Chapter 25

"Talk is Cheap!"

Monday morning:

I had slept like a rock!

No dreams … at least none that I remembered … thank heaven. The heap of pillows on the couch that had cradled Greg's back and shoulders and his painful legs, also provided me with a cocoon-type nest where I'd spent the night burrowed deeply, feeling like a big Meercat. It was the beginning of the workweek and I was not going to work. Alien feeling!

I awoke a little after seven a.m., and surprisingly felt no ill effects from sleeping on that hard old couch. I stood up and stretched my bones luxuriously, then traipsed down the hallway and peeked into his room. The curtains were still drawn from the night before and the room was dim and warm.

He was still in the gray sweats, I noticed, and the covers were thrown off, draped over the near side of the bed and dragging on the floor. His knees were both bent this morning, much to my surprise, and hitched up toward his body in an almost-but-not-quite fetal position. His hands were again curled beneath his chin, and he was on his left side, facing away from me. His breathing was deep and even, and he was still obviously sound asleep.

I had to push back the old waterworks at the look of him. It felt very good to see my best friend so relaxed, after too many years of being roused from whatever rest he'd managed to get before the nagging leg pain woke him with its angry insistence on further medication.

I suddenly recalled the times I had stopped to pick him up for work and found him pacing the floor, barely able to hobble, waiting for his meds to kick in enough that he could concentrate on the profession he loved, instead of having to fight just to stay on his feet.

And I had called him an addict, afflicted with phantom pain that existed only in his mind! Jesus!

I took a deep breath and backed out of his room again, closing the door quietly in my wake, and stepped across to the bathroom. It was time to freshen up, shave off the overnight scruff (one of us was enough!), and get into some clean clothing that didn't look like I'd pulled it off Greg's closet floor.

I luxuriated beneath the hot water and took some time to decide what needed to be done today. One of us … Lisa or I … needed to go to the grocery store and pick up some food that didn't have goofy little animal cartoons plastered all over it!

I also needed to arrange with the local Volvo dealer to have them send a rollback and pick up my crippled car. And I had to call my insurance company to file a claim. I wasn't sure if my mishap would be categorized under collision or comprehensive. The difference would probably amount to about five hundred dollars, give-or-take. And I needed them to get the car out of there before Greg saw it. It would either scare him to death to know how close I'd come to not coming home … or it would piss him off royally that I'd gotten myself into such a situation. I didn't intend to take the chance either way if I could possibly prevent it.

Once out of the shower, I headed to the kitchen to put a kettle of hot water on "low" so I'd have time to check back on Greg and take a quick look at his PICC line. I felt quite clear-headed, and my hand was working much better. I had to give Cuddy credit for knowing the right approach with a stubborn jerk like me when she ordered me to start on the Ativan prescription. The difference in my general attitude was astounding, even to me! I took one of them when I was in the kitchen so I could brag to House … in case he asked … and I knew he would.

He was awake when I went back to his room. He was sitting up with his big bare feet and long legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, giving me one of those baleful stares that dared me to say anything.

We engaged in one of those idiotic wordless conversations we've both become used to, where he "snarks" at me and I "exasperate" at him … and we work it all out together … with absolutely no verbal exchange! I went to his side and offered my steadying arm. He looked at his reluctant legs, then up at my face with an "oh Christ!" expression, and I decided he had made up his mind to accept the offer.

He stood carefully with revealing concession, leaning most of his weight on my outstretched arm. In this manner we navigated the short distance to the bathroom. When he came out again, he was hobbling gingerly, his lameness pronounced. When I raised an eyebrow about it, he simply indicated the wheelchair with a thrust of his head, effectively telling me that he needed a ride rather than a walk.

He conceded to a few moments of actual speech with a series of monosyllabic grunts about the chair being a better idea. I helped him into it and he said nothing further when I pushed him out to the living room and helped him transfer to the couch.

I checked his PICC line as I'd promised the night before, and he indulged me grudgingly. It was still inflamed, but didn't seem any worse. I rolled his sleeve back down and then shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. We still had not spoken … but it was an affable silence.

I brought him coffee and three slices of toast slathered with peanut butter and jelly and set them on the coffee table. He accepted it all with a welcome flash of devilment in his eyes when I joined him and had the same thing.

After we finished, I gave him a helping hand settling back onto the couch, straightened the scattered blankets and steadied him as he shifted himself around. He still had a hard time getting his legs up there, so I did the hefting and he did the settling. I dumped the coffee cups and paper plates in the kitchen, and when I returned to the living room, he had the remote in his hand. We had still not broken the silence.

After that, I figured it was about time to quit playing kids' games and get verbal. I thought the timing might be about right to have that talk on self-perception that Dick seemed to think was so important.

"Hey … can we talk a few minutes?"

"Haven't we been doing that a lot lately? Doesn't a little mindless TV sound like more fun?"

