Chapter 33

"You'll Never Have Muscles if You Don't Eat Your Spinach!"

I leaned against the doorjamb … it was getting to be kind of a habit lately … watching him sleep. Again, like a child, open and innocent and vulnerable, the boneless look of him took about ten years off his age … if you didn't look too hard at the graying hayfield of stubble decorating the lower planes of his face. He reminded me of someone under anesthesia in the way he sprawled loosely beneath the light blanket. He was still in his skivvies: clean boxer shorts and an old white tee shirt. He smelled of Irish Spring soap and Old Spice deodorant. His temp had gone down and vitals were good. His breathing wasn't yet showing the improvement I'd have liked, but his 02 sats were low-normal.

The emotion-charged talk we'd had earlier took a lot out of me as well as Greg, and I was feeling a little washed out myself. I made sure he was all right, and then caved in to the desire to take a nap myself. I turned around and headed silently for the living room. I set the alarm on my watch for two hours and stretched out on the nest of pillows on the couch.

I remember nothing between the time I flopped there and the time the alarm went off very close to my ear. I pushed up and stretched my bones in the usual manner, feeling curiously refreshed.

I went back to Greg's room right away to check on him, feeling a lot like a new father must feel when left in charge of his infant for the first time. He was still sleeping, still looking all dish-raggy and comfortable, so I decided to skip the aerosol until he woke up on his own. The only bothersome thing was that damn temp! The tympanic reading hovered right around one hundred, and I was glad they'd have the blood culture results to us soon.

Right then, I figured, would be a pretty good time to give Dick that daily call and bring him up to speed on what was going on. When he answered he already knew who was on the line, and we didn't waste time on preliminaries. The first thing I told him was that House knew the diagnosis, and as expected, rejected it.

"He didn't get angry, Dick," I said. "He just denied it completely. Even calmly. And the good thing is … I can tell that he's at least thinking about it. Making jokes … comments. When his left leg spasmed today, he didn't turn down my help."

"What help did you offer?" Dick asked softly.

"The usual. I let him know I wasn't going to leave him alone, but I admit he tried to get rid of me in the beginning. I knew he needed the meds, but I gave him the choice. We talked a little afterwards, and he seemed relieved that we'll continue to treat the pain."

Dick paused a moment to take all that in before he continued. "I don't blame him there. As you already know, the medical community is pretty well split down the middle on that. Half of them believe psychosomatic symptoms don't require medical treatment. I don't agree with that … and I'm glad you don't either. It can be devastating for the patient …"

When Dick said that, my mind flew back to all the times I'd ignored the swift changes in Greg's demeanor when no one made any attempt to help him, and he'd had to ride out the prolonged agonies alone. That ignorance and inaction was what started the building up of his walls, forcing people away with ridicule and anger when he was having a bad day, or when his pain was at its peak. All of us had walked away and left him to fight it by himself. No wonder he was the way he was. He'd almost had no choice! His naturally caustic personality had done the rest. But I was his best friend. I should have known.

I brought my mind back into focus as Dick continued:

"They're already having the veracity of their illness questioned by people who think they're malingering or seeking drugs … and then they're left to deal with the very real symptoms on their own. I've rarely seen something like that have a good outcome."

Exactly what I'd been thinking! But my answer was another sad admission, another painful truth and another board torn away from my fragile wall of denial. "Yeah … well … there was a time, pretty recently in fact, where I'd have doubted the need for treatment myself. I can't believe I ever thought that pain could just be ignored if it wasn't caused by the body."

"Many people feel that way, Jimmy," Dick assured me. "Even professionals who should know better. When I lecture on the subject, the example I use is a tension headache. Everyone can relate to that. There's a lot of surprise when I tell them that, in the strictest sense, it's a psychosomatic illness. It's the brain dumping its overload of stress on the body. Then the body manifests the psychological stress through physical symptoms. So it's a psychosomatic reaction … pure and simple."

