Chapter 12
"It's A Dog's Life"
He was mad as hell when he was told he had to go home in an ambulance. It didn't fit with his tough-guy image. He ranted and raved and carried on. He swore and threatened and cajoled and whined, and when that didn't work, he made puppy eyes.
His usual escapades weren't working. Cuddy glared at him in the manner of a parent whose child balks at going to bed on a school night. All his arguments fell on deaf ears. She folded her arms and tapped her foot and held her ground.
"Dr. House, do you want to go home, or don't you? You have about three hours to decide!"
"Hell, yes, but …"
"Everything after 'but' is bullshit! You will ride in the ambulance. On a stretcher! You have no other choice. There will be someone to ride with you and keep you out of trouble. No one wants anything to happen to your leg, and this is the safest way." She smiled sweetly. "You do this our way, or you sit in this hospital bed for another week. Take your choice. I was trying to give you the option of furthering your recovery in your home surroundings." She turned on her heel and click-click-clicked out the door.
He heard her say: "You argue with him!"
"Shit and Damn!" He groused, drowning out a second voice that said something inaudible in reply.
"What are you grumbling about now?" The question came from the edge of the doorway through which Cuddy had just exited. "You're never satisfied with anything, are you?" James Wilson leaned past the door frame on his forearms for a moment, then walked casually into the room and made himself comfortable in the chair beside the bed. He looked up at his friend and bored a hole into the cold blue glare with his own shimmering brown one.
Gregory House met the stern look with a moment of icy challenge, and then glanced away again and lowered his head. Wilson was holding his position with the same implacable stubbornness that Lisa Cuddy had maintained a few minutes before.
House wrinkled his nose and snapped something caustic under his breath.
"What was that?" Wilson demanded.
"I said … 'this is a conspiracy!'"
"Yes. I guess you could say that …"
"Why can't you take me home?"
"Because I never drove an ambulance before!"
"Ha-ha and ha! Not what I meant, and you know it."
"House! I can't take you home. The front seat of my car doesn't slide back far enough to accommodate your bad leg, and you mustn't try to bend your knee yet. You knew that before you asked … so why did you ask?"
"It's a matter of pride."
James understood instantly. House dreaded the thought of arriving at his home under neighborhood scrutiny, flat on his back, helpless and vulnerable. "House, your neighbors couldn't care less. You could ride an elephant right through your front door, and they'd never notice. It'll be a lot easier for you on the stretcher than trying to walk between two big guys with your arms over their shoulders, lugging you up the steps and maybe accidentally bumping your leg or your hand on the way …"
"Yeah … but arriving in a goddamned ambulance and lying on a stretcher covered with a blanket … would tend to draw an audience."
"And you stumbling up the steps screaming in pain would make a difference … how? One or two onlookers standing around outside does not constitute an audience … at least to my way of thinking. It's not like they'll be going in with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Quick stop and a drop, actually! One and they're done!"
"Bet me! Fifty bucks!"
"You're on!"
oooooooooooooooooooo
Norm Lyons, Orthopedist, stopped by his room at 9:00 a.m. There was an orderly with him, pushing a gurney.
House scowled. "What the hell is this!"
"I hear you're going home later today."
"Yeah? So?" He eyed the gurney skeptically. "Your sidekick there gonna push me all the way home in that thing?"
"Nope," Lyons replied with a grin. "I did hear that you'll get to ride in an ambulance though. With a four-motorcycle State Police escort all the way, no less! Bells and whistles … lights and sirens … Invocation … Pledge of Allegiance … Star Spangled banner … brass band … and the full-dress U. S. Marine Corps Glee Club …" Norm Lyons was on a roll and he was enjoying it.
House's glare was venomous. "Screw you!"
Lyons laughed, characteristically pushing his glasses up against his face with an index finger. "Come on, House … let's shift your butt over here. You're going for a ride." He moved the sheet away from House's legs and turned to the orderly. "Be very careful of his leg, Gary."
The orderly nodded.
"Like where?" House was not happy. He grabbed at a corner of the blanket in a feeble effort to pull it back across his body.
"Nobody told you?"
"No!"
"Oh. Sorry. What we have here, then, is a failure to communicate! I'm going to put a sexy fiberglass cast on your hand … something that will let you exercise your fingers a little as they heal … help you get back to a piano keyboard in a couple of months … so you can play 'Nola' again … 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' …"
"You mean something to cause me more pain! And I never could play 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' worth a damn …"
"Well, this will give you added incentive to learn! And only you would possibly look at it as more pain! Now get your miserable ass over onto this gurney and let's go! Don't give Gary a hard time. He will be very careful not to hurt your leg, if you cooperate … Okay?"
He rode to Ortho in angry silence. He glared as Lyons injected a local to numb his hand, then took new X-Rays, and gently removed the splint and the padding. The deep cut near his palm was healing nicely. It itched like crazy.