"A lot more fun! But this is important … or so they tell me."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Cuddy and Dickinson," I told him, and saw his ears suddenly perk up. He was interested. "It's about the breakthrough pain … or the loss of it, I mean. According to Dick, any major life change like that can cause a period of … uh … grieving … and …"

I looked up and focused on him closely when I heard the snicker. "House, will you stop laughing? This is serious!"

He did stop laughing, but only enough to ask: "Now who the hell would be upset at losing pain?" I watched him as he considered his own question, and then answered it out loud.

I could feel my eyebrows as they climbed into my hairline.

Damn you, House!

"Well … maybe a masochist, but then he'd be in pain 'cause he'd lost his pain … so he's technically still in pain … so there's really no loss of pain at all … so it's all good. Which is bad! Or maybe not, if, by definition, you're a sadist … 'cause that would mean … well … I'm not really sure what that would mean … but it's something to think about!"

I stood with my fists planted on my hips, waiting while his mobile features went through a series of idiotic contortions and he struggled to curb most of his damned amusement before he went on. "What I'm trying to say is, it's not the loss of the pain, so much as a change in how people perceive themselves … when something that's defined their existence is … gone.

"I don't define myself by my pain!" He growled.

As he said that, I could see a minute change in his demeanor, and I had a feeling that his recent nightmare was rushing back to his consciousness. He shook his head as though trying to get rid of the disturbing images.

His action worried me. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"That dream … the bad one," he conceded finally. "You told me that the only way I could come to terms with the disability was to redefine everything else … so that the leg … the pain … meant nothing. You wouldn't believe me when I …."

His voice trailed off, and I saw him pick up the remote control and snap the television on. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. You've done your duty. You discussed it with me. I get it!"

He looked away, and already his eyes were fastened onto an infomercial as though it were a special bulletin announcing the onset of World War III.

Damn!

Now that we were finally having the conversation, I wanted to finish it.

"House!"

I waited, and was met with nothing but silence.

"House! Please."

There must have been something in my voice. His gaze tore away from the small screen and scrolled across to my face. I grappled with a means to make myself clear without losing him entirely. "The concern is that if people don't come to terms with the changes, it could lead to problems." I was careful to keep the conversation general, saying "people" instead of "you". I was certain he would not respond at all if I made it specific to his state of mind.

As I watched him sitting there like a statue, I began to wonder if the generalization might have been a mistake. I took a deep breath and approached it again. I had to get him talking, not stonewalling everything I suggested.

"House … you had to live with the breakthrough pain for such a long time, and not only were you dealing with it alone … you were trying to convince us that it was real. That's a raw deal. Makes sense that since you had to devote so much energy to getting us to believe you, after awhile the pain might define who you were … how you felt."

"It didn't!" His comment was short; half angry. He turned up the volume on the TV, and the conversation was closed. Just like that.

I tried once more. Moved between him and the screen. "I agree with you!"

That surprised him. He muted the TV and actually looked up at me. "You agree with me, and yet you insist on discussing this?"

"I told Dick you were handling the loss of the extra pain just fine, and that I didn't think this talk was necessary. You only had two days of being back to status quo on the leg … so there hasn't even been much of a change so far, has there?"

"Not that I can see," he told me. "Tell your shrink his concern's misplaced. Tell him I can deal with it … if I ever get the chance to find out what it's like!" He looked down at his left leg with an expression of such disgust that I felt immediately sorry for him. Although I couldn't let it show.

"I'll do that!" I assured him. "But I need to know what I can do to help you come to terms with all this, and …"

"Stop, already! That's how you can help. Told ya there's not a problem. Stop trying to cause one, okay?"

His voice gentled down, and he was beginning to sound almost amused. "In case you haven't noticed, all you've been doing for … what? Eleven days? Is helping!"

He quirked his mouth into a half smile. "And now, in true 'Jimmy Wilson' fashion, we're moving smoothly from 'helping', right into 'overcompensating'! So quit it! And that's an order!"

Chagrin kind of fits me like a glove sometimes, and I could feel my face flushing hot with it. I nodded at him, a little put out, but more than ready to bury the hatchet. "Yeah … okay … sorr…" And I had to cut off another silly apology in the middle, and laugh at myself. Talk about overcompensating! "You're right. Guess I'll just shut up now …"

House picked up the TV remote. "That's the first sensible thing you've said this morning. So shut up already. It's almost time for SpongeBob. Good one, too. He and Patrick both get to sing!"

I groaned. "Now I'm the one in pain!" But at the same time, I felt good. I knew I could tell both Dick and Lisa that House and I had the vital conversation … and Greg had been right. No problem at all.

I cleaned up the dishes, poured us more coffee, and sat still with him for awhile … bored to death, but enduring SpongeBob.

Finally though, I retired to the kitchen again and called to have the Volvo picked up. When I returned, House insisted I let him check my hand again. He was not nearly so gentle that time, and smugly pronounced my life out of danger.

We had another one of those silly wordless conversations and settled onto the couch together.

He made room for me at his feet, and even grinned when I placed my hand gently across his ankles and leaned back with an exaggerated sigh to watch his damned cartoons!

Oooo0oooO

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