Chapter 26

"Sick As A Dog!"

As the morning progressed I watched him fade in and out, gravitating between sleeping and waking. He spoke a few words here and there in a lethargic attempt at conversation, but often with phrases that made little sense. I attributed it mostly to the witches' brew of meds and his general attitude of not wanting to discuss anything having to do with reality since our conversation earlier.

I sat at the foot of the couch with my attention partly on the inane programming of the Cartoon Channel, and partly on Greg's position on the pillows. He looked comfortable, but at the same time … somehow not. Nothing I could pinpoint, but there was a lackluster glint in his eyes, and it almost seemed that he was not focused anywhere. His attention wavered all over the place.

He was not centering on much of anything that I could figure out, and his feet, still beneath my hand, were becoming restless and jerky. His eyes would dart to meet mine every time I frowned at him and zoomed in on his face. He would smile vaguely, but then his eyes would move away again, or he would close them and seem to float for a time in that hazy half awareness between some far-off dream world and the here and now.

My right hand squeezed first his right foot, then his left, and he moved away from me in a gradual motion, bending his knees and shifting both legs against the back of the couch. Watching his face closely, I raised both eyebrows, effectively asking whether I had hurt him. The frown I received in return meant "no" … he was simply annoyed.

By lunchtime, the lack of groceries in the apartment had become a problem, and I decided to call out for our food. He requested a taco salad, so I ordered the same and had everything delivered from the deli a block or so away.

I ate. House picked.

When I began an actual conversation about how he might be feeling this bright and glorious day, he glared at me as though I'd lost my mind. He then muttered something unintelligible and turned his head in the opposite direction. His mostly untouched meal still sat on its plate in the middle of the coffee table. He looked a little green around the gills, but when I finally broke the silence and asked him if he felt ill, he shook his head and buried further into the pillows. He stared so hard at the TV screen that I thought his X Ray vision might break the glass.

Something just wasn't right.

Further into the afternoon, aside from a trip to the bathroom, he remained entrenched on the couch, increasingly apathetic and indifferent to everything. I stayed with him, maintaining my well-worn position near his feet, and running a hand gently in an up-and-down motion along his shins and across the tight muscles of his calves. He did not complain, nor did he show any interest in the tactile sensations. I did not question him further, and it got very quiet around there …

Lisa came by after work, and in her hand was a garish plastic bag from a local electronics boutique. She'd bought a smallish, state-of-the-art video game gadget for House. I saw his eyes light up for a moment when she took it out of the bag and presented it to him. But after that, he just mumbled a few words of thanks and set it aside on the coffee table.

I exchanged surreptitious glances with her, but neither of us was willing to comment within his hearing. His full attention might have been turned off at that particular moment, but his analytical brain was not.

When she pulled out a smaller bag and produced a silly "get-well" card from House's and my medical teams, he offered no sarcastic remarks and no witty repartee. Cuddy and I exchanged another meaningful look, and silently agreed that something was definitely "up".

Cuddy made a lame joke about Cameron's reaction to my supposed "flu":

"The first thing she said was, 'Oh, poor House … he'll probably come down with it too! Wouldn't it just be safer to admit Dr. Wilson?' Then, of course, Chase pointed out that if you do get it, you'll need someone to soothe your fevered brow … and that cheered her up considerably."

I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and House forced a small smile. But there was no humor behind it … he just simply was not interested in the conversation in any way, shape or form. As far as he was concerned, he was overhearing two strangers sharing a tidbit of gossip somewhere across the street. Lisa and I stared at each other and shrugged. Greg just looked more and more tired, more and more distracted, and the color was draining from his face.

Cuddy got up to leave after first asking if I was okay about staying there with him. I assured her everything was fine, and I would keep an eye on him. I walked her to the door. "Let me know what's going on with him," she said. I promised I would.

After Lisa left again, I returned to the couch and sat down beside him, a little closer this time than my usual perch near his feet. "House? Are your legs bothering you? Either of them?"

"No," he said. "Just lazy today, I guess. Matter of fact, I think I'd like to catch a nap …"

I touched his arm lightly. "Wait a second … let me get a quick set of vitals first, okay?" By then, my concern for him was growing. The "pale" was, by then, being replaced with "flushed", and his eyes were turning glassy. I moved my hand down his arm to take his pulse, and at the end of the sleeve when I touched bare skin it was a little too warm. I shoved up the sleeve to check the PICC line and see whether the erythema at the site had worsened.

Not a problem.

The site was actually clear again, but I found that his pulse was slightly elevated. I placed his hand at his side and told him I was going for the thermometer, and I'd be right back. I got a fractional nod at that, and I got up to go back to the bedroom. While I was there, I grabbed the stethoscope and pulse oximeter.

When I returned to his side, I noticed immediately that his respiratory rate had accelerated in my absence, and the effort was somewhat shallow. His eyes were at about half-mast. Uh oh! I caressed the back of his hand with the backs of my fingers. He looked down at the touch and saw the thermometer I was extending toward him. He sighed and took it; put it in his mouth. When it signaled, he never glanced at it. Just handed it back.

"You have a fever," I told him. "It's only 100.8, but enough to make you feel kind of under the weather. Wanna sit up a little? I need to listen to your lungs …"

I paid close attention to his breath sounds. They were clear, but I thought I was hearing something slightly diminished on the right side. I was certainly not reassured when the pulse ox result was only 92 per cent. I frowned down at him, but he'd already relaxed back against the pillows again and closed his eyes. "I'm not going to medicate for the temp right now," I told him. "I think I'd like to watch it awhile …"

His arm rose from his side and his elbow bent over the bridge of his nose, effectively hiding most of his face from my view. I barely heard his mumbled response: "Jus' lemme get some rest … I'll be fine."

