Chapter 24
"Bedtime Stories"
Looking back on it now, I'm not even sure what it was that got us through that nasty left-leg spasm this morning with our senses intact. I'd seen more than a few of these before, of course, ever since my early memories of House's infarction.
There were days at work when he had done too much moving around, or not enough; days when he had spent too much time on his feet, or had had too little rest the night before. He never knew when the spasms would occur, or what set them off, so he had no way to avoid them or prepare for them. His crippled leg would get the shakes suddenly and make him look as though he had St.Vitus' Dance. The spasms always took the wind out of his sails and the spirit out of his eyes. Sometimes they would catch him unaware when he was with a patient, and this made him avoid people even more than he already did.
I can remember at least twice when I was in my office surrounded by paperwork, only to look up startled, as he burst through my door as though the devil were after him. Without any explanation, or even needing to offer one, he would hop-step clumsily to my couch and collapse onto it, dropping his cane on the floor and gripping his painful thigh with both hands.
On those occasions I would drop everything and hurry to his side, kneeling down to pull his shoulders close. There, in the privacy of my office, he could rest his head in my arms and ride it out in an isolated sanctuary where there was silent support instead of curses and gasps and staring eyes.
I was thinking of his earlier bouts with pain this morning again when the same thing happened with his supposedly sound left leg! We were still at a loss to understand the cause. Together, we decided that I would not inject him with another dose of morphine. We were both scared, but determined to take the chance of him riding it out free of medication. I sat on the edge of the couch and held him tightly, talking in a soft, monotonous monotone, while he drowned me out with a string of colorful invectives that would have put a crack addict to shame.
When that didn't work, I eased him back on the pillows and reached toward the leg very carefully. He nodded his permission and let me begin with a slow massage of the tightly corded muscles, working them and plying them with the palms of my hands and my fingertips. Finally they began to return to a state of flexibility that he could withstand. Wet with his own perspiration, he was still without coherent speech, but nodded his head that the pain was receding, and I could ease off the manipulations.
Somehow, both of us felt as though we'd won a battle in some strange war whose furthest boundaries were still to be defined …
After that, he napped in his own bed awhile, and I sat at his piano.
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Lisa returned with the Sunday paper an hour or so later, and I think she sensed that something positive had happened in her absence. She asked no questions though, and I thanked her as best I could with shared eye contact and appreciative glances.
House returned to the living room later in the afternoon and settled himself gingerly onto the couch. He was still unable, we noticed, to swing his legs up onto its surface by himself, however, and had to lift them up manually, one at a time. He repositioned into his mound of pillows, dropped his cane onto the floor and parked the IV stand out of the way where he couldn't see it.
He was still weak from the spasm, and not very communicative. We left him alone and watched from the kitchen where I'd followed Cuddy in order to assist her with the cleanup I'd neglected earlier, and to prepare for an evening meal.
Greg finally settled himself and pulled the light blanket over his legs. He was not exactly uncomfortable, but still not quite back to normal strength from the unusually violent spasm. He did not ask for anything, but rather ignored us as he sat quietly and channel surfed through every TV station on the dial. He would watch something for a few seconds, and move on to the next.
Cuddy and I carried on a quiet discussion about our choices of cuisine before we both finally agreed on a menu. We ignored him resolutely, knowing that all the hairs on his body were attuned in our direction like miniature RADAR antennas, ready to pick up any hint at all that we were monitoring or patronizing him in any way. We were, however, becoming skilled at ignoring his body language, and finally he settled in and sat watching an old episode of Gunsmoke.
Supper turned out to be baked hot dogs with melted cheese, smothered with fried onions; baked beans out of a can, and crinkle-cut French fries out of a bag. We washed it all down with generous amounts of Cuddy's apple and cinnamon iced tea, and canned peaches for dessert.
House ate well for a change. Our supper ruse had worked, and I thought to myself that were it not for the fact that the meal consisted almost entirely of junk food, he would probably still be sitting there with the remote in his fist, punching in channel after channel and denying that he had any desire whatsoever for food!
The thought also occurred to me that the old saw about using a carrot, rather than a stick, sometimes worked very well with some jackasses! (He looked at me very strangely when I almost choked myself snickering at my own joke!)
After supper, Cuddy drew blood for the evening labs, which she would drop off at PG on her way home. We both took note that House was now resting quite comfortably, and not showing any indication of further problems with the left leg.
As for myself, the curtain of restlessness and body aches seemed to be lifting off me exponentially as House's good humor began to return. By the time Lisa finally had enough of our "guy talk" as she called it, and left for the night, we were arguing the merits of Gunsmoke vs. Wagon Train, and neither of us seemed to be winning.
