DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. If you tried to sue me, all I
could give you is about twenty dollars and my dorm room, which I don't
think you'd want, so just know these characters aren't mine.
SUMMARY: "Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end."
SPOILERS: Up through Han, just to be on the safe side. What's going on in the West Wing universe is paralleled with this, only a little different.
FEEDBACK: I love it! It's like playing in the leaves on a fall day!
THANKS: So much thanks go to Elizabeth, for rocking with the editing.
IT ALL GOES AWAY SOMETIMES
Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end.
I'm in the other side of the waiting room, trying to interest myself in magazines, trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang's going to be more popular this January during the State of the Union, and then tossing it all aside because we might not have another State of the Union.
And I'm coming up with something to say to a room full of reporters.
****
I've perfected the art of spin. You always vow to be honest and straight- forward, but it's almost impossible today to be a successful presidential administration and not spin. So I know when I can stretch the truth in our favor.
And then sometimes there's just the simple truth. There's this one moment when you stand in front of the press and say, "The President complained of some of the symptoms of MS shortly after the Fourth of July. He suspects his MS may have progressed to Secondary Progressive and is currently undergoing a series of tests."
And then there are the questions. "CJ? If the President is diagnosed, will he step down?"
God, I have no idea. "Katie, he will step down when he feels as if he can no longer fulfill his duties as President."
"CJ? Don't you feel as though he should hand over the power to Bob Russell?"
"That's not my call, Chris, it's President Bartlet's, and like I said, we have no idea whether the disease has progressed, but as of right now the President feels as if he can fully carry out his duties."
****
I close the magazines for the last time. I've been trying to get myself interested in the articles, but I just can't, not with this going on.
I wander over to where Toby's sitting, most likely reading about the tax reform bill. Yesterday's drafting session didn't go in our favor. Josh is sitting in on negotiations on the Hill. I know he'd much rather be here, but it's a stark reminder that life really does go on.
"Tobus," I say, sitting down and peering over at his pile of folders. "What are you looking at?"
"None of your business," he says, but I can tell he's trying to hold back a smile.
"I'm trying to make small talk here," I say, trying to break the ice. The past few hours have been difficult on him. Hell, the past few years have been hard on him.
He used to have this dream he'd tell me late at night before I went off to Hollywood. He wanted to find a good man to be President.
Unfortunately, when he found Jed Bartlet, I think he associated a 'good man' with a perfect man. When Toby found out about the MS three years ago- God, can can it really be three years?- it broke him somehow. I'm afraid that these recent developments are killing him.
"You're not doing a very good job," he decides, picking up a briefing and feigning interest.
"Well, they never said small talk was my strong point."
"No."
Suddenly, a small entourage of Secret Service agents walk into the waiting room, followed close behind by Abigail Bartlet. She's unusually pale, although you can tell the South American sun made her darker than she was before.
"Is he still in there?" she asks, approaching the two of us and gesturing towards the back room with her head.
"Yeah. He should be out soon, ma'am," I say, standing. Toby is close behind me, and I watch him as he buttons up his jacket. "We weren't expecting you home so soon."
"Well, I wasn't going to come home," she says, gesturing for the two of us to sit down. When we all take seats, she continues. "I was talking to this woman in Guatemala, and her husband has been having a lot of health problems. She said she has to work hard to pay for food for her children since her husband has trouble finding work. But she said that if he became any worse she'd do anything to drop everything and stay with him until the end." She sighs and looks over the two of us. "If you see Jed before I do, don't tell him I came back."
And then she wanders over to where I sat before, picking up this month's Vogue, and I wonder if she's trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang would suit her better this January.
****
Fifteen minutes later the President staggers out of the examination room. He's apparently so tired he doesn't even comment that his wife is home early. He has bags under his eyes. The doctor follows him out and says, "It usually takes a few days before we can make a diagnosis, but we'll make him top priority. You guys should know by tonight."
"Thank you, doctor," Abbey says quietly, as she takes her husband's arm. "Let's go, Jed."
And since we have nothing else to do, we follow them out to the parking lot.
****
"Any news?" Josh asks, swinging open my door and standing there impatiently.
"Why, Josh," I respond, peering over my glasses, "God gave you knuckles so you could knock."
"Well, no one ever knocks at my door, so I don't see why you should get special treatment. Any news?" Josh repeats. "We'll know tonight. Relax. In the meantime, how did negotiations go?"
"Donna's on the phone. We lost six key votes during the drafting session."
"Samuels, Grant, Stevens, and who else?"
"Toystoy, Zimmer, and Williams," Josh responds, sitting down on my couch.
"Wait. Zimmer's from Ohio, right?"
"Yeah."
"He's never voted for us before. Why are we worried now?"
