Chapter 13

"Spilling One's Guts"

Murano's is located in one of the sections of the city that have been gradually reclaimed from ruin. Narrow streets, once lined with skeletal cars and littered with garbage and graffiti, now stand clean and reconstructed. Brightened with colorful paint, and happily populated by the proud former-poor, this area of Philadelphia continues to make a bold statement that determined people can, indeed make a difference.

Coming off the highway and slowing gradually to accommodate the flow of inbound traffic, I was beginning to experience a shift in my general well being. The fatigue that had plagued me all week was lifting a little, and the weight on my shoulders was becoming less, the closer I was getting to my destination.

I was relaxing, throwing off the desperate need for sleep as I moved into the depths of the city, and I realized just how much I needed this interval. Only the bruised wrist remained a problem. It ached relentlessly, and I finally delved into the center console for the Excedrin I'd placed there Monday night. I took three of them and then coped with the bitter aftertaste of downing them dry. How the devil had House dealt with this disgusting ritual every day of his life?

The all-consuming fear I'd been feeling in the face of Greg's multitude of problems seemed to be diminishing a bit as the session with Dick Dickinson drew nearer. I needed anything he could offer me by way of dealing with my stubborn friend, and staving off the onset of what I'd come to call my "waterworks". After today, would it still hurt so badly to watch him deal with the differences in his crippled body and the changes in his coping mechanisms?

It was still raining off and on as I drove, enraptured, through these streets, appreciating the effort and ingenuity that had gone into their reclamation. The project was an ongoing thing, I realized, as my eyes scanned nearby rooftops. In the distance I could still see decimated buildings, their spindly chimneys reaching toward the sky like the arms of drowning men reaching out of the depths.

As I drove further, the thoroughfare widened gradually, opening into a solid canyon of granite, stone and concrete. Neon signs penetrated the foggy daylight and reflected off the wet pavement and the black asphalt. The tiny business district spoke of highly original entrepreneurial flavor and individualism, encompassing the neighborhood itself that one would never find at any shopping mall anywhere in the world.

Philadelphia had begun life as the original lap of American government … and as a cocoon for individuality and freedom. It had gradually been transformed, over the long intervening years, into a grotto of filth and ruin through neglect and corruption. In recent decades, however, it was trying to turn the tide and return to its old and glorious history. If this district was any indication, it was succeeding, one battered neighborhood at a time.

Murano's was the talisman of the entire block. Surrounded by shops and galleries that represented many of the nationalities of the free world, its theme of elegance and elegant simplicity made it the standout landmark of the vicinity.

I pulled up in front and stopped at 10:45 a.m., very conscious of the fact that an attendant in fiery red livery was headed toward me and walking around to my side of the car. He would take the car and drive it to some obscure area for the length of time I was there. When I made ready to leave, he would once more be waiting at the curb with the Volvo, and I would drive away. This had happened each time I'd visited there, and I still had no idea where he took my vehicle, or how he knew when I was ready to go. I had always had the presence of mind not to ask.

I left the motor running and got out, took my briefcase and my sport jacket and watched as the man got in and pulled away from the curb. When I stepped to the sidewalk and strode into the restaurant's vestibule, another car stopped in front and another livery person exited from a side entrance and hurried to that driver's door …

A maitre d'hotel waited by the entrance to the formal dining room, and walked up to me with a smile.

"Dr. James Wilson, I presume?"

I nodded. "I am indeed."

"This way."

He led me through a maze of beautifully appointed tables and their diners, indirect lighting, lush potted plants and handsome dark red décor, to a row of smaller chambers toward the rear of the room.

He paused at the doorway to the third in line of these, and stood back to allow me entrance. It was small and private, richly appointed and almost like a cubicle. My old friend, Dick Dickinson, was seated at the single, well-laid table in the center. He was dressed casually: tan chinos and a white shirt rolled to the elbows, ascot, and black penny loafers.

Dick stood as I entered and the maitre'd disappeared, as though by sleight of hand …

"Hi, Jimmy," Dick said. He held out his left hand and I grasped it. "You look tired. Long drive?"

I nodded, a little distressed that he'd detected my general condition so readily. "All the maniacs on the east coast are out on the highways today. It's been a loong week!"

Dick turned my left wrist over, even as he still grasped my hand. He squinted one eye and looked at me questioningly.

"Ouch! You're swollen! And that hand looks sore. Anything to do with the ongoing problem?"

I nodded. He was quick with his observations. This promised to be a long session. "Everything to do with it, I'm afraid. Things are not going well, and Dr. House's problems seem to be multiplying exponentially."

I plopped my jacket across the back of an empty chair, placed my briefcase on the seat, and sat down across from Dick. He followed my lead and lowered himself into his own chair, looking at the briefcase curiously, but not asking.

I'd placed House's complicated medical history inside, on the odd chance that I might be called upon to refer to it. I'd also included my private notes on the case, most of which House had no idea I'd been accumulating ever since the time of his infarction.

