Chapter 35

"Delightful, DeLoverly, Delirious!"

I probably lingered in the kitchen a little too long … rummaging through cupboards and pantry, breadbox and refrigerator … looking for the box of doughnuts I knew was there somewhere. At the same time shifting mental gears yet again, and calming myself from the near-Donnybrook that had just occurred between Greg and me.

There it was … the box of doughnuts …in the oven, for crying out loud! Four left. That would work. I pulled the box out and set it down on the butcher-block table. Opened it up. Sugar glazed, with sprinkles. He would be in heaven! And I could feel my breath coming easier, my hands not trembling so much, and my burning eyes beginning to clear up. I still had the sniffles, but that was okay. They would go away when my breath finally finished heaving and the hitching of my hands finished calming down.

Milk! Yeah! Two glasses. Tall ones. I poured them, taking my time, as everything seemed to calm down at once. My respirations evened out, the waterworks dried up, my hand did not shake the milk jug, and I took a deep breath that didn't have hiccups in it.

Gradually, I put on my "best-friend" face and picked up the tray with the goodies.

I walked into his room with the tray in my hands, and he was watching for me. There was a smirk on his face. "Just couldn't resist those amazing little multi-colored sprinkles, could ya?"

I could have groused back that the "little multi-colored sprinkles" had been entirely his choice. But I used laudable restraint. Instead, I set the tray on his night table and smiled at him. "Actually, I was having one of those life-threatening sugar deficiencies myself. That … and I figure my cholesterol's probably too low …"

"Ah … so they're medicinal doughnuts." He nodded sagely and eyed the goody tray. "Now, there's a rationalization worthy of the great Gregory House himself. You're learnin', Jimmy!"

"I'm trying," I told him. I bit into one of the doughnuts and took a swallow of milk. I continued chewing for a moment before noticing that he was not following my lead. The snack he'd requested lay untouched on the tray. "So how come I'm the only one eating here?"

"Antibiotic's messing with my stomach, I guess. Not as hungry as I thought I was. I'll eat 'em later." He looked away from me quickly and leaned back into his pillows.

I watched him for a moment. His skin was still flushed. His lips had somehow become dry and chapped, eyes red-rimmed while my back had been turned. "Your fever's still high … ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Hospice should be here shortly with the cefepime. By this time tomorrow, you'll be feeling well enough to win a doughnut-eating contest. And the lab courier'll be here soon too. I'll get the blood now. Then I'll let you rest awhile."

I took the tray back to the kitchen quickly and then returned to draw the blood. I bagged the tubes and the sputum specimen for the courier. The messenger from Hospice came sometime shortly after the courier left, and I was anxious to hang the new antibiotic.

I went back to his room again, thinking he was still awake. He'd moved his body into an awkward position toward the door and was shifting around listlessly. But when I turned on the bedside light, he wasn't conscious, but lost deeply somewhere inside a fever-induced dream. I hung the cefepime and reached for the tympanic thermometer. The 103.5 temp surprised me. It was over an hour, and the Motrin should have been working by then.

I sat down cautiously beside him on the edge of the bed. He was mumbling something incoherent in his sleep and I didn't want to startle him. I placed my hand gently on his forearm, and the skin was so hot it was uncomfortable beneath my fingers.

Oh Christ!

"House?" Softly. "House? Wake up …"

His eyes opened wide; dazed. He struggled to sit up.

"Easy, buddy … it's okay. Your fever's way up. I'm gonna try some acetaminophen. I need to get a listen to your lungs too. Just relax. It's okay." He was still trying to sit up, and I heard the sibilant sound of his breathing. I stopped trying to restrain him and drew his body forward, helping him to a sitting position against the pillows.

He was a little more alert when he felt my hands on him, but he still didn't feel fully oriented. "What's going on? Hot in here. Hard to breathe …" He looked around himself, and it worried me at how quickly he had gone from coherent to blank. Not good.

"Can you open a window?" He rasped.

"Gonna do better than that," I told him. "Gonna get you some Tylenol and some cool cloths. And let's go up to three liters on the 02, okay?" I kept my voice soothing and assured, and saw that he was focusing in on me, gradually becoming cognizant of my close proximity and regarding me obediently, with the trust of a child; as though he thought I held all the answers to all the questions in the world at that moment.

