Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 3
The rest of the night had passed in a haze of heat and varying sensations of pain. He had stripped off all of his clothes to try to cool down and had pawed at his stomach to rid himself of the sharp, stabbing sensation deep in his belly. He had sweated, he had tossed, he had turned.
He was feeling disoriented and knew he needed to tell someone he was sick.
House sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the twisted sheets on his bed steadying himself with a hand to his forehead. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks and his skin was slick with sweat.
He managed to wobble into his pyjama pants – not disoriented enough to have everyone gawping at his leg - and reached across for his cane.
The rocking motion he had been swaying along with gave him the momentum he needed to stand. He took a minute to let his swimming head adjust to the gravitational pull of the horizontal before he attempted to lurch into the hallway.
'Mom…' he wheezed, dropping his head to counter the blood pounding around his skull.
The house was silent and he realised he had no idea of the time. It was light outside and the birds were tweeting away but no one was stirring thanks to the previous day's celebrations.
He bent double over his stomach and briefly laughed at the syncopated rhythm at play between the pain in his belly and the pain in his leg. Feeling like the very embodiment of a human bossa nova he made a pathetic attempt at a dash to the bathroom before the meagre contents of his stomach made a fine and glorious early morning appearance all over the wooden floor of the hallway.
The cat-like sound he made as his stomach clenched and contracted turned out to be enough to make his aunt come running from her bedroom.
'Woah there Greg! Guess you had a bit too much to drink last night huh?'
'Sick… get Mom-' House leaned heavily against the wall and spat out a few more rancid drops of bile as the smile on his aunt's face faded fast.
He closed his eyes to stop his eyes from watering as his uncle puttered out of their room wrapping his dressing gown around his waist.
'My God! What's the matter?!' turning her head up the corridor, Sarah shouted for Blythe to come quick as House retched again and again.
'He was sick last night too – thought it was food poisoning.' Bob supplied in place of something constructive to say.
'Greg! What?!' Blythe ran to her son and immediately put a hand to his head, 'He's burning up! Honey, what is it?'
All he could muster was a groan of agony as his empty stomach continued to clench helplessly and the pain moved from sharp and constant to stabbing and ferocious.
'Oh my God! Someone call 911!' she shouted as his cane fell form under him and he slumped down to the floor with a thud.
'App… ap… tell… appendix-' and with that, House passed-out.
The commotion that followed was a flurry of middle-aged aunts, uncles and cousins all flapping about in dressing gowns and mussed hair.
Distant voices fluttered over House's head and then a louder, gruffer one bellowed right in his ear.
'Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?' a paramedic shouted, 'No, he's out. Can someone tell me what happened?'
'It's his appendix, my son-' Blythe began only to be interrupted by the paramedic.
'Thank you Mam, I think we'll let the doctors at the hospital make that call.'
'My son, is a doctor thank you so please, it's his appendix.'
House made a well-timed groan as he came round and even managed to glare at the paramedic testing his reflexes for no apparent reason that his fever-addled mind could fathom.
As the red-neck made for House's right knee with his little hammer, survivor's instinct kicked in and he sat up so suddenly that he almost knocked his saviour out.
House groaned as the hallway started to swim into focus. Blythe instantly supported him as he started to try to get up and hick-boy strapped a blood pressure cuff round his arm.
'My son is really sick, he needs to be in the hospital.' Blythe was starting to lose patience and the hick was really testing her. Her boy was not in good shape and she had full faith in his self-diagnosis.
As if in full agreement with his mother, House illustrated her point with another perfectly placed puke.
'Look, can we just get him to hospital, now please?!'
'Flight, got to get… airport…' House muttered deliriously as he was loaded onto the gurney and manoeuvred down the stairs.
'OK big guy, off we go.'
As House was lifted into the ambulance, Blythe was glad he was so out of it. She swore a bit too loudly as they bumped over every possible pot hole from her sister-in-law's house to the hospital. Even given her boy's unique ability to turn people almost instantly against him, the paramedics seemed to really have it in for him.
House himself continued to mutter incomprehensible words throughout the twenty minute journey. She could only catch the odd word but his mind seemed to be having a fine time with all the toxins running through his bloodstream. He muttered, he laughed, he frowned.
Blythe had always thought appendicitis was a fairly typical childhood thing and was bemused and appalled in equal measure to watch her very grown son get sicker and sicker as the ambulance lumbered on interminably.
Soon enough, the doors to the ambulance burst open just like they did on the TV and Blythe half expected, and hoped, George Clooney would be waiting to treat Greg. The gurney was lifted down and whooshed through a set of those bendy plastic doors. Blythe stumbled after, feeling a little lost and out of her depth.
Soaking up the familiar smell of antiseptic and mass meals being cooked somewhere, Blythe headed up to the reception desk to fill out the necessary paperwork.
She took the forms over to a chair in the waiting area and started to scribble the pen back and forth in an effort to get the ink going.
If there was anything she did know about taking Gregory House to the ER, it was that she was in for a long wait.