CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Sustenance

House is sleeping soundly, and Wilson can tell he'll be out for several hours. His temp's gone down, his vitals are good, and—while his breath sounds aren't showing the improvement Wilson had hoped for—his O2 sats are low-normal.

The emotionally-charged discussion's taken a lot out of Wilson, too, so after ascertaining that House's condition is stable, and that he's sleeping comfortably, Wilson decides to take a nap himself. He sets his watch alarm for two hours, and stretches out on the couch.

Sleep comes surprisingly quickly, and it's peaceful and dreamless. When the alarm sounds, Wilson rises, and he's pleased with how rested he feels. He goes to House's room and finds him still asleep, still comfortable, so Wilson decides to forego the scheduled aerosol until he wakes up on his own. The only bothersome thing is that temp; a tympanic reading indicates that it's staying around a hundred. Wilson's glad that they'll have the blood culture results soon.

Wilson decides that now would be a good time to place his daily call to Dick, get him up to speed on what's been going on. The first thing he tells him is that House knows the diagnosis, and has, as expected, rejected it.

"But he didn't get angry, Dick. He just denied it completely. Even calmly. Good thing is, I can tell that he's thinking about it. Making jokes, comments. And when his left leg spasmed today, he didn't reject my help."

"What help did you offer?" Dick asks.

"The usual. I let him know I wasn't gonna leave him alone, though I'll admit he tried to get rid of me in the beginning. I knew he needed the med, but I gave him the choice. We talked afterwards; he seemed relieved that we'll continue to treat the pain."

"I don't blame him there," Dick says. "As you know, the medical community is pretty evenly divided on that. Half feel that psychosomatic symptoms require no medical treatment. I don't agree, and I'm glad that you don't, either. That can be devastating for the patient. They're already having the veracity of their illness questioned, and then they're left to deal with very real symptoms on their own. I've rarely seen that have a good outcome."

"Yeah, well, there was a time, pretty recently in fact, where I'd have doubted the need for treatment, myself. Can't believe I ever thought that pain could just be ignored, if it wasn't caused by the body."

"A lot of people feel that way—even professionals who should know better. When I lecture on the subject, the example I use is a tension headache. Everyone can relate to that. And there's a lot of surprise when I tell them that, in the strictest sense, it's a psychosomatic illness. It's the brain, dumping its overload of stress on the body. And then the body manifests that psychological stress through physical symptoms. So it's a psychosomatic reaction, pure and simple. And would any of us deny ourselves pain relief for it?"

"Wish I'd heard your lecture years ago," Wilson says ruefully. "Might've saved a lot of unnecessary difficulty for House. But I know it now; no sense looking back, right?"

"Right," Dickinson responds, pleased that Wilson isn't sending himself on a guilt trip over this. "You sound a lot better yourself, James. Glad to know that you're handling this in a healthy way. That'll benefit you both. And you sound rested; the Ativan workin' out for you?"

"Yeah; gotta say it's a good idea, all around. It's enabling me to keep a more consistent attitude, feel in control of things. Most of the time, anyway. And it's having an unexpected benefit." Wilson chuckles, and continues, "Gives House the opportunity to play the responsible one once in a while, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's just say he's made it his personal duty to see that I don't miss a dose. And yeah, I'm almost caught up on my sleep. Hate to admit it, but it was a good idea. No telling what my frame of mind would be now, without it."

Wilson and Dickinson chat a bit more, set up a time for Friday night's planned poker game, then wind up the call. Wilson checks on House, who's still sleeping, and decides to give him another half hour while he tries to plan out dinner with their dwindling groceries.

When House does awaken, Wilson's alerted by the sound of coughing from the bedroom. He gathers the nebulizer and the aerosol supplies before heading in.

"Good sign that you're coughing," he says cheerfully to House as he enters. "Pneumonia's breaking up."

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," House says snidely. "I missed the class on pneumonia in med school; 'preciate you filling that gap in my education."

"Any time." Wilson's in a good mood after his talk with Dick, and refuses to be fazed by the sarcasm. As he readies the neb, he says, "I'm gonna call the grocery store, put in an order. Any special requests?"

House's eyes light up. "Haven't seen a potato chip around here in weeks. Or a Twinkie."

"Food, House. Sustenance. Nutrition. Or did you miss that class too?"

"And those little chocolate donuts… you know, the ones with the sprinkles?"

"Okay, now that we've covered those life-threatening salt and sugar deficiencies you've been suffering from, how 'bout something from the protein group?" Wilson asks patiently.

"Beef jerky—great idea!" House proclaims.

Wilson nods. "Got it; fish, chicken, eggs. Good choices." He turns on the nebulizer and hands the treatment to House, who makes a face.

"I'm coughing on my own now; why are we still doing this?" House grumbles.

"Because the hydrocodone suppresses the cough. Because you're still running a fever. Because you're not ambulatory." Wilson stands there, arms folded, until House reluctantly bites down on the mouthpiece. "But most importantly, because it buys me a few minutes of peace and quiet." He responds to House's predictable glare with a friendly smile, then leaves to place the grocery order.

He returns to the bedroom when he hears the neb machine shut off. As he moves the equipment away from the bed, he asks, "Given any thought to what you'd like for dinner? We should have actual food here soon."

"Yeah," House says. "Potato chips, drowning in onion dip, with a side of sour cream. Twinkies for dessert."

Wilson cocks his head at House. "Now that's just uncanny! Baked chicken, brown rice, asparagus—exactly what I was thinking, too! You got it."

And he goes to await the food delivery, smiling at his little victory as he blithely ignores the mumbling, and then the shouted, "Why do you bother to ask? More to the point, why do I bother to answer?" that follows him down the hall.