He watched intently as his hand was placed carefully under a strong light and the soft fiberglass was laid on it painlessly and molded by gentle fingers into place. When Lyons finally finished, he found that his wrist was quite immobile, but he could maneuver his thumb without pain, and he could waggle his little finger freely. He could do neither before. The new cast was extremely light, and did not weigh down his entire arm.
He looked at Norman Lyons with grudging respect, flexing his elbow and moving the parts of his hand that he could move.
Norm interpreted the look with an understanding of long acquaintance. "You're welcome," he said, and grinned. "You will need to leave your arm in a sling to keep your hand elevated. But you know that, right?"
"Yeah."
"Ready to go back to your room?"
He paused for a moment, then spoke again. "By the way, your new wheelchair and your Ali-Medic walker were delivered to your place early this morning. Your parents signed for them and they'll be waiting for you when you get there."
"Yeah. Wonderful."
oooooooooooooooooooo
When the ambulance arrived in front of House's place, the sidewalks surrounding the apartment were dotted with lingering groups of the morbidly curious who had seen the big vehicle pull up and stop with a screeching of brakes.
When the driver and his assistant lowered him out of the back, and the stretcher's mechanism touched its wheels to the macadam, he looked around unhappily at the tight sea of faces. His parents were both there, but he had expected that. They were leading the way inside the building, and anxiously holding the doors open for the stretcher's passage.
After a few moments, he began to calculate his winnings from the bet with Wilson. Once in a very great while, he thought smugly, a bad thing turned into a good thing. He could hold this one over Wilson's head for years!
And while he thought about it … where the hell was Wilson, anyway?
The big wheelchair was there, right inside his front door. Looming like an apparition in the shadows behind the couch. Scooter Store … Rascal … Jazzy … Hover-Round! He suddenly felt like he was a hundred years old. His grandfather would probably be about that age. It was really quite amusing, but sobering at the same time.
Damn!
He smiled briefly at his Mom as they lifted him gently from the stretcher and into the chair. His leg hurt like hell and he was overdue for meds. The right leg rest came up and locked, and then one of the goose-down pillows from the foot of his bed was beneath the painful limb, cushioning it, for all the good it did.
The navy blue sling with the white strap rode across his left shoulder and cradled his hand at a steep upward angle. For the first time since he'd injured it, his hand did not throb. Small favors! That jerk, Norm Lyons, did indeed know what he was doing when he worked with broken bones and torn ligaments. House had to "hand" it to him. (A little play on words there, he thought.) He caught himself before he giggled like a jabbering idiot.
When the ambulance crew placed his hospital belongings on the couch, took their paraphernalia and left, House leaned back to study the wheelchair's control module set conveniently by his left hand. It was an overly simple arrangement. Move the joy stick to the left or right and the chair moved left or right. Move it forward, the chair went forward; move it back, the thing backed up. Let go, and it stopped. Duh! Nintendo on a grand scale!
Oh goody! He now enjoyed the same mobility factor as his grandfather. Actually, he felt about as feeble as his grandfather, had the old man still been walking the Earth.
It was an amazing phenomenon also, that even though he'd felt fine in the hospital and itching to get out of there and come home, when he'd crossed his own threshold he'd felt immediately weak and washed out and fatigued. And a little light headed.
"I made lunch, Gregg," his mother said. "Are you hungry?" She was looking at him very strangely.
He smiled at her offer, but shook his head weakly. It was almost too much effort to move. "No … I'm just not very hungry, Mom. Sorry. I think I … just want to go in and lie down awhile, if you don't mind. I need to take my meds. Could you get them?" He felt himself sagging, listing to the right, unable to straighten in the damn chair, and the dizziness was claiming him quickly. He allowed his eyes to fall closed.
He could hear his mother moving to the couch, sorting through things in his blue backpack. Then he heard the rattle of the pill bottle. He lifted his head and opened his eyes for a moment. John House had knelt close to his left side, one powerful hand on the wheelchair's sturdy black frame, not quite touching his son.
"'S'okay Dad … I may need your help in a few minutes … if that works for you …" He accepted two pills from his Mom and swallowed them dry before she could offer him water.
"That's what I'm here for, Son," Blackjack told him quietly. "Whatever you need from me …"
He could feel their eyes boring into him with the intensity of their caring. Even his Dad, who still did not know how to care in a fashion that his son could accept from him … and so far removed from gentle Wilson … who did not particularly give a crap what he thought! Wilson just went ahead and did the things that might make life easier for his friend.
He needed to thank Wilson one of these days, for service above and beyond the call of duty. Another U. S. Marine cliché! Christ! But right now he was much too tired to concentrate. Ordinarily he despised cloying moments like this, as his parents both paused to regard him with their loving concern. Pitying looks such as these cut into him deeply.