"Because he would vote for the bill if we changed one key amendment."
"And that is--?"
"He doesn't like the fact we're raising the tax rates on corporations."
"Oh, is that all?" I snap sarcastically. "Wouldn't it be more beneficial if we attacked Turner from Missouri?"
"No, because Turner stated very flatly that he would vote against the bill."
"But he usually votes for us." I am monumentally confused now.
"Yeah, but he doesn't think the President's enough of a threat now, what with the possible--"
"MS," I say softly. "Well, keep me posted. I have an evening press conference, and if we still don't know the outcome of the President's MS, the tax bill's going to dominate."
"Yeah." He stands. "When are we supposed to know--?"
"We'll know when we know!" I snap. Josh is like my little brother, but there are days when he can get on your last nerve. Kind of like a little brother, really.
"Yeah," he says softly, and shuts the door behind him.
****
And because things rarely go the way I need them to, the results of the President's MS comes in the middle of the briefing, in the middle of talking about tax bills and getting more votes.
Carol hands a hastily-written note to me and I read it. "Okay. Five minutes ago the results of the MS exam came in. President Bartlet has been diagnosed with secondary-progressive MS." And then I count the minutes.
One minute. "CJ, are there any definitive plans for the President to step down?"
I am dealing with this myself, and I have no words left in me. But I have to go on anyway. "No, there are no definitive plans."
Two minutes.
"CJ? Will the First Family make a public statement?"
"I've only just got the information now. I can't comment on whether there will be a public statement."
Three and I must blink back the frustration so I don't seem weak.
"CJ! What are the symptoms of secondary progressive?"
This is easy. Eventual blindness, muscle weakness, maybe paralysis. Loss of cognitive reasoning. My mind reels as I relay the information. Information that I know by heart, and I'm grateful to whoever asked me that question, because I now have a chance to collect my own thoughts. This is a question I can answer in my sleep. You'd think, however, after we spent six months educating the public on why relapsing-remitting MS won't impair the Presiden's ability to fulfill the oath of office, they'd stop asking me these questions.
Four minutes and the press conference is over.
I leave Danny alone, behind me as I step out into the hallway, because I know he'll ask me questions, and I know that I will cry.
I meet a subdued group hanging out in Donna's bullpen. Their faces are pale and I need someone to say something. Josh, Toby, Donna, Will, none of them say a word.
Apparently it's up to me. "Well, guys," I say, trying to stay calm, "what's next?"
SUMMARY: "Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end."
SPOILERS: Up through Han, just to be on the safe side. What's going on in the West Wing universe is paralleled with this, only a little different.
FEEDBACK: I love it! It's like playing in the leaves on a fall day!
THANKS: So much thanks go to Elizabeth, for rocking with the editing.
IT ALL GOES AWAY SOMETIMES
Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end.
I'm in the other side of the waiting room, trying to interest myself in magazines, trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang's going to be more popular this January during the State of the Union, and then tossing it all aside because we might not have another State of the Union.
And I'm coming up with something to say to a room full of reporters.
****
I've perfected the art of spin. You always vow to be honest and straight- forward, but it's almost impossible today to be a successful presidential administration and not spin. So I know when I can stretch the truth in our favor.
And then sometimes there's just the simple truth. There's this one moment when you stand in front of the press and say, "The President complained of some of the symptoms of MS shortly after the Fourth of July. He suspects his MS may have progressed to Secondary Progressive and is currently undergoing a series of tests."
And then there are the questions. "CJ? If the President is diagnosed, will he step down?"
God, I have no idea. "Katie, he will step down when he feels as if he can no longer fulfill his duties as President."
"CJ? Don't you feel as though he should hand over the power to Bob Russell?"
"That's not my call, Chris, it's President Bartlet's, and like I said, we have no idea whether the disease has progressed, but as of right now the President feels as if he can fully carry out his duties."
****
I close the magazines for the last time. I've been trying to get myself interested in the articles, but I just can't, not with this going on.
I wander over to where Toby's sitting, most likely reading about the tax reform bill. Yesterday's drafting session didn't go in our favor. Josh is sitting in on negotiations on the Hill. I know he'd much rather be here, but it's a stark reminder that life really does go on.
"Tobus," I say, sitting down and peering over at his pile of folders. "What are you looking at?"
"None of your business," he says, but I can tell he's trying to hold back a smile.
"I'm trying to make small talk here," I say, trying to break the ice. The past few hours have been difficult on him. Hell, the past few years have been hard on him.
He used to have this dream he'd tell me late at night before I went off to Hollywood. He wanted to find a good man to be President.
Unfortunately, when he found Jed Bartlet, I think he associated a 'good man' with a perfect man. When Toby found out about the MS three years ago- God, can can it really be three years?- it broke him somehow. I'm afraid that these recent developments are killing him.
