Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital - Princeton, NJ - June, 1999
No matter where he is or what he's doing, John House stands like he has a metal rod in his spine. As a third-generation marine, he's been standing like that for as long as he can remember; his grandfather taught his father the value of holding his head high, and his father taught him. When Greg was born, John vowed to teach him the same.
It began before Greg could actually stand, with John constantly displaying his masculinity and physical strength; it went without argument that John was the head of the house, the patriarch, the leader. When Greg was finally upright in his seventh or eighth month, John told him over and over again to stand straight, keep your chin up, real men don't cry. And at first, because his father successfully portrayed himself as such a praiseworthy hero, Greg listened to these commands. John was thrilled.
After a few years, however, something changed. Sometime after he transplanted his family from San Diego, California to a military base in Germany, John began to notice that Greg was different. Gone was the the impressionable young boy who once looked up to him like a god and took every word he said like it was holy scripture. In his place was a grade-school-aged military brat who was intelligent, independent, and wise beyond his years and not afraid to show it. This not-so-little boy was no longer willing to blindly comply with his father's demands. Why, he'd ask when John ordered him to straighten his back as they rose to sing in church. John would inform him that it was a sign of strength and respect, thinking that'd be enough to placate Greg's inconvenient curiosity. It never was, and Greg would always shrug and continue to slouch through renditions of Simple Gifts and Amazing Grace.
Greg's blatant rejection of respect and discipline infuriated John. Greg pushed and pushed, mouthing off and ignoring demands until John erupted, sometimes verbally and sometimes physically. They went months at a time without so much as exchanging glances; Greg stole his father's beer, money, and car, John hid the key to the piano and changed the locks on the front and back doors. John came to realize that with Greg as his son, he could be halfway around the world from Southeast Asia yet still be knee deep in warfare. What began as a small disagreement between father and son developed into a vast, irreparable chasm. John despised the nature of his relationship with Greg, and he has always loved his son, but he would never be the first to concede; all he's ever wanted is for the boy to listen to authority, learn some discipline, and to straighten his goddamned back.
With this in the back of his mind, John didn't know what to say when finally saw Greg after his infarction. He and Blythe were in Europe when Greg first got sick, and both Stacy and James were unable to get a hold of them. When they finally returned to find a machine full of telephone messages, Greg had already two surgeries and, while still in a lot of pain, was no longer in critical condition. Once they reached Princeton-Plainsboro, John and Blythe saw the results of their son's ordeal.
"He's still in a lot of pain, but we had to get him moving again to prevent further muscle loss," James explained quietly as they stood in the physical therapy suite.
John didn't need a doctor to tell him Greg was in pain. He watched his son struggle to remain upright between a set of parallel bars, his white-knuckled hands gripping them tightly. His head was hanging low between his shoulders and his tee shirt was drenched in sweat. His entire body trembled. His back was curved, his spine weak. A tanned, brawny woman stood behind of him with a wheelchair, and a tanner, brawnier man stood in front of him. It looked as if they were supposed to be moving forward, but as far as John could see, the only direction Greg was going was...
"Woah there, Dr. House. Let's get you back into the chair - nice and easy..." the young woman's voice was tainted with urgency as Greg nearly toppled forward into her arms. John watched his son let the therapists take his weight and deposit him in the wheelchair, heard his deep groan as his head tilted back. Next to him, Blythe gasped softly.
Soon thereafter, before Greg could notice their presence, James lead them to his empty room upstairs. Greg joined them soon after, and John tried not to notice his son's struggle to move from the wheelchair to his bed. He only really looked at his son's face when he was finally settled in bed.
"What's that?" Blythe asked, eyeing the syringe that a nurse was emptying into his IV.
"Morphine booster," Greg responded shortly.
"They've got you on morphine? James said your surgery was over a week ago..." John said in a disbelieving tone. His head shook with dismay. "Damn good thing you didn't enlist...never could take a little pain…"
Greg said nothing, but pierced his father with a hard, cold stare.
"I've been saying this your whole life, Greg: you just need to keep your chin up and your back straight. I'm sure it hurts, but you're never going to walk again if you sit slumped over in your bed, high on morphine for the rest of your life."
The end of John's speech was greeted by a thick, heavy silence. He was blind to Greg's shocked, hurt expression; didn't see the way James' eyes were narrowed in disgust; didn't take too seriously the way Blythe's gaze had dropped to her lap, too ashamed of her husband to look at him. As far as John was concerned, he was encouraging Greg the same way he had since he was just a little boy. In his quest to support his son, however, John had no idea how unsupportive he was being.
"I think you should go," Greg said at last, his voice low and unwavering.
John tried not to let his surprise show, but continued to stare at his son.
"If you're sure…" Blythe said softly.
Greg nodded, eyes blinking shut with his head back against his pillow.
"We'll come back tomorrow, then," Blythe assured, moving to Greg's bedside and placing a quick kiss on his forehead. Again, Greg nodded, his eyes now fully shut.
"Keep your head up, Son." John said from where he stood beside Blythe. His hand was extended in anticipation of a handshake.
"Yeah," was all Greg said in response, his eyes remaining shut and his head remaining back against his bed.
John stood with his hand extended for one more moment before pulling back, shaking his head, and turning on his heel for the door. His chest burned with the shame of having to consider such an undisciplined, disrespectful, self-pitying man his son.
Just as John was about to exit, he turned to face his son once more, "You need to man-up, Greg." Then, John turned around and stepped through the threshold of the hospital room once more, leaving no time to see his son's reaction or for Greg to respond to his father's comment.