"GUESSWORK"
Chapter Forty-Five
"Crossing the I's, Dotting the T's, Putting A Period Before the End!"
My leg was a bear the first couple of days!
The muscles and nerve endings crawled and spasmed constantly and uncontrollably. Even with the inevitable return to full medication, there was no way I could lie still or sit still, or even find a comfortable position to rest it or cajole it into submission.
During those days, someone was with me around the clock. They did not dare leave me alone, and my state of mind held even the most compassionate of them at bay. I couldn't help myself, and I was hell on wheels from the incessant pain. I badgered Wilson and Bernoski to allow me out of bed so I could hop about and try to combat the creeping willies that lurked beneath my skin. At the same time, I knew in my mind that it was not possible. I had no strength, no sense of balance, and no dominion over anything.
They all probably wanted to have my head on a stick!
This latest surgery had been far more serious than the first. The tiny wounds at the original insertion points had had to be reopened and enlarged for the nanocites' difficult removal with the electromagnet. The trauma to the muscles and nerves, already compromised from the long-ago infarction, were further compromised in the bargain.
The pain it caused added to the old misery, and it tormented me twenty-four hours a day. I was unable to sleep without heavy sedation. The result turned my thought processes to a labyrinth of crossed wires, and my mental acuity into a rabbit warren populated by rabbits without brains. Constant movement. No control. My own moron!
My leg was swollen to grotesque proportions, and the touch of the bandages that covered it was more than I could tolerate. I whined and bitched and moaned and groaned until the dressings were finally removed, revealing the bruised and tortured swollen skin and the lines of butterfly stitches that closed the enlarged wounds.
I'm not a lightweight when it comes to these matters, but the sight of it sickened me. How in the fuck was I ever to walk on this leg again? In addition, I had no idea what was happening with the annoying ulcer on the sole of my foot. It hurt and burned and throbbed like an overheated furnace. The simple act of trying to move my toes sent waves of fire upward into my calf.
Never again! So help me God! I need to get the fuck out of here!
I bitched and whined about the intensity of the pain, which they already knew about, and were already doing all they could possibly do. They knew I would be miserable for a few days and they remained tight-lipped and guarded in my presence.
When they had the chance to get out of there and take a break, I'm willing to bet they threw stuff at the walls and slammed things and cursed a blue streak about what an abominable asshole I was. And if they did, I couldn't blame them.
My usual habit is to throw out some outrageous sarcastic comment, and then gauge attitudes and reactions. My brain just wasn't geared up for it this time. Finally, even I began to understand why I was being regarded as an ass. When the pain escalated, the sarcasm increased exponentially, but I wasn't making sense. Only noise. It got to the point that I couldn't stand me either!
But the pain continued to rule my responses, and I gave in to it.
I was glad I wasn't one of those poor souls on the "caretaker's run" …
00000000
House is sleeping. Medicated into the middle of next week! Close at his side, Bart Kirkpatrick is leaning over the bed with his fingers on both sides of House's neck. He whined and complained until they finally allowed him a firmer pillow. Now he has pillows supporting both ends, and is still not happy. But he sleeps … and I can tell that Bart is working on his nervous system somehow, rather than the muscular-skeletal system. House's hands are relaxed at his sides, not fisted, and that's a drastic change.
It's Tuesday now, three days after his surgery, and we are all exhausted; beginning to wish there were a good excuse to just medicate him to the point of oblivion. His pain is unrelenting, and other than inserting a direct morphine feed, we saw no other way to offer him any kind of lasting relief. He's not content with anything we try to do for him. Struggling to understand what he's going through keeps all of us on edge, nervous, and half surly with one another. The guilt we all feel is unrelenting as his pain.
I'm the one who knows Gregory House better than anyone else on Earth, but after this latest upsetting parade of days, even I am ready to wring his neck. Or someone's! I'm a little scared that something about the nanocite experiment has permanently damaged him far beyond our ability to repair.
It's still too early to do anything stupid or unthinking. Like placing blame or making accusations. But my love-frustration level for this vulnerable child-friend and his unrelenting misery is beginning to make me crazy!
I'm also beginning to doubt myself, and my vows of undying devotion … and again I'm experiencing a mounting wash of new guilt. This, on top of not having completely settled the guilt from the time of House's calculated overdose late last year, is turning me into a nervous wreck.
I look at the two of them, across the room from me, and watch more closely as Bart's fingers slide down House's neck and turn gradually along the bony ridges of his shoulders. Bart uses the tips of his fingers and the heels of his hands to grip and release the skin-over-bone that seems to comprise most of the structure of House's entire body. The blind man is gentle and efficient, and I can tell that he holds my friend in very high regard. I feel a smile slide across my face at the thought. The respect and admiration must be for the intellect, rather than the sparkling personality!
House is still losing color in his face, and his eyelids are veined and parchment thin. He can't afford to lose much more weight, but food still makes him nauseous. He rails at us when we threaten to feed him intravenously, saying the condition will pass, and it's the pain and nothing else, causing it. He is able to drink Ginger Ale and water at room temperature and keep it down … so we decided to give it another day before overriding his loud objections to another IV.