His thoughts suddenly began to wander astray into territory he never talked about.
People looking at him with pity, offering to do things for him that he was still quite able to do for himself, galled him to the point of souring his stomach. God, how he hated that!
People!
Those morons who needed to wait on him so he would not have to walk on the crippled leg, drove him crazy. He could always pluck the look of guilt from their eyes for wanting to be rid of him quickly. What they reallywanted … most of them … was to put as much distance between him and themselves as possible; meet his needs and scoot him away somewhere out of sight so he would not cause them inconvenience or embarrassment. Did they think he'd just fallen off the damn turnip truck?
Don't let anybody think you're not looking out for the cripple! The litany of the day! Get the cripple fixed up and out of the way! Was more like the truth! Everybody knows cripples are so freakin' slow!
"Politically Correct" never stacked up very well behind "The Bare-Assed Truth!"
Screw it!
The black wheelchair rolled down the hallway to the bedroom, accompanied by two older adults who were glaringly quiet. The room was spotless. Cleaner than he'd seen it since the day he'd moved in. He closed his eyes against the sad, ironic laughter welling up. But it was just too much trouble even to smile.
Blythe pulled back the freshly changed sheets on his big bed. Blackjack used the same arrangement he'd employed before to help him into bed.
Gregg leaned against the pile of pillows pushed up at the headboard, and they eased the one from the wheelchair back beneath his leg.
"Please … don't put any covers on top of my leg …"
"Of course not …" Not asking the question foremost in their minds: WHY? Are you that sore?
"Are you all right, Gregg?"
"I'm fine, Mom. Thanks Dad …"
"You're welcome, darling. We love you."
"Love you too. Where's Wilson?"
"He's at work, sweetheart. He'll see you tonight."
"M'Kay …" He was asleep.
They pulled the door not-quite closed. Left him sleep.
"Blythe … do you think Gregg has an unnatural attachment to Wilson?"
"No, John. Not unnatural at all. For them …"
ooooooooooooooooooo
He awoke to the flare of pain. Again! The leg felt mildly unstable.
He could hear voices in a dim murmur coming from the living room. The bedroom door was open wider now than it had been earlier. Someone had been in to check on him. He held his breath and listened. Not just his parents! They were talking with someone else, and he smiled, letting the breath whoosh out again, knowing at once who it was. Sounds of intermittent laughter floated back, and he could hear Wilson's quiet baritone rumbling through the air. Unaccountably, he felt a bit better. Not in the leg or the hand … but in the belly … and in the head.
His parents had thoughtfully left his prescription bottle on the night table. He looked at it with chagrin. It was on his right side, just out of reach. Damn! He propped himself on his elbows and inched closer. If he could just get it jammed between his right thumb and the fiberglass cast … stem the negative flow from his leg that made it threaten to do something stupid. He recognized all the signs.
The bottle slipped on the smooth table top, polished to a high sheen for the first time in six months, skidded away out of reach and rolled onto the floor with an annoying rattle.
Damn!
Awkwardly, he looked over the edge of the bed and down. Way out of reach! He leaned back on the pillows and sighed. He guessed he'd have to call out to them.
He sensed a quick flurry of movement from that side of the bed; just a flicker of motion that quickly disappeared again. He frowned. What the hell? Almost like the blurred motion of a housefly that darts back and forth within the field of vision; zip! then gone. But this wasn't a bug. He hauled himself around again and looked over the edge for the second time.
Baxter sat there looking up at him with a doggie grin on his face, fluffy tail in full motion. His head was tilted to one side, tongue lolling in what was becoming a very familiar sight. The small dark eyes were fastened on him intently. Waiting … for what? The dog's furry body was positioned no more than a foot away from the dropped pill bottle.
Gregg pointed to the bottle without any expectation at all that the dog would know what the hell he was talking about. "Get me that, will you? My leg hurts!"
Baxter's head tilted in the opposite direction, and seemed to be concentrating on the pointing finger. But the finger was accompanied by other fingers which were all encased in a white thing-a-ma-gig. He looked around himself for a moment, then back to the hand that was encased in the fiberglass cast.
Gregg House sighed. He knew it was too good to be true. This was a dog! He hitched himself about and planted his right elbow on the bed. He then lifted his left hand and made a great show of pointing one finger at the Vicodin bottle. "Get it!" He said. "Fetch, okay? Will ya get the damn bottle and bring it over here? My fucking leg hurts! Do you know what that's like? No, of course you don't. You're a dog!"
Baxter scrambled to his feet and looked at the human again.
Are we playing a game? What do you want me to do? I'll play with you, but you gotta tell me the rules!