His medication records were all there, as well as notes I'd pilfered from hospital files that included accounts of his surgeries from the physicians involved. The accumulation was thorough and extensive, and Greg was probably unaware that they even existed to such an extent. He may have known that each doctor kept his or her own notes, but he had no way to access their private computer files.

Dick poured us each a cup of coffee from the pewter urn in the middle of the table, and set one of them down in front of my plate. "I took the liberty of ordering us each chicken cordon bleu, a baked potato, Harvard beets and pepper cabbage. Spiced apples and egg chiffon on the side, and cherry pie alamode for dessert. I remember your preference for the chicken from college days, and I hope the rest is satisfactory."

He looked at me hopefully, and I knew the look was one of mild appraisal. I smiled, just to let him know I understood, and nodded. "Sounds fine to me. Thanks, Dick."

He nodded in return and sat facing me seriously with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on the edge of the table. He'd covered most of his crippled right hand with the left one, but I could see the atrophied muscles in his forearm and the deep surgical scar that bisected the destroyed tendons between wrist and elbow. Amazingly, he was not the least bit self-conscious about the appearance of the arm, and made no effort at concealment by keeping the sleeve rolled down.

After years of seeing Gregory House wearing nothing but blue jeans and other long pants to cover up the cavernous scar that disfigured his crippled leg, I had to admire Dick's courage in valuing comfort rather than decorum. I wondered idly whether I would ever again see Greg House in bathing trunks …

The meal arrived while we were drinking our coffee and talking about our jobs and our friends and in general, catching up on everything we did not talk about the Monday before.

"So!" Dick said when the final wedge of cherry pie had done a disappearing act: "What's going on with you, Jimmy? I've never seen you this indecisive or this nervous … or … dare I say … this frightened. What's happening with Dr. House that has you so tensed up?"

I looked at him and knew that he'd seen through the "tough guy" façade I'd tried to present to hide the fact that I was … pardon the expression … scared shitless.

Here goes nothing …

"I guess I'm afraid I'll make a fool of myself for posterity."

At this point, the maitre'd and a pair of workers in spotless white uniforms entered through the door with a wheeled, three-tiered cart. They exchanged the pewter coffee urn with another one exactly like it, disposed of our dinner remains with competent haste, and left immediately. The maitre'd backed from the room and closed the door softly behind him.

Dick looked at me pointedly. "We have the next two hours to talk in full privacy, so whatever is on your mind, we can discuss it thoroughly and at your leisure. Are you all right, Jimmy? You worry me a little."

I saw him reach into the pocket of his shirt and fish out the tiny digital tape recorder. He'd evidently brought it along for the same reason I'd brought Greg's pregnant medical file. Insurance! Dick had obviously been certain also, that this would be a long, drawn-out session. Three cheers for Dick! By the time this was over, he would probably lay my soul bare for the whole world to see.

Standard answer in the world of my own making: "I'm fine."

He cocked his head at me inquiringly, asking my permission to turn the recorder on.

I stared at the little machine with mixed emotions, my mind going back to my embarrassed reactions even as I listened to the first voice file while sequestered with it in Greg's bathroom.

I nodded shortly, and he pressed the switch to "record." We were off and running.

"Greg is so sick," I blurted. "He's so sick and so hurt and in so much pain that I'm at a loss to know what to do for him next.

"There was a time when I literally wanted to kill him! Shake him until his teeth rattled and get him off the pain medication, even if I had to lock him in a padded room and throw away the key. I honestly thought he was an addict, and that his pain wasn't real. I thought he wanted to get the buzz … get high and stay high … and the pain in his leg wasn't so severe that he couldn't handle it with a pain regimen that didn't include narcotics.

"God, Dick … I couldn't have been more wrong! I'm the reason he lost his ability to trust. I'm the reason he clammed up and wouldn't talk to anyone. I had to actually witness the screaming, clawing agony he had to go through because I made him make a bet that he could go without his pain meds for a week.

"He actually took a 16 oz. Pestle and fractured two fingers on his left hand in order to override the agony in his leg. I saw him at the end of his rope and at the bottom of the barrel.

"House is a musician, Dick. Greg House is a concert pianist with such talents you wouldn't believe unless you heard him play. He risked all that to break his own fingers. He could no longer stand the severity of the pain in his leg that I caused when I conspired to trick him into giving up his pain meds.

"I learned the hard way that he is dependent on those meds … not addicted. It doesn't sound like much of a difference, but trust me … it is. He could have died because of what I did.

"Right now I'm afraid that my sympathy and compassion for him is overshadowing my professional responsibilities … the reality of his pain is getting to be a little … well … overwhelming for me. It hurts. Badly. Believe me when I tell you, Dick … there's more than enough pain coming from House without adding my own into the equation. I have to stay emotionally healthy for him, or we're both sunk.

"I can't allow him to see how badly my empathy for his pain is affecting me! I … just … can't!"

Dickinson's deep voice came across the table toward me very softly. It got my attention and stood every hair on my body on end.

"Why?"

He leaned toward me, and the dark eyes drilled into my own. "Why can't you let him see how you feel? Why can't he be given the chance to understand how deeply you obviously care for him? Why shouldn't he know how important his friendship is to you?