Where the hell have I heard that before???

I picked up an old medical journal I had no intention of reading, and moved across to the chair that faced the couch … allow him some breathing room … figuring he might need it …

I settled into the chair with the journal in my lap, knowing I was much too distracted even to glance at it. "I'm here if you need me," I said quietly, and I saw his head nod a fraction.

What now? If it's not the PICC line, it could be pneumonia. He's not moving around on his own much … especially since the wheelchair. With the larger doses of hydrocodone, his cough reflex is even more suppressed … and as rundown as he is …

I looked over at him again, studying the gaunt frame that reminded me a lot of the skeletal metal creatures in "I Robot". Skin over bone … but I did have to admit that even this unhealthy thinness looked a tad better than it had the week before. The tiny weight gain was showing a little in his face and around his eyes, but he was still too … too … frail.

If his temp goes up … or the pulse ox goes down, I'm not going to wait on the blood cultures! I'll start a broad spectrum antibiotic tonight. Pneumonia right now could kill him!

I settled back into the chair and watched him closely for several more minutes, again wondering why I was so mesmerized by this "stubborn hero" and his angry and sagacious outlook on life. I sat staring, wondering for the "dozenth" time in as many days, exactly what the hell it was that compelled me, at all costs, to retain this "screwed up" friendship, and the respect of this strong-willed, egocentric, crippled genius with all the social amenities of a bale of barbed wire …

Every time I thought about it, I came up with a different answer. And this one was just so damned simple … I don't know why I could never admit it before.

He needed me. Yeah. He did. Like he said a long time ago: I need the needy.

Yeah, lucky for you! Don't go there, Wilson!

He needed someone to be his public whipping boy and his private confidante. He needed someone whose ego was less demanding than his own; someone to whom he could bare his considerable teeth, but who he was certain would not bite back. He needed someone who would look at him with admiration and ignore the sting of his bitter wit. He needed a friend: one who was willing to render a cane and a bad leg invisible …

And I had done all of that. Except for now, when it was not possible. He was punishing me for it … but he did not realize it.

He was sound asleep again, but his respiratory rate hadn't slowed and the effort was still too shallow. Finally, I sighed and opened the journal in my lap, endeavoring to keep my eyes on the words and off the worrisome human puzzle across the room from me.

After an hour, I looked up and realized I'd been dozing. I roused myself and stood up quickly. My awareness bounced back instantly, and I walked back to his side and stood there. I looked at the time.

Oh man …

It was 6:30 p.m. and I needed to check his temp again.

"House. Wake up! It's dinnertime."

It was like a silent alarm had gone off within him. He shifted position and turned over so that his back was to me. "Go 'way! Not hungry!" His voice was partially muffled by the back of the couch.

I put my hand on a thin shoulder, and even through the sweatshirt, I could feel that his temp was way too high. Worry struck without warning. I pulled my hand back and picked the thermometer off the coffee table. "You're burning up. C'mon! I need to get a temp!"

I heard him grumbling to himself, but his hand raised, fingers outthrust to take the little instrument from my grasp. I watched as he stuck it into his mouth. When it beeped, I reached across to pull it out. "Almost one-oh-two," I said. "I'm going to order a few doses of ceftriaxone from the hospice pharmacy and have them deliver it tonight. And I'm gonna get you some ibuprofen. Don't go back to sleep now … you need to take it."

"Uh huh," he mumbled, singularly unimpressed.

"I mean it!" I said, and knew my voice was on the rise. I struggled to maintain a calm that I didn't feel. "Stay awake a few minutes … it looks like you've got a touch of pneumonia brewing. I need you to take the ibuprofen, and then we'll see about getting you back to bed. You're gonna eat some soup, at least. Lucky there's still some in the cupboard. I can't put super-Vic into an empty stomach. You didn't eat your lunch."

I knew I was preaching and he was ignoring it in turn, but I couldn't help it.

"House? Are you listening to me?"

He didn't open his eyes, but his head turned to the right a few inches, and I could see there was the hint of a smile there, and still a little snark left as he rolled his eyes up at me. "If I repeat all that back to you, will you go the hell away and let me sleep?"

I don't know why I let him get to me the way he does, but he did it again … and the worst part was, he knew it. I smiled too, actually relieved to see he wasn't too ill to give me a hard time.

"If you can repeat it all back to me, then you already know the answer. So sit up and stop being difficult, or I'll be forced to throw your GameBoy through the TV screen. Then you won't be able to play your new game … which, by the way, Cuddy tells me, has fifty-eight levels … naked girls on level fifty-eight. You also won't be able to watch TV. So we'll have plenty of time to talk … get in touch with our feelings … all that really fun stuff!"

I saw the grin widen. Saw his eyes open and roll ceilingward. "You really know how to hit a guy where it hurts." He said.

I gave him a hand as he struggled to sit up. "Yeah … I sit up all night thinking of ever more inventive ways to torture you," I told him. "Glad you liked that one. It's my own personal favorite."

I left him sitting there, a little hazy and wavery; a little out of it from the fever, mumbling platitudes and laughing like a drunk who's coming off a three-day bender.

I left him there as I hurried out to the kitchen for the Motrin and a glass of water. Again thankful that he was a little too out of it to see the embarrassment and the burning mist that glazed my eyes and made a shambles of my attempt to be cute and funny and articulate …

Oooo0oooO

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