A/N: Hello, readers! Sorry for the long gap. Life has been crazy, and work is nuts, too. Lots of people have been sick (the great majority of those totally unrelated to COVID) or had life events like family deaths, so the job demands have been up, too, with coverage falling off at times and the rest of us scrambling to get work orders done on time. We're also still, after two years, wading through the legal process with my nephew's murder and had a few more updates on that. I've lost count of the hearings and the continuances at this stage. Maybe some year we will get to trial. Anyway, this story and the series still are alive with more to come, but life rightfully takes precedence when it intervenes.

I also just in the last few weeks did complete a book I've been writing for the past year. This one is totally different from the dementia memoir about Mom. This one is about cats and is fun and frisky, easy reading. It was sent to the publisher late April and hopefully will be out around late summer. See my profile for updates.

The cat book, by the way, includes the inspiration for Belle and half of the inspiration for Jet. Belle is a fictional compilation of two real-life cats, a compilation that has always intrigued me, because those two cats were polar opposites in many ways. I was surprised when my muse chose to combine them. However, both of them have a chapter, the organized, intelligent, processing cat who clearly THINKS about things and then the dramatic, strong-willed one who disliked other cats (and pretty much any other animal or any person except me, actually). That one was indeed a character. It's interesting how real life, sometimes from years earlier, will nudge its way into fiction.

Jet is also a combination of two real-life cats, but in his case, the inspiration wasn't as much various personality traits as it was injury. The cat who was thrown by the front paw is the major source, and her story is in the book, but there was also a cat Mom found with a broken leg who underwent surgery. I still remember that splint. The first cat, unfortunately, was not fixable in terms of her leg, but she had a wonderful post-rescue life for nine years, and her handicap never slowed her down.

Anyway, down to this story. Here's an update, and we will try to keep on trekking on it. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

(H/C)

Sunday night, Cuddy sat in the bed, propped up against the headboard, stalling. She had spent the weekend both elevating and resting her leg (with House providing reinforcement on that) and trying to adjust to the crutches, which were improving but still felt awkward to use. It seemed like much more than two additional supports had been added, poles sticking out in all directions, with her trying to balance among the whole thing. She was annoyed more at herself all the time.

That actually was the impetus for tonight's time-out in the bedroom. She was not only elevating her leg; she was supposed to be calling Patterson for a short phone session. She didn't want to, but she knew that she needed to. It would help to talk through things.

Belle had been sticking quite close to Cuddy all weekend, much closer than usual, and at the moment, she was on the bed sniffing the cast once more, ears flattened. The white cat didn't seem to like the thing much more than Cuddy herself did. Belle finally gave up her scan of the ankle, turned, and walked up Cuddy to park on her lap and simply study her. Cuddy flinched. Those golden eyes had the most penetrating stare at times, particularly when Belle thought that something wasn't being done As It Should. In her feline universe, everything should be done As It Should, a concept that Cuddy could sympathize with.

"I'll call in a minute," Cuddy said, then wondered if she was going off the deep end herself. Was it a sign of going crazy that you thought your cat was protesting your procrastination? Belle simply kept looking at her. House sometimes got into a staring contest with the cat, trying not to blink, but Belle almost always won. Cuddy sighed. She had picked up the cell phone a few minutes ago, crediting herself for that initial step, but it remained undialed. Belle probably had noted the action and simply recognized that a phone in the hand usually became a phone used. It wasn't, after all, like the cat really realized what was going on. At least, Cuddy hoped not. "All right," she relented. She dialed the number by entering the digits instead of just pushing the call button from her contacts, delaying the inevitable a few seconds longer.

Patterson answered promptly. Of course, she had already been put on notice and was expecting a call tonight, making up for the cancelled session Friday. "Dr. Cuddy, how are you doing?"

"A little better," Cuddy responded. "The ankle doesn't hurt nearly as much since the surgery, just aches, and the pain meds are handling it. The crutches are still awkward, but I'm trying to practice."

"Good. I'm glad things are starting to improve physically. And how are you reacting to it yourself?"

Cuddy sighed. Best to get into the meat of the conversation; they were going to wind up there anyway. "I'm…" She trailed off, trying to pick a word out of the several that seemed to be swarming around her, a hornet's nest of feelings. "Annoyed. Frustrated. Helpless." Belle at that point broke off eye contact, moved down to the injured ankle, and carefully, with ears back to show her magnanimity at accepting this hard perch, arranged herself over the cast as a feline heating pad. Cuddy half smiled.

"Interesting selection of words," Patterson said. "Let's unpack them one at a time. Annoyed. How is this annoying?"

"Have you ever broken something?" Cuddy replied.

"Yes."

"Then you know how it feels. I swear the damned thing is ten times larger than it is. That cast gets in the way of everything. I can't move without thinking about it."

"All of that is definitely annoying, and yes, I can sympathize. And empathize, too. But you know that isn't the largest part."

Cuddy snapped. "It was my fault, all right? I was careless on those stairs. I should have wiped my feet on the mat when I came into the lobby from outside to dry them a little, should have had hold of the rail, should have been paying attention to the steps, and shouldn't have kept going forward when someone called me and I turned back."