The ability to move his damaged leg came back at the end of the first day after surgery, and that was encouraging. The effort of the movement, however, takes all the strength he can muster, and sometimes I would see him panting through the pain like a woman in labor. It breaks my heart. I know it will soon be necessary to begin the leg exercises Kip mentioned even before his first surgery … and I don't look forward to it. But if we don't exercise that leg until he is able to do it himself, the mobility may never come back. It will probably cause him even more pain … but it is a means to an end … and even the stubborn creature that is Gregory House, understands that!
Sometimes if you back off from a problem that seems insurmountable, it will resolve itself. That's what I've heard, anyway. I'm not sure I put much stock in that theory, but right now I'm willing to try almost anything.
I sit here watching the slow rise and fall of Gregg's chest as he sleeps; knowing that the relaxed look on his face is a fleeting thing. It's getting close to midday now, I guess, and I'm a little hungry. I'm observing Bart Kirkpatrick from a distance, marveling at his stamina as he continues his magic manipulations about House's neck and shoulders. The old man hardly seems to be touching him, just flitting those amazingly supple fingers about the base of his skull, down across his neck and across those long, bony shoulder blades.
We will soon be here two weeks, and another cause of my huge case of "the guilts" is the fact that I have not yet emailed or called Lisa Cuddy to inform her of the nanocite failure.
I know it is inexcusable and I am entirely accountable for the lack of responsibility. I've been putting it off and putting it off because I lack the courage to tell her that House's last-ditch effort to rid himself of his pain has been so utterly useless.
If Cuddy loses it … especially on the phone … I'm sure I will too. And House will know. House knows everything, and I'm lousy at keeping my emotions off my face.
I vow to call her tonight … back at our quarters … where House cannot see me bawl my eyes out.
00000000
Kip Bernoski stood beside Shaniqua Tolliver's desk and computer station in the front reception area, tapping his fingers impatiently on the surface. He'd been put on "hold" and was clearly unhappy about it. Neeka looked up at him with a spark of concern in her dark eyes. "Y'awl know what they say about a watched pot …"
Kip rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers louder.
The day Earl Keirkgaard died, Kip called Cyrus Markham at the Science Foundation and told him what had happened. A conference call ensued, and members of the board put their heads together as soon as they learned the details of Gregory House's recent surgery.
Upset as they were over Earl's sudden and unexpected demise, their main concern was the possible danger to which House had been subjected. They could not afford to take chances, and they advised Kip to remove Gregg's nanocites as soon as possible, even though Kip was already way ahead of them.
After that, Markham had put in an emergency call to the Coroner's Office in Raleigh, NC, and "suggested" that the autopsy on Earl Keirkgaard's remains be carried through with the utmost dispatch, due to the fact that the life of another human being might hinge on its outcome.
Now the coroner was calling with the preliminary results. Trouble was, the man had received a call on his other line in the meantime, and was tied up with another critical conversation. When he finally got back to Kip, it was revealed that the "other" call had indeed been Cyrus Markham, demanding to know the results of the autopsy and suggesting with vehemence that a similar call be placed, forthwith, to Paramar Clinic.
When he finally came back to the line, the doctor on the other end was apologetic in the extreme, but he assured Kip that their examination had been thorough … their people on overtime and working non-stop twenty-four hours a day to reach the proper conclusion.
Earl's death had been the result of myocardial infarction; a blood clot that blocked one of the coronary arteries. He had died painfully, but quickly. His nanocites were still widely dispersed throughout his system, and still replicating themselves in the manner with which they had been programmed, shutting down only when he'd died. His death had been … more or less … natural.
The full report from the Coroner's Office would be forthcoming in the mail in two or three business days, and was there anything else they could do to help … ?
Kip thanked the man profusely and quickly rang off.
So it wasn't anything the nanocites had done to endanger Earl's health! His time had simply been up.
Bobby's death came, coincidentally, at that time because he was thirteen … very old for a big dog like that.
The rest of them had panicked and chosen the path of caution instead of taking the chance and waiting to see whether Gregory House's surgery would kill him or cure him!
Their target program was safe. Kip and Bill did not have to undergo the difficult surgery to have their own probes removed. The good news seemed anticlimactic to say the least.
Then … oh God! Gregg House's emergency surgery had been unnecessary. They could have allowed him to ride it out. But they respected him too much to take the chance of watching him die. History was repeating itself. Again. Would Gregg look at Jim Wilson now, and see that woman …Stacy? Would he feel betrayed by Jim as he had once felt betrayed by Stacy … what's-her-name?
Kip's eyes began to sting with the sudden realization of what might have been. He turned from the reception area and fled, ignoring the worried cries of Shaniqua Tolliver as she called after him.
In the corridor, Kip Bernoski stumbled along, leaning against the far wall and tried to bring himself under control. He was shaking, running hot and cold with the information he was still uncertain what to do with.
Gregory House would have been fine … if only they had chosen to let him alone. Now, Gregg and Jim might never trust him again. Or each other …
He had to not only bury his own best friend, but he had to tell two other best friends that he might have fucked up both their lives forever …
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
247