Chapter 30

"The Blind Leading the Blind"

"James!"

His sharp voice barking my name at me made me jump. Even on the file I was listening to as I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I hit the "pause" and slumped in the chair. He'd hit my "guilty button" twice!

Dick had done the same thing the first time when I was actually on the phone with him the night before. He'd yelled at me! And I'd actually jumped … even at his voice over the phone. Oh yeah. Guilt!

I'd known Dick Dickinson a long time, even longer than I'd known Gregory House. Dick had the further advantage of being a psychology major, and a really good one who possessed instincts far beyond anyone I'd ever known before. He was a quick study and a person who had many methods of breaking down people's defensive mental barriers before most people even knew they had them up. A long time ago, I'd discovered I was no exception. And now I was learning it all over again, much to my chagrin, for he knew exactly what buttons to punch to get my attention quickly. Yelling my name at me was just one of many.

I released the "pause" again … backed up the tape …

"James! Let it go!" Dick yelled for the third time.

"Let go of the guilt!" He was saying it would paralyze me to the point that I wouldn't be able to help House at all. He was telling me that in his opinion, it probably would have happened anyway, because the problems with Greg's other leg happened on the first full day after he got home from the hospital, and he hadn't had enough time to view his pain problems any differently.

I paused the tape again and began to scribble out a timeline on the legal pad. Looked into the distance a moment and took a long swallow of the hot coffee. Set the cup down and began the file again. "He's probably right about that," I said to myself out loud. I scribbled a little more and read it back to myself. My God … my handwriting looked terrible. Like a doctor's.

I played more of the tape, listening carefully as I told Dick how I would do my best to deal with my guilt over what had happened … but that my biggest concern was House … if the diagnosis of psychosomatic pain was accurate … how could I help him? How could I even find a way to tell him?

Dick said I couldn't tell him yet … that I had to accept it first, or else he would quickly pick up on my doubt and guilt and grab onto it to retreat even more deeply into denial.

I sounded half hysterical, even to myself, and as I listened, I was cringing at the fact that I still argued with Dick, who was trying to remain professional, while I operated strictly from pure, "exposed nerve" emotion. I was going to tell House … right away … I'd promised him my honesty and I'd practically forced him to trust me … and I owed him so much more after what my disbelief did to him for all those months … and I wouldn't even consider hiding this from him … no … no … no ….

And on and on …

There was a long pause on the recording at that point … and I knew Dick was probably counting to ten and waiting out my babbling so I could get my act together and begin listening to reason again.

His voice was saying very patiently: "The first time you came to see me, you said you were willing to sacrifice the friendship if it would save the friend." I knew he was telling me that if I spoke to House too soon, that I just might be making that sacrifice. And I heard myself telling him that any loss I took wasn't important, so long as House got through this with his trust intact. He might blame me, or even hate me, but at least he'd know I'd been honest with him … and if I knew House, no matter how it turned out, he'd never forget that.

Dick Richardson's sigh after that long sacrificial spiel was so loud that it came out across the recording like bacon frying in an extremely hot pan. That was the moment I knew that he wouldn't try to argue with me further. It was also the moment I figured he was beginning to think I was an idiot.

I paused again for another round of scribbling. Picked up my coffee cup. It was empty and cold.

Whoa! How long had I been at this? Not that long, I'd thought. I got up and wandered over to the counter to pour another cup. Returned to the table. Sat down, sat the cup down, picked up my pen and reactivated the recorder.

This was the part where Dick decided to try playing it my way. "Then just tell him! Don't sugarcoat it. But be ready for his anger and a rejection of the diagnosis. You have to give him time … and give him room. Things won't resolve until and unless he decides to accept it. I don't know how long that will be. The good news is … your stubborn insistence on total honesty … he might eventually give it enough importance in reaching a decision to combat this. Don't get me wrong … I still think telling him right now is a mistake … but I'm willing to venture it could pay off in the long run."