"Does your family blame you?" Patterson asked.

"What does that have to do with…" Cuddy stopped abruptly, putting two and two together. "You think this goes back to my parents again, don't you?"

"Partly," the psychiatrist said. "Things rarely fit totally neatly into just one box, but a large part of your fear of making mistakes in anything does relate back to them. You grew up basically expecting to be graded on your performance each day. They had trouble showing unconditional love; not that they didn't feel it, but they had trouble showing it. It would have been interesting to know their parents and how those relationships worked. Anyway, part of your horror of mistakes is a fear that you won't be as acceptable to the people you love if you make them. We've talked about that before."

"I know." Cuddy dribbled her fingers on her non-phone hand, then caught herself at it and made herself quit. "But it was my fault. That isn't projection or childhood scars or whatever you want to call it. This really was a careless accident."

"Yes, it sounds like it was. And do you know one useful point of careless accidents, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy sat up a little straighter, interested in hearing this. "What?"

"They teach us. I imagine that many times previously, you have been too much in a hurry and a bit careless on stairs. This time, it bit you. But that gives you a chance to do better in the future and hopefully avoid an even more serious accident. Everybody makes careless mistakes now and then, Dr. Cuddy. It's part of being human. But mistakes that can actually physically hurt you, you can learn from and avoid repeating the pain. Dr. House said this was a fairly simple fracture. You could have been injured a lot worse. Remember that for the future."

"Believe me, I will." Cuddy half smiled again. "Rachel offered to give me lessons on stairs."

"And there is another useful point. Has it occurred to you, Dr. Cuddy, that Rachel herself, from what I've seen and how you've described her, gets too much in a hurry at times? You can make this a teaching moment for your daughter. Admit that you were a little careless, talk about it with her, and let her learn from that. Maybe your accident now can save her from an equal or worse one herself next year."

"I hadn't thought of that," Cuddy admitted. Having an actual positive use for this situation was a new idea.

"Let's move on. Frustrating, your second word. How so, specifically?"

That list was easy to come up with. "It gets in the way, all the time. It's like dragging a bowling ball around attached to my foot. I can't move without thinking, can't do things for myself, can't carry things. I can't pick up my daughters."

"You could when you are sitting down," Patterson pointed out.

"Well, yes, but not when I'm walking. Not like taking them back to bed. They're growing and getting heavier anyway; Greg has stopped even trying the last month or so. They had to walk themselves to bed the last few nights."

"And how did they react to that?"

Cuddy paused, knocked off her frustration topic for a moment. "Actually, they seemed a bit proud of it. Like this was something that came with getting older."

Patterson smiled herself; Cuddy could hear it in her voice. "It is something that comes with getting older, Dr. Cuddy. Your days of carrying them to bed were nearing the end of the hourglass anyway; they will want to keep gaining independence. And I'm sure you still walked back with them."

"Limped back with them, anyway."

"As did your husband. Do you automatically apply the word limped to him?"

"No." Cuddy sighed again. "I know; he has so much more frustration to deal with. This is only temporary for me."

"Dr. Cuddy, you aren't stupid, failing, or crippled to your children, even temporarily. Nor to Dr. House. How many times have you tried to emphasize that his handicap is not what you see when you look at him?"

"I can't count them. So, you think I should follow my own advice?"

"When it's good advice, yes," Patterson said. "You had an accident, and yes, you were partly at fault for it. But this situation is only temporary, like you said, and your family is not judging you for it. You haven't failed an exam in Life 101. All of us make mistakes. We'll wrap up soon, because you've had about enough to process, but very quickly, how do you feel helpless?"

"A lot of the same ways, I guess. Can't do anything, can't carry things, can't be the…" Cuddy skidded to a stop so quickly there was an almost audible screech of brakes.

Patterson came to attention immediately. "Can't be the what?"

Cuddy didn't want to admit that to her psychiatrist. She had been about to say the strong one, but she could fill in the psychiatric comments on that remark herself. "You're right; I am getting tired."

"Yes. You're also dodging. But saying it isn't what gives it life, Dr. Cuddy. Thinking and feeling it in the first place gave it life. Saying it gets it out in the open, where we can deal with things better. Remember back when the assassin came after the president; bottling up feelings and trying not to express them is not an improvement, and in fact, it can make things much worse."

Reluctantly, Cuddy gave in. "I can't be the strong one," she admitted.

"Well done, Dr. Cuddy. And with that, I'll bid you good night."

Cuddy was surprised. "You're going to leave a line like that alone?"

"For the moment. Think about it yourself. You are making progress all the time on your issues, Dr. Cuddy; you are quite capable of starting to unpack that thought. We'll discuss it next time, if you wish, but in the meantime, you probably really are getting tired."

Her ankle abruptly gained twenty pounds, sinking her into the bed. "I am," Cuddy admitted.

"So go to bed. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is always another day, Dr. Cuddy. Good night."

"Good night. And thanks." Cuddy hung up and sat there a minute longer, watching Belle. How could cats make even an awkward position appear comfortable? Finally, she carefully shifted her ankle over and picked her crutches up, then picked herself up and went to find her husband. She suddenly wanted to hear the Serenade from him tonight before going to bed.