turn to her when he heard her say through her tears, "She's got your nose." She pushed the fabric further away. "Oh, that's definitely my hair, though."
Seeing his girlfriend holding their dead baby in her arms, seeing on her face not unconditional love and elated bliss, but immeasurable pain, broke his heart into smithereens. He had to fight the urge to run out of the room.
Cuddy opened the sheet further, baring the baby's arms. "Ten fingers," she counted, slipping her index finger underneath the tiny hand. He almost expected it to curl around her finger.
"Stop," he whispered before she could count her toes, suddenly aware of the tears on his face.
She caressed the baby's hair and looked carefully at her face, before turning to him.
"Thank you," she whispered. He frowned in confusion. "For her. For this. For now."
House sat on the bed with her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He hid his face in her hair for a while, before he was brave enough to look at his daughter.
"She's so beautiful," Cuddy murmured, her hand resting on the baby's stomach.
He was amazed that he was able to recognize so much of himself and so much of Cuddy at the same time – his nose, her hair, his mouth, her jaw.
"Yeah, she is."
"I want to be with her. I don't care what my mother says. You put me with her."
He kissed her hair, trying to keep his tears at bay. "Okay."
TBC...
