Chapter 9
"Lonely Vigil"
Tuesday night:
I'd turned the light off and sat by his bedside while he tried to settle down. After a time his breathing leveled off, and I eased out of the chair to go back and straighten the mess left by the day's minor storms. Some of my premonitions had come true in a less-than-pleasant fashion.
I paused awhile in the bedroom doorway, mostly to catch my breath and stretch my shoulders. I looked over at House, hunched on the bed, and thinking to myself how God-awful he looked. Skin and bones! Ten years older than his actual age … pale as a ghost, and so weak that his every jerky movement reminded me of a month-old infant.
He was lying there against a mountain of pillows, one skinny arm imprisoned in an IV setup, trying to sleep … or maybe trying to stay awake … I couldn't tell which … and as I looked over at him, the emotion began to overwhelm me, all the way from the soles of my shoes. Then the tears were up and over and running down … and I couldn't have stopped them with an act of Congress!
His bony knees were slightly bent, making little tents in the blanket that covered him, and his arms were bent too … I could see the bones of his elbows as he lay there, and it put me in mind of protruding hinges on a rusty old gate, thin and knobbed.
At the time, I wasn't sure exactly what all it was I was feeling. It was as though I was standing there looking across at a total stranger. But you don't usually fall apart inside with a stranger!
You may have a vague sense of sorrow, but the emotions that were washing out of me were ripping the bottom out of my soul, and I began to wonder if I would ever be able to stop crying.
I knew that part of the intense emotion surely had to do with my own frustration at being unable to take charge of the situation with this man. Many of his physical problems were of his own making, added to his inability to summon enough trust to report when he was having problems.
His habit of hiding pain and weakness stemmed from all the years he'd been accused of being a drug addict. He'd been dependent on the meds to control his chronic pain, but no one … including me … who professed to be his best friend … believed him when he told them (us!) how bad it was.
After awhile he'd stopped talking. Stopped confiding. Flaunted the pill popping. Defied the restrictions of his crippled body and pushed himself way beyond the limits that would have put down a lesser man a long time ago.
The result of this obstinacy was the emaciated creature on the huge bed across from me. His physical disability was crippling us both, and I had to accept part of the blame.
As I stood there, I could not help but think back on the man Gregory House used to be. He was tall, slender, athletic; arms like corded bull rope and legs like locust posts. He had a presence about him that made people straighten from whatever they were doing and take notice when he entered a room.
He exuded a verve and vitality that began to take possession of me the same day I met him, and thereafter left me breathless. Robert E. Lee had it. General Douglas McArthur had it. The actor, Sean Connery, had it. And Gregory House had it.
But now … now … would he ever possess it again?
As I stood there with tears running and my composure in tatters, I still could not take my eyes off him. How much of his current difficulties could be laid directly at my duplicitous feet? How many times had I carelessly hurt him in the same manner in which I had hurt the women I'd married with the promise to love, honor and … betray?
They say if you can't please anybody else, at least please yourself. I guess I did that very well. House has often told me how I "feed" off the needy. To which, one day, I'd loudly retorted: "Hah! Yeah, lucky for you!"
I'd seen the hurt in his blue eyes as they darkened to slate gray, and he turned his back and hunched around quietly in the opposite direction. Did I need to be needed that badly that I would consciously … or unconsciously … injure those who supposedly meant the most to me?
Did I become an Oncologist because of a need to be able to tell people when they were dying? Perhaps thinking that if I were able to say it to others, I could avoid the admission that something deep within my own soul was withering and dying as well?
Did I have some perverted need to be able to lord it over House, now that he was physically weaker than me (presumably) … knowing that if he were still healthy and strong and athletic, I would have no hope of besting him at anything? Was my need to be better than him at something …awakening in me the need to destroy him?
No! Please God … No!
And I knew immediately that that was not the case. But the thoughts had to come from somewhere. My insecurities, perhaps, or my attempt at an honest scrutiny of my own deep feelings for this irreplaceable brother-by-choice!
At that moment, I had no idea how he managed it, but this frail, fragile man stretched out across from me possessed twice my strength, twice my determination and twice my courage … now and forever.
He had stolen my bank account, my pencils and pens, my potato chips and my obstinate determination to ignore all his bullshit.
And now he had stolen my heart.
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