"You're not doing a very good job," he decides, picking up a briefing and feigning interest.
"Well, they never said small talk was my strong point."
"No."
Suddenly, a small entourage of Secret Service agents walk into the waiting room, followed close behind by Abigail Bartlet. She's unusually pale, although you can tell the South American sun made her darker than she was before.
"Is he still in there?" she asks, approaching the two of us and gesturing towards the back room with her head.
"Yeah. He should be out soon, ma'am," I say, standing. Toby is close behind me, and I watch him as he buttons up his jacket. "We weren't expecting you home so soon."
"Well, I wasn't going to come home," she says, gesturing for the two of us to sit down. When we all take seats, she continues. "I was talking to this woman in Guatemala, and her husband has been having a lot of health problems. She said she has to work hard to pay for food for her children since her husband has trouble finding work. But she said that if he became any worse she'd do anything to drop everything and stay with him until the end." She sighs and looks over the two of us. "If you see Jed before I do, don't tell him I came back."
And then she wanders over to where I sat before, picking up this month's Vogue, and I wonder if she's trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang would suit her better this January.
****
Fifteen minutes later the President staggers out of the examination room. He's apparently so tired he doesn't even comment that his wife is home early. He has bags under his eyes. The doctor follows him out and says, "It usually takes a few days before we can make a diagnosis, but we'll make him top priority. You guys should know by tonight."
"Thank you, doctor," Abbey says quietly, as she takes her husband's arm. "Let's go, Jed."
And since we have nothing else to do, we follow them out to the parking lot.
****
"Any news?" Josh asks, swinging open my door and standing there impatiently.
"Why, Josh," I respond, peering over my glasses, "God gave you knuckles so you could knock."
"Well, no one ever knocks at my door, so I don't see why you should get special treatment. Any news?" Josh repeats. "We'll know tonight. Relax. In the meantime, how did negotiations go?"
"Donna's on the phone. We lost six key votes during the drafting session."
"Samuels, Grant, Stevens, and who else?"
"Toystoy, Zimmer, and Williams," Josh responds, sitting down on my couch.
"Wait. Zimmer's from Ohio, right?"
"Yeah."
"He's never voted for us before. Why are we worried now?"
"Because he would vote for the bill if we changed one key amendment."
"And that is--?"
"He doesn't like the fact we're raising the tax rates on corporations."
"Oh, is that all?" I snap sarcastically. "Wouldn't it be more beneficial if we attacked Turner from Missouri?"
"No, because Turner stated very flatly that he would vote against the bill."
"But he usually votes for us." I am monumentally confused now.
"Yeah, but he doesn't think the President's enough of a threat now, what with the possible--"
"MS," I say softly. "Well, keep me posted. I have an evening press conference, and if we still don't know the outcome of the President's MS, the tax bill's going to dominate."
"Yeah." He stands. "When are we supposed to know--?"
"We'll know when we know!" I snap. Josh is like my little brother, but there are days when he can get on your last nerve. Kind of like a little brother, really.
"Yeah," he says softly, and shuts the door behind him.
****
And because things rarely go the way I need them to, the results of the President's MS comes in the middle of the briefing, in the middle of talking about tax bills and getting more votes.
Carol hands a hastily-written note to me and I read it. "Okay. Five minutes ago the results of the MS exam came in. President Bartlet has been diagnosed with secondary-progressive MS." And then I count the minutes.
One minute. "CJ, are there any definitive plans for the President to step down?"
I am dealing with this myself, and I have no words left in me. But I have to go on anyway. "No, there are no definitive plans."
Two minutes.
"CJ? Will the First Family make a public statement?"
"I've only just got the information now. I can't comment on whether there will be a public statement."
Three and I must blink back the frustration so I don't seem weak.
"CJ! What are the symptoms of secondary progressive?"
This is easy. Eventual blindness, muscle weakness, maybe paralysis. Loss of cognitive reasoning. My mind reels as I relay the information. Information that I know by heart, and I'm grateful to whoever asked me that question, because I now have a chance to collect my own thoughts. This is a question I can answer in my sleep. You'd think, however, after we spent six months educating the public on why relapsing-remitting MS won't impair the Presiden's ability to fulfill the oath of office, they'd stop asking me these questions.
Four minutes and the press conference is over.
I leave Danny alone, behind me as I step out into the hallway, because I know he'll ask me questions, and I know that I will cry.
I meet a subdued group hanging out in Donna's bullpen. Their faces are pale and I need someone to say something. Josh, Toby, Donna, Will, none of them say a word.
Apparently it's up to me. "Well, guys," I say, trying to stay calm, "what's next?"