My own voice resumed on a heartier note: the spoiled little kid who's just gotten his own way. "Thanks, Dick … it's good to know there's some hope. I've got another question … I told you about the pneumonia earlier during our regular call. Aside from that, he's improving. It's slow, but steady. Could any reaction he has to this new diagnosis endanger his recovery?"

Dick said: "No. Don't think so. He's got the most conscientious doctor on the planet, and his general recovery should continue. But now I have a question for you! I know you can handle getting him through this … but you're going to need some guidance. The only way I can do that is to meet him … try to get some idea how … and if … he's coping. Think he's up to that poker game yet? Say … Friday night?"

I could hear myself laughing softly on the recording, and I felt myself laughing now, listening to it. Greg House and Dick Dickinson in the same room … at the same poker table … both of them with big cigars sticking out of their faces and ominous gleams lancing out of their eyes. Interesting thought … then and now! I was saying: "That's three days away. The pneumonia should be resolved by then … yeah, we could try it. Just … uh … don't expect a warm reception from him, okay?"

"Now there's a surprise ..." Dick was laughing as well. "Here, I was expecting to be treated like visiting royalty … the good China … and his best manners. Damn! I'm disappointed."

We both laughed at that, and again I speculated at the round of fireworks I could imagine exploding forth from two very evenly matched snarkmeisters.

The next part of the discussion was difficult to listen to the second time. Dick was pointing out all our missed clues: House's recurring nightmare … the fact that I'd actually accused him of defining himself through his pain … and another retelling of my terrible dream of watching Greg destroying his left thigh to spite my belief that he needed to be in pain. And the timing of the spasms … almost always coming on when House felt insecure! Even the recent dream spasm, which ended when House woke up … but turned into an actual spasm when he was contemplating the need for a muscle biopsy.

I paused again and drank my coffee, taking careful notes and listing to all the incidents; remembering others, like the night we returned from the nerve-wracking tests at PG, and the morning House had begged me not to leave for the day. I wrote everything down. I had two curling legal-sized pages of chicken scratching.

I played the rest of the file and listened to Dick telling me that the self-perception discussion should, ideally, have come before the treatment for the breakthrough pain. Greg really needed to assimilate the information that he was no longer doubted by the two people closest to him. He also hadn't yet learned confidence in his own decision to trust Cuddy and me. Dick thought his mind was rebelling against the rapid physical and emotional changes in his life, and his brain was unconsciously seeking out the familiar patterns of the pain.

Dick even thought that House's initial resistance to the morphine might have been an unconscious acknowledgment of the origins of the spasms. That part gave me another small stab of guilt. One more reminder that I should have asked him more questions and been more sensitive to his refusal of the drugs at first …

The voice file ended with Dick warning me that Greg's recovery from the psychosomatic pain could take a lot of time … and the final thing on the tape was my own voice:

"Whatever it takes … as long as it takes …"

I shut off the recorder and stood, looking at my empty coffee cup. I needed to make a fresh pot … in case Greg might want some later. And I needed to administer the antibiotic. I looked again at the timeline I'd constructed on paper, and admitted to myself that, while I still felt much of the blame for this diagnosis belonged squarely on my stubborn head, it was a relief to be able to dispel some small chunk of the burden.

Feeling a little washed out, I turned absently around and began walking toward the living room with the paper still in my hand and the faint stirring of hope that we might actually get through this.

I walked past the doorway and raised my eyes from the page.

Gregory House sat on the edge of the couch. The TPN was disconnected, and his cane was clutched in both hands. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were focused on me in a most interested manner; those twin mirrors in which I'd always been able to read his own special brand of truth …

There was a coldness there that I could feel, and it made me pause with icy shivers down my back. I froze in place and regarded him.

"House …"

I was in shock. I stared at the figure on the couch, and he stared back.

This wordless conversation was not like any of the others we had ever had. But we knew each other so well. I did not need to ask the question I was fated to ask … but I asked it anyway.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it."

Oooo0oooO

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