An hour later, House insisted on getting into the shower. I felt an instant of pure panic, and he picked up on it right away. After a dramatic eye roll, he pinned me with that icy glare of his and muttered something about my "stomped-on puppy dog" look, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself (oh yeah, man!), and it would be so nice to just stand there and soak up that hot water (like you're able to stand upright for more than thirty seconds!) and on and on and on …
So, what I did was walk to the bathroom with him, saw him safely inside, then sat down in the straight chair he kept in the hallway right outside his bedroom door. I removed my shoes and sat there in sock feet to keep him from hearing my restless feet tapping nervously on the hardwood. "On edge" doesn't begin to describe the attention I was paying to every tiny sound emanating from that small room while he was in there. Which was a damn long time! All those banished body aches were niggling right back across my shoulders again!
House … you will be the death of me!
The second I heard his hand on the doorknob, I sprang upward and sprinted for the living room in a concerted effort at keeping him in the dark about my worry for his safety. He walked out and headed in my direction with his bottom lip curled smugly over his teeth and his body curled uncomfortably over the cane, with more mumblings about who-the-hell-did-you-think-you-were-kidding? … I-could-feel-the-friction-from-your-feet-burning-the-floor-when-you-ran-down-the-hallway … and I knew without a doubt that he was onto me. But not a word passed between us.
He had combed his hair. No little bristles stuck out above his ears. He had shaved! His stubble was gray, rather than a "roughening coal pile" ... (it made me think of the lyrics to "Gentle On My Mind".) He was wearing a clean set of gray sweats, and he was right: the shower had done him a world of good. All of which I refused to say out loud!
I wouldn't let him get settled back on the couch. Gently, I turned him around and helped him get back to his room, then assisted him in getting settled back into his bed. He gave me a couple of dirty looks, but those were the only protests I got from him. He was tired and washed out, but simply would not admit it.
It looked as though we had both won a couple of rounds tonight. I gave him his meds and got the TPN ready for the night. Then the hookup for the parenteral nutrition … not hot dogs or beans …
I checked the insertion site for the PICC line, and then checked it closer. "How long has this been red?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "I dunno. Cuddy did the dressing change yesterday, and she didn't say anything about it." He stared at the site himself for a moment. "Maybe it's just from the hot water. Doesn't look that bad to me …"
I scowled at him, but he paid no attention. "We'll just keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts to hurt, or if the erythema spreads, okay?" I made a mental note to recheck it in the morning.
He shrugged again and changed the subject. "Hey! I weighed myself … up ten pounds now. Five more, and I'll only be tethered to this thing at night."
He gave me one of his sidelong glances, gauging my reaction. I just straightened up and grinned at him. "Good try! I seem to remember math isn't exactly your strong suit. This one involves double digits, so I'll help ya out here. Ten plus five equals fifteen! If you recall, we're going for twenty! That would be ten plus ten!"
"Yeah … I knew that," he groused. "Just checkin' to see if that lorazepam's affecting your memory. Or your math skills!"
"No such luck! All it's affecting is my ability to put up with you! And speaking of pills, here ya go." I handed him the Zofran and hydrocodone.
"Speaking of lorazepam," he continued, holding out his palm for the meds I then tipped into it; you taken it yet tonight?"
I felt a little defensive for a second, and almost retorted that I was a big boy now, and perfectly capable of tending to my own meds. But I didn't, figuring it was a pretty good sign that he was at least a little concerned about someone other than himself. I finally answered him calmly. "Not yet, but I'll get to it."
"Why don't you 'get to it' now? We can have a regular little pill-poppin' party." He indicated the Zofran and the super-Vic still in his hand. "Go get it! We can toast 'better living through chemistry' together."
I laughed, a little puzzled, and shook my head, then turned on my heel and headed to the kitchen for the little white pill that was helping me hold it all together. He was staring at me when I walked back through the door. "'Better living through chemistry'," I quoted. "Very amusing, House. Original line?"
He shook his head. "Nah … old commercial slogan. Before your time, kid." He rolled his eyes like a weary old man, and I could tell he was in a good mood. "But it was funny then too. So, uh …" He pointed a finger at the pill I still held in my hand, then tipped back his head and the meds in his palm did a disappearing act.
He was watching me, seeing if I had what it took to swallow the pill dry, the same way he did it. I made a wise-guy face at him and popped the thing into my mouth, tilted my own head back and gulped it down.
Oh blick!!