"My God, Jimmy, your professionalism isn't at stake here. Your compassion is. It's obvious to me that this man is one of the most … if not the most important person in your life. A blind man could see it with a cane."

At that moment, as I looked across at Dick, I was feeling nothing but panic. What did he mean? THE most important person … ?

I had always known Dick's orientation, and his fulfilling relationship with Dais. Did Dick think that House and I could possibly … ? Oh God!

I blinked and took a deep breath, and when I looked back, he was smiling. His observation had certainly broken the tension brought on by my tendency to whip myself. I smiled back, took a deep breath and let it out in a powerful "whoosh!"

I began to tell him about House's in-home treatment of the breakthrough pain, and then about the frustration of the next few weeks. And now the new agony of the pain in the other leg, and the tests at a hospital across town … and the painful EMG and the resulting inability for him to even walk … and the instigation of the use of a wheelchair and House's stoic acceptance of it, along with his constant refusal to …

And my ongoing tale of woe went on and on and on … and now House had, in Cuddy's words, "Velcroed himself to me" … like a child in a supermarket who turns around and believes his mother has gone off and left him at the mercy of strangers.

I finally had to come up for air. The weight was lowering across my shoulders again, the headache knocking softly at my temples, seeking admission. My hand was bothering me badly, and I wished I had another couple of Excedrin.

I reached to the coffee urn and poured another cup. It was hot and strong and almost medicinal. I drew a breath of the heady aroma into my lungs and savored it as Dick turned off the little recorder and paused to look up at me. I looked back at him, half expectant, half in dread.

We sat for a few moments, thinking; gauging each other. Then Dick began again.

"Tell me about Dr. House's response to the conversation you had with him concerning the loss of the breakthrough pain." I saw him press "record", even as he spoke.

I stared. I had not broached it. I'd been afraid to. I waffled. "I didn't ask him. I thought it was unnecessary right now."

"Jimmy … you must talk about it with him. The repercussions of ignoring something this important could be devastating for him later. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Dick was being gentle, taking my shattered feelings into consideration, but at the same time stressing the fact that House had to face his feelings on the subject, indistinct though they might be, and even as inarticulate as he might sound in broaching the subject with me.

"Sometimes I feel … funny … about invading his personal space when I have to treat him. Asking such questions of him only makes me feel more like the invader … and when I must touch his body as a doctor, he tenses on me and looks away as though to pretend I'm not there, and it's all a game of pretend. Other times he doesn't seem to mind. I never know … and I sometimes wonder what it's doing to him psychologically."

"It may make him uncomfortable initially," Dick assured me. "But each time it happens, it gets a little less alien to him, and a little less distasteful. After awhile he will probably begin to think of them as therapeutic. He is, after all, your friend. Let him ease into it gradually. Don't force anything. He'll come around. He does respect you … I can tell from the things you say about him.

"Now. Jimmy. What about you? It's a given, from the look of you, that you need to get some rest soon before you burn yourself out. I know you can't just leave him and go off somewhere to be alone and commune with your own thoughts.

"Perhaps you need to ask your Dr. Cuddy to accept a larger role in this so you can go off and hide somewhere to catch up on your rest. If you don't, you're not going to be doing House any good … or yourself. You'll all just fall in a heap on the floor … and that'll be the end of that!"

I frowned at him, and then saw the twinkle in his eye. He was trying to lighten it up.

"I'll ask her," I said. "I know she'd be willing, but she does have the hospital to run, and she's losing a lot of sleep through this difficulty also. I can't lose track of that."

Dick nodded. His thumb was worrying the switch on the little recorder, and I could tell he thought we'd delved deep enough into this mess for a little while. "Will you give me a call every day? At least every two days … keep me up to date on what's happening with this stubborn hero of yours?"

I smiled and shrugged.

Stubborn Hero … It fit.

I reached across the table with my left hand again, trying to avoid contact with his crippled one. He gripped my sore wrist inadvertently and squeezed hard. I winced with the pain and my knees buckled for a moment.

Damn!

He apologized and I recovered. And we laughed at the irony of inflicting pain on a friend while studiously endeavoring to do just the opposite.

We both left the restaurant at 2:00 p.m. It was raining hard. We waited in the vestibule for the attendants to bring our cars, then cut and ran when they arrived.

Dick was headed for Lancaster, and I to New Jersey.

"Give my best regards to Dais," I called after him, "and thank him for giving you up on a Saturday!"

"Will do," he said. "Don't forget we're getting together for that poker game when Dr. House feels up to it."

I grinned. "That is not something I'm likely to forget. Thank you, Dick."

"Anytime …"

I had not needed the medical file for my Stubborn Hero.

The attendant returned with the Volvo as Dick Dickinson pulled out with his big silver Chrysler 300. I got in and flung my jacket over the front seat again, and for some reason I plunked the briefcase down on the same seat with the clasp facing me, and wiped the rain off my face with the sleeve of my shirt.

Why did I do that? It was used to the back floor. Darned if I know. Wanting the illusion of looking the Snarkmeister in the face, maybe.

Miss you, you big jerk. See you shortly …

Oooo0oooO