I took advantage of his acquiescence to prepare an extra aerosol treatment. I disentangled from him slowly and handed him the mouthpiece. "Breathe as deeply as you can. We've got to get some of that junk broken up. The first dose of cefepime's already running; we'll be on top of this in twelve hours or so. Keep up with the deep breaths. I've gotta go get the Tylenol. I'll be right back. You okay?"

He nodded, still inhaling the neb. I hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a bowl and filled it with cool water and a couple of washcloths. I grabbed the bottle of acetaminophen too, and hurried back to the bedroom.

He'd dozed off with the mouthpiece still clenched in his teeth. The treatment was finished, so I gently removed it and shut down the machine. He stirred, opened his eyes and reached for the bottle I still held in my hand.

"Let's wait just a minute on that. Try to give me some good coughs first." I put the bottle down and reached for the stethoscope. I listened carefully as he coughed willingly, and then looked up to meet his eyes. "Good! Breathing getting easier now?"

He took a few more breaths, deepening each in turn. "Not suffocating anymore, if that's what you mean," he said, and he sounded more like his snarky self. "But it's still too hot in here."

I handed him two Tylenol and wrung out one of the washcloths. He took the pills, took the washcloth and passed it half-heartedly across his forehead. He closed his eyes and let his arm drop heavily onto the surface of the bed. "That's better," he grunted. I picked the cloth out of his hand.

"Liar." I said, just loud enough that he could hear. I rewet the cloth, balled it up and sponged it across his face. He didn't object other than to lift his chin a little, and I swabbed his neck too. I leaned him forward and gathered the hem of his tee shirt, pulling it easily up his back, over his shoulders, arms and head, and tossed its sweaty bulk in a heap on the floor. I laid one of the cloths around his neck, another on his chest, and sponged down his arms and face in a continuous gentle motion. I was very aware of his eyes watching my every move.

"You make a damn fine nurse," he mumbled. "Not much to look at … but you've got that 'bedside manner' thingy down pat!" He sighed in comfort. It was music to my ears, but I didn't let on.

"Did I just hear you right?" I said instead. "You actually said something that borders on nice? You must still be delirious from the fever."

"Yup. Delirious. Fever. Uh huh." I saw the lines of his face relax, and he didn't even bother to open his eyes again.

"Too bad we can't find a way to get rid of the pneumonia and keep the fever," I muttered sarcastically. "You're a lot easier to deal with when your brain's frying."

"Uh huh … easier. Fried brain."

I shook my head, but he couldn't see me. No matter. A "nice" Greg House was … interesting at the least … but I was thinking I preferred the griping one!

The fever finally broke about a half hour later, and I didn't need the thermometer to tell me so. He was bathed in sweat, his teeth were chattering, and he'd gone from bitching about the heat to bitching about the cold … and what moron had opened the window?

His tee shirt was on the floor, the bedclothes were soaked, and he couldn't stay there in that messed-up bed. So I hid the cane under the bed and pulled the wheelchair close enough for him to slide across into it with a little help. "Come on!" I told him. "A nice tepid shower will make you feel a lot better. I'll get your sheets changed, we'll do your meds and you can get some sleep."

I disconnected the IV, removed the 02 and helped him get his legs around and transfer to the wheelchair. He was steadier than I'd expected him to be, but still, the fever, and all his activity earlier in the evening, left him with little energy.

When we made it into the bathroom, I asked him if he needed help.

Wrong question!

"Hell no!" He accompanied that with an indignant glare, and I knew I'd turned the corner. He would tolerate only so much … even from me. Especially from me!

Just a little bit of sweet, docile Gregory House goes a long, long way! I was sort'a glad to have the cranky, miserable, domineering, pissy, sarcastic, verbally abusive and snarky friend back.

I left him to his own devices, trusting him to get his clothing off, get out of the chair and onto the shower chair and adjust the water spray on his own. It was none of my business.

He did not want me watching him as though he were a three-year-old, even though I was a doctor and had seen such things before …

Propriety is propriety and pride is pride. Privacy is privacy and modesty is modesty, after all.

I was smiling to myself, as I remember it now … all the way to the linen closet for fresh sheets to put on his bed …

Oooo0oooO

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