All righty guys, big chapter coming up. I've put HOURS of research into this, and am pretty happy with the result. Not 100% certain I didn't miss anything (still ain't no M.D., dang), but who really cares, right?
Let me know if you like it. I love reading your comments!
PS: I changed a few bits in the last chapter, but nothing that's drastically significant to the story.
Chapter 35
In the first half hour of Cuddy's hospitalization, they draw blood, take a urine sample, and administer medication: several antibiotic regiments she is not allergic to, tocoloytics to postpone the preterm labor, and corticosteroids to enhance fetal lung maturity.
The fetal exam her gynecologist performs eases Cuddy's worries slightly, since it reveals a steady heart rate, palpable fetal movements, and no rupture of amniotic membranes. Her cervix is only 1-cm dilated, and the ultrasonography shows no abnormalities.
During her examination, House is with his team, discussing possible other causes for her fever—her temperature lies at 100.5 degrees—and her abdominal and back pain. He sends them off to have them test her blood for several fungi and viruses.
Back in her hospital room, Cuddy has a light breakfast, which she regrets twenty minutes later when light nausea starts spreading from her gut. She feels god-awful. The hospital gown clings to her clammy body; the infrequent contractions are mild, but freak her out every time.
She struggles to get up and out of bed in order to go to the bathroom. When her feet hit the cold linoleum floor, chills run up and down her spine. Sitting there and waiting for the dizziness to subside, she considers calling House. But how exactly could he help? They need to wait for the test results before they can take further actions.
She drinks some more water, pulls off the sensor on her finger, and slowly waddles to the bathroom. Once inside, her stomach turns, and she vomits into the toilet. The act of throwing up is so strenuous her eyes start to water. She grips tightly onto the seat, her knuckles turning white. The acid burns in her throat. She gasps for breath in between each heave. "Gawd," she grunts when the waves finally subside.
She washes her mouth with water and wipes her face. Her whole body is shaking, and she barely manages her way back into bed. She grabs her cell phone.
He picks up after the first ring.
"House?"
"Yeah."
"Add nausea and vomiting to the list."
He pauses. She imagines him in his office, and thinks she hears the marker moving over his whiteboard. "Could be from the antibiotics," he muses. "Could be a symptom. Kidney infection fits all. So does Candida glabrata. I'm already having Chase test your blood for the latter."
"A fungus?"
"They happen to enjoy the smooth and cool milieu of urinary catheters, God knows why. And if I recall your medical history correctly, you had one up your private parts recently."
Cuddy swallows, not knowing what to respond. "Okay."
"I'll have the nurse put you on IV fluids." Then he hangs up.
Cuddy struggles against the lump in her throat. She is not even sure what she had expected from him, but definitely more than she was getting. Was she just another patient to him? Another puzzle? She curses herself for her neediness, brushing angrily at the tears stinging in her eyes. She broke up with him so she'd stop hoping for him to show up and take care of her.
When the nurse comes in to hook her up to an IV, Cuddy asks her to fetch the bag of spare clothes she keeps in her office and the toothbrush from her office bathroom. The taste in her mouth bothers her, and she wants the comfort of feeling her own clothes on her skin. She has some sportswear stashed away that function as PJs just as well.
By mid-morning, it is clear that she is suffering from a bacterial infection: Both her vaginal smear and her urine sample show high levels of bacteria. It's the worst of the possibilities, with a chance of a fatal outcome for both her and the baby. All she can do now is hope that the antibiotics she's on will have an effect.
One positive note is that her contractions cease altogether. Her temperature rises, however, and reaches 101.5 around 2pm.
She is tired and scared. She sleeps on and off, but it is a fitful slumber, crowded by weird dreams that leave her irritated and off-balance.
Wilson drops by. And Chase. They chitchat a little, and she is aware of their good intentions, but their presence draws on her energy.
She calls Julia to inform her about her condition and ask her to take Rachel for yet another night. Cuddy makes her sister swear not to call their mother.
House is there, in her dreams. So is Rachel. And Wilson, on occasion. Sometimes she sees a small boy; sometimes she sees herself.
"Cuddy?"
She swallows. She wants to say something, but her lips seem stuck together. Her mouth is dry. Her eyelids are glued shut, she's sure.
There's a hand on her forearm. Cool fingers. A welcome contrast to her flushed skin. They leave her arm and reappear on her forehead, brushing damp strands of hair out of her face.
"We need to locate the infection." It's House. But this she already knew from his touch.
She opens her eyes a crack.
He sinks down onto the chair next to her bed, his eyes stuck to the monitor displaying her vitals. Her body temperature has risen yet again. "So we can fix whatever's causing it. Or drain it."
His words start registering in her mushy brain. "Locate it?"
"You need an IVP."
She shakes her head. "No. No x-rays."
"Radiation exposure to the fetus is minor compared to a CT."
"But still too high a dosage for a baby." She closes her eyes again, not interested in having this conversation with him.
"This is a run against time. The antibiotics aren't effective enough."
"Try some others."
"We don't know if those will work. And while we wait for the urine culture results, the bacteria are spreading. Tomorrow might be too late for directed treatment."
"You can put me on dialysis in the meantime. I'll be fine."
"God, would you quit playing the martyr here? You're at the risk of urosepsis. The bacteria will enter your bloodstream, damage your kidneys, your liver—"
"Stop," she snaps, glaring at him with as much force as she can muster. "Stop trying to bully me into what you believe is the right decision. I'm not going to expose my child to a procedure that might harm him just because I'm scared."
"Shooting out your organs ranks higher on the list of dangers than 1.5 rad. Five rad is the cumulative fetal exposure limit. It's safe for him."
"You know more than anybody that safe is a relative term. Any amount enhances the chance for leukemia. It can damage DNA."
House sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair. "You're serious."
"Absolutely."
"You're an idiot!" He is clearly angry. He roughly runs his hand through his hair and stomps his cane on the ground several times. "A selfish idiot."
She cannot believe what she's hearing. "Selfish?"
"On the off chance that this will compromise his health, you'd blame yourself. You'd rather die than live with the guilt."
"Oh and you're Mr. Altruistic in this scenario?"
"I'm being objective," he shouts.
"All you're interested in is keeping me around so you won't have the responsibility for something that really matters to you for once in your life." She's tired and wants him out of her room. "I'm doing what's best for this child."
"Best? You really think that putting your life at risk is best for him? Leaving him in the care of a literal and emotional cripple?"
"I don't know," she bellows back, pushing her upper body up from the mattress so she is more at eyelevel with him. "What I do know is that you'll do everything in your power to shield him from pain. And you'll make sure he knows he's loved. By you and by me. That's all I need to know."
He looks completely baffled, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then he shakes his head as if to rid himself from the trust she has placed in him. "You see what you want to see, Cuddy. I see what is. You're making the wrong call."
She sinks back onto the pillow and closes her eyes. "I don't care. It's my body. My call."
He gets up quietly, but doesn't leave straight away. She feels his presence in the room, and is already at the brink of sleep when she registers the faint click of the door falling into the latch.