CHAPTER ELEVEN: No Pain
House strides the hospital halls. He's trying to hide the childish grin that keeps popping up; he's House, after all, and doesn't want to startle anyone by actually looking happy. But he's beginning to think it won't be much of a problem; the place seems oddly deserted, even for this hour. Not that he minds much, but it might be nice if someone who cares (Jimmy, he thinks. Maybe even Cuddy.) could share this with him. Won't be able to share after this, might as well get used to it. He's surprised that a sad regret pulls at him, makes himself dismiss it quickly.
He's had enough time to try to figure out how all this feels, and he knows he'd never be able to describe it to anyone who has the luxury of walking without pain every day. Why would those people care, anyway? But it's euphoria, plain and simple. Better than any drug-induced high he's ever known, better by far than the fastest, most reckless motorcycle ride he's ever taken. He knows both feet (and their brother, Cane) are touching the ground as he strides—strides!—toward an exit in the hospital, but it doesn't feel the way he dimly remembers it feeling, more than six years ago, when he was last able to file 'ambulation' on his list of Effortless Activities.
His feet feel weightless; his legs are simply a mechanism to move those feet from point A to point B. They simply have a job to do, and like good employees, they are doing it well, and without complaint. The right leg has gone from being Vogler in the boardroom to Kevin (or was it Carl) in the mailroom—from the deliverer of all things wrong and miserable to the deliverer of the ordinary and mundane. Yeah, House was aware that, soon enough, it wouldn't seem wondrously "abnormal" to feel "normal". Kinda like Foreman's near-death experience; the wonder of being alive would quickly be replaced with accepting that things are supposed to be this way. Even for only 24 hours.
He's planning out his day as he walks the fog-shrouded predawn grounds of PPTH. Nothing spectacular; just a long list of things he hasn't been able to do pain-free since the infarction. Ordinary things, made all the more extraordinary because he could have them now, albeit for just one day. Standing at the sink brushing his teeth; not having to grip the edge of the counter in the middle of the process. Moving about the kitchen preparing a meal; not having to sit down in a chair every few minutes as he works. Filling the car on his own at the gas station; not having to wait for the attendant because his leg protests at all that twisting and pivoting. Walking thoughtlessly across the room to retrieve the TV remote from the piano, instead of having to decide to just deal with the boring show, simply to avoid the discomfort the simple walk will cause. He's even planning on going to the grocery store and stocking up; with the cart standing in for his cane, and not having to deal with the leg, he figures that it'll be the first time in close to seven years that he can shop as quickly as everyone else, as he won't be stuck in the soup aisle, gripping the cart handle with white hands, pretending to debate the merits of minestrone versus lentil while he waits for the spasm to pass.
And the best one of all—that shower in the morning, standing there allowing the hot water to run out only because a hot shower feels good, not because he's gripping the grab bar for dear life as the heat from the water is sucked out greedily by his right thigh, trying in vain for just one moment's comfort.Only the million and one dumb things like that, things that are always on his mind as he struggles through his day, angry with the rest of the world, because these things are thoughtless for them, as natural as breathing. But for now, he's content to simply walk in the air and the mist, watching as the sun rises.
What's a soul, anyway? he thinks. If I ever had one, they must've removed it when they stole my thigh muscle….