Bax turned himself around, searching for the "toy" that the pointing finger meant for him to find. There was nothing he could see that even faintly resembled what this human's idea of a "toy" might be. His eyes fastened on the pill bottle, but that was not a toy. The pair of white hospital slippers dropped on the carpet did not qualify as a toy either. He paused and stared at the human, confused.
WHAT?
House tried again, determined to make Baxter understand him without having to resort to calling for assistance from anyone in another part of the apartment. He pulled himself around on the bed, dragging his injured leg off the pillow and causing the pain to flare again. The weakened muscles tightened, as though waiting for any excuse. He bit down hard on his lower lip, clenched both eyes shut and waited. Presently, it eased. He pointed to the pill bottle again. "Baxter. Fetch! Get it! Bring it here!" He used every doggie cliché he could think of.
Something connected. Baxter was looking down at the bottle, then back up to House's face.
House nodded and beckoned with all the fingers of his left hand. "Atta boy, Bax. Get it! Bring it here, Bax!"
Baxter hesitated. That thing? That's not a toy! I could scrunch it up and swallow it in one bite! Are you kidding me? He did not move. Looked at the bottle; looked at House.
Gregg nodded his head, encouraging. "That's it, boy … bring it here …"
Baxter looked at the Vicodin bottle a final time, then reached down and picked it up in his teeth. You gotta be kidding!
House was nodding his head up and down to the point of making the whole bed bounce. His leg was going into spasm, and he was so distracted that he hardly noticed. "Atta boy … good boy … bring it up here … come to Daddy …"
Baxter jumped lightly onto the surface of the bed and dropped the pill bottle within an inch of House's left hand. House's fingers closed around it … and his leg went into spasm.
The pain overwhelmed him. He cried out.
Alarmed and afraid he'd done something unforgivable, Baxter jumped off the bed and scurried out of the room.
Footsteps pounded back the hallway. The dog yipped. He'd been barrel rolled by somebody.
Wilson got to the bedroom doorway first, and ran inside. House was curled over his shaking, vibrating leg. Both arms were cradling his thigh, trying to hold it still and calm the violence. The fringes of his hair were already damp with perspiration and he was panting like a man who has just come off a five-mile run. He looked at Wilson with eyes clouded and bleak from pain. Breathless. "Christ on a crutch …"
Wilson threw himself across the bed and clasped House's leg as gently as possible at the knee. "Blythe! John … I need the syringe from my bag in the living room. It's marked. Bring it to me … hurry!" He held his body over the length of House's leg, steadying the man with his right hand, pressing onto the knee with his left. "Easy, House! … I've got you. Try to relax … I know how much it hurts. Grab my shoulder and squeeze!"
Wilson felt House's left hand go down on his right shoulder with the strength of two men. He groaned, but did not flinch.
John House came around the corner with the Demerol syringe. Wilson pulled the cap with his teeth and drove the needle home. House wilted back into the pillows in the same manner that a spent hot-air balloon floats slowly to the ground.
Wilson scrambled to the head of the bed and took his friend's face tenderly between his palms. "Hey! House! You're okay now. That was a bad one, wasn't it?" He didn't expect an answer; didn't get one. He sat still, hardly moving, while House caught his breath again in short gasps of sudden relief, and the angry muscles of his hurt leg relaxed by degrees.
Wilson sat down again, letting his fingers trail affectionately back across House's battered face. His right shoulder felt as though it had been hit with a baseball bat. His friend was strong. His opposite hand brushed against something hard and cylindrical. The brown prescription bottle of Vicodin lay toppled in the middle of the sheet. It had a trace of doggie slobber on it. Wilson replaced it on the night stand. The corner of his mouth tweaked up a little. Their four-legged "Florence Nightingale" had been visiting. House must have been teaching him some new tricks.
Wilson swung his legs around and perched on the edge of the bed. He turned to look at House, flopped there like a wet dishrag, enjoying the absence of pain. The leg was going to be sore after this one. "You know I have to examine that, right?" He asked.
Panting heavily, House played his gaze between Wilson and his parents, still hovering in the doorway. "Yeah," he gasped. "I know. Would you two mind hanging out in the other room awhile? I still have a small amount of dignity left to preserve, you know."
His mother smiled and prepared to depart as he'd asked, but Blackjack simply grunted and stood his ground, staring balefully at his son. His face was inscrutable. "Hell! I've seen your leg, son. It's just a damn leg!" He winked, grinned, and then turned around and left.
House's eyes were like saucers. "Can you believe that old fart!"
Wilson chuckled with delight, unsurprised at recent developments, and loving Gregory House with his eyes. House's leg seemed no worse for wear.
"Wilson, when you're finished manhandling me, kindly send my dog back in here, willya? Oh … and by the way … you owe me fifty bucks!"
ooooooooooooooooooooouse's face between his hands.House's face between his hands. "
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