"One-day-old infant, born seven weeks premature to a thirty year old woman with a history of light bleeding early in the pregnancy, low BP and occasional extra heartbeats, and a father with a history of opioid abuse. The infant's lungs are hypoplastic and have not developed at all since the end of the second trimester."
Kutner opened his mouth to make a suggestion, but House interrupted before he could get a word out. "Mother was given three courses of glucocorticoids."
"Then it has to be genetic," Foreman said. "Congenital hernia."
House smashed the tip of his cane hard into the carpet. "What else?" he demanded.
"The hypoplasia and nonresponse to steroids mean …"
"I know what it means," House said, obviously distressed.
"House." Foreman stood so that he could address him directly. "We have to take her off the respirator and get a picture of her lungs to confirm the diagnosis. Maybe we're wrong, and maybe it's a repairable hernia. Either way, we need to look at her lungs."
House closed his eyes and nodded. "Tell the neonatologists, and make sure they get Dr. Cameron's permission to take the patient off the respirator."
Cameron, understanding her options, agreed to the procedure. The baby didn't crash when they imaged her lungs, so brain damage was unlikely. Unfortunately, however, Foreman's diagnosis was confirmed: Cameron's day-old daughter was born with a genetic congenital pulmonary hernia. Her lungs would never grow; on the respirator, she might live another three months at most.
House wondered if he was responsible for the genetic defect.
That night, he had his team stay in the boardroom making calls to every doctor in the United States and Canada who had ever written a paper on pulmonary hernia. Early the next morning, he had them move on to the rest of the world.
He was searching for open clinical studies on his computer at his left while paging through a medical reference with his right hand when Wilson opened the door to his office.
"House?"
House looked up, stopping his work for the first time in hours.
"My God," Wilson said, "you're multitasking."
"There has to be a way around this. Something experimental."
"Allison's been making calls too." He stood over House's desk. "You haven't slept in the last thirty-six hours?"
"Forty-eight," he corrected.
Wilson, too, looked like he hadn't slept or even gone home in two days. "They want to discharge Allison tonight. You should go see her."
"I'm the last person she needs to see."
"You know genetics is –"
"Why are you here?"
"Because," Wilson said, "I was wrong and I want to fix it."
"You would not have said that if Cameron had a healthy baby when she was supposed to in February."
Wilson sat in House's chaise, raised a knee, and covered his eyes with his right hand. "I should have dealt with you, not her. I should have warned you that you'd only disappoint her and the baby. I had no right to tell her to stay away."
"You're still a pushover, Jimmy. I accidentally killed your girlfriend, and –"
"You didn't 'kill' her, House."
"I accidentally got your girlfriend killed, and you're sitting here apologizing like an idiot. Of course you had a right to do what you did."
"Go see her," Wilson said.
"I can do a lot more here than I can there."
"I only have morning appointments today – I was supposed to be in surgery this afternoon but we had to cancel. Go see her, and I'll spend the whole night doing research for you. You don't know how much more you can do if you're with her."