His head was back almost between his shoulder blades, and he was regarding me with an air of amusement. That look made me think of a smug ten-year-old who has taken the dare of swallowing a fly, and made a clean sweep of it.
"Ta-Dah!!!"It dawned on me suddenly that he might actually miss the satisfaction of caring for others. Maybe it wasn't all about the puzzle. Maybe some of it … a little of it … could be the pleasure of helping …"
Nah … this is HOUSE!But just in case …
I think I hesitated a moment, and then held out my left hand. "Hey … could you do me a favor and take a look at my wrist? Let me know if it's okay to get rid of this bandage now?"
I saw his eyes light up as he reached out for me, palm up. He would not grasp it this time as he had the last time and listen to me yelp in pain. His touch was soft, and so gentle that I almost blew the entire moment with my surprise. This was the man I'd always known still existed beneath all the bitterness and anger and pain. What would it take to bring it out once again?
Well I'll be damned! He actually does get fulfillment from caring. Learn something new every day!
House unwound the elastic bandage and tossed it aside. He checked for swelling and manipulated my hand between skilled fingers. "That hurt?" He asked, and I shook my head. "You should be okay without the Ace … but I'll check it in the morning to be sure." He turned my hand over and examined the fading thumbprint on the ligaments beneath. Then he released me and I drew my arm back again.
He didn't say a single word, but the depths of his large eyes were filled to their brims with silent apology. He was thinking, no doubt, of the instant when his grip had been so constricting that he'd injured me, and I'd just stood there by his side and taken it as though I'd had it coming. He knew I was attempting to read his mind, and deep inside I think he was even willing to allow it.
"I guess I'm ready to talk about the rest of my nightmare now … if you're ready to listen."
"Sure … I love bedtime stories …" he said. It started out as snark, but I believe he recognized the fear that was still deep in my heart, and his demeanor turned serious, almost gentle. "Are you sure you're ready?"
I nodded, and began haltingly. His eyes were almost immediately reluctant in the hearing of it; hesitant as I was for the baring of souls he was afraid might follow. And his soul was buried deep down inside him … so deep.
"… and then you brought the pestle down on your left thigh. You did it again and again and again until there was nothing left." I knew my eyes had lost their focus when I recited that last line, and my mind focused over and over on the awful mental images.
House's eyes were also vacant when I finished, and I knew he was witnessing it with me. His imagination was nothing, if not graphic, and his focus was to the side and on the wall, and he seemed nearly pinned in place by my descriptions and the crack in my voice that I was powerless to control.
"I wanted to help you," I was saying. "I tried to help you … but I couldn't! The muscle was gone; it was dead …
"… and you laughed."
The narrative was suddenly over, and I shook my head, trying to clear the memory away. I looked up at him with something like a plea that was unformed inside my head, and I felt a helplessness I could scarcely handle.
"Doesn't take a shrink to analyze that," House said, at length. "Look at me, Jimmy! And listen to me!"
I was able to refocus my mind at his words, soft though they were:
"If you want to get his attention, whisper!" You have my attention, House!"I'm not suicidal! I told you that a week ago, and it's the truth. Told you I'm not going anywhere 'til you've been raised properly." He paused for a moment and smiled nastily. Giving me perspective.
"And I'm revising the estimate of how long that's gonna take upwards every day! I'll be around to make your life hell for a good long time yet."
I had to smile at that, but I sat rigid, and I knew he still saw the silent plea in my eyes.
"You're doing a good job, Jimmy. The best. Should've told ya sooner. Should've told ya better! But I'm telling you now, and I want you to believe it. Dragged you to hell with me, and you stood guard all the way! 'Whatever it takes," you told me, and that's what you've done. What you're doing! So, do me another favor, all right?"
It was hard to take it all in and convince myself that he really meant it. I finally nodded, and knew that the pleading look had gone from my face.
"It's a really big favor," he said, "but I know you won't let me down. I want you to get outa here before I get all mushy on you, okay? And get some sleep." He paused dramatically, as though puzzled. "Wait! That's two favors. You're right … my math is lousy. Try to handle it!"
The mock glare he sent me was nested beneath a raised eyebrow, so I knew he was putting me on. It had never felt so good to be "put on"!
I placed my healing palm over his outstretched hand on the blanket and gave it a slight squeeze. Then I rose and started for the door.
I was almost out of the room, and I'd already flicked out the light, but I turned and paused for a moment, knowing he could see my silhouette in the dim glow of the little nightlight from the bathroom.
"Thanks, House," I said very softly as I pulled the door almost shut behind me.
I knew I would sleep well that night …
Oooo0oooO
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