"Wish I'd heard that lecture of yours a long time ago," I said ruefully. "Might have saved House a lot of unnecessary difficulties. But I know it now. No sense looking back, right?"

If I look back, it'll only be to remind myself of the damage I did, and also remind myself to never, never do it again!

"Right!" I heard him say. He seemed pleased that I wasn't sending myself head-over-heels on another guilt trip over this. "You sound a lot better yourself, James. I'm really glad to know you're handling this in a healthy way. It will benefit you both."

We talked a little more after that. I inquired after Ardais and found out that he was visiting an aunt and a cousin in TelAviv for a week, and would not return until next Monday. I had wanted to invite him to attend the poker game with us on Friday, but since he was out of the country, that was obviously impossible. We reminisced about college days a few minutes longer and then rang off.

I took a deep breath and let it out explosively. When I talked to Dickinson, I always felt a little better afterward.

I checked on Greg who was still sleeping, and decided to let him have another half hour while I gathered the nebulizer and the aerosol supplies and got it all ready to begin another treatment.

I was alerted by the sound of coughing from the bedroom. I grabbed the armload of med supplies and headed back down the hallway. He was awake. I dumped everything at the foot of the bed and smiled at him. "You're coughing. Good sign. Pneumonia's breaking up."

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," came the snarky greeting. "I missed that class on pneumonia in med school … appreciate you filling in that gap in my education."

And I referred to you awhile ago as innocent and endearing and vulnerable … why?

"Any time," I told him, unfazed by the sarcasm and the "Popeye" look of one eye closed and half his face scrunched up. All he needed was the pipe! I prepped the neb and continued as though I hadn't heard him. "I'm gonna call the grocery store and order some stuff. Any special requests?"

He looked at me beseechingly from beneath those beetled brows, and I saw the lower lip curl back. I figured I was in for it, even though he wasn't feeling well. He'd gone a very long time without sniping at me, and was about to make up for it. "Haven't seen a potato chip around here for weeks … or a Twinkie!"

"Food, House! Sustenance! Nutrition! Or did you miss that class too?"

"And those little chocolate donuts … you know … the ones with the sprinkles … ?"

I pursed my lips, counted to ten, and saw how much he was enjoying his own silliness, so I continued to play along. "Okay … now that we've covered those life-threatening salt and sugar deficiencies you've been suffering from, how about something from the protein group?"

"Beef jerky! Great idea!" He was grinning, looking at me with expectation and waiting for another comeback.

I tried not to disappoint. "Got it! Fish … chicken … eggs … good choices." I turned on the nebulizer and handed the treatment across. He immediately favored me with a scowl and a glare.

"I'm coughing on my own now, so why are we still doing this?" He grumbled.

"Because the hydrocodone suppresses the cough. Because you're still running a fever. Because you're not ambulatory." I stood there with my arms folded and glared back until I saw him bite down on the mouthpiece. "But most important … because it buys me a few minutes of peace and quiet!" I returned the continued glare with raised eyebrows and a smirk and then walked out of the bedroom to call for a few extra groceries to be delivered to the apartment.

I heard the neb machine turn off a few minutes later, so I headed back to the bedroom. I moved the equipment off the bed and stood holding onto it. "Given any thought to what you'd really like for dinner? We should have some actual food here soon."

"Yeah," he said. "Potato chips drowning in onion dip, with a side of sour cream. Twinkies for dessert."

I gave him the wide-eyed treatment. "Now that's just uncanny! Baked chicken, brown rice, asparagus … that's exactly what I was thinking too. You got it!"

I turned on my heel, and the neb apparatus swung along at my side. I suddenly felt very good about things.

Behind me, the mumbling revved up to a shout:

"Why do you even bother to ask?

"More to the point … why the hell do I bother to answer?"

I was laughing out loud as his grousing echoed behind me all the way down the hallway.

Because we're best friends, House … and we both know it! Always have been … always will be. Now shut-the-hell up awhile!

ouse

Oooo0oooO

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