Charlie Horse

He woke up hard and excited, surprised he hadn't ejaculated in his sleep. His body ached a bit, as if it had been restrained to the bed and he fought it. Sweat trickled down his brow.

He had experienced sex dreams before. He never ached this bad afterward or had the sweats. Something was different. Something was wrong.

He felt a twinge, nonspecifically located somewhere within the cast. It was enough to be unsettling, since he hadn't had much tension in his muscles since the traction apparatus was introduced with the cast. Most likely it was a mini spasm from sitting up to long. His leg, now cradled protectively, had allowed for his hips and spine to realign. It was no big deal.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it. It didn't help that another twinge popped up a few minutes later. It was stronger, and he could pinpoint its general location - just below the knee. Within seconds, it twitched again. Then again. Soon it was like an irregular heartbeat. The muscle was going into spasm!

"No, no, no," he threatened his body helplessly, knowing if his thigh became involved, there'd be no chance of relief. He blindly reached on the nightstand for his phone. Cindy…he had to get her over here to do something.

'Hey, I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message.'

"Damn it!" He tossed the phone back toward the table. It bounced, then dropped to the floor. "Shit!"

With no way to call anyone and his body tensing, he began to panic. Maybe he could undo the contraption. He had watched so many others do it before. All he had to do was lower it slowly. Sure, just lower it slowly while using two hands to pull unhook each sling. Yeah, right!

The twitching beat stopped. He would have preferred it to go on. But that was only because he felt the muscle fibers tightening. The pull started a chain reaction, up the leg, tensing his glutei, then lower right flank. It was the equivalent to a mounting charlie horse in the calf, only this was happening much higher up. The muscle bunched, the knot creating pressure in the cast. It caused a cascading failure of sorts as what was left of his quadriceps tried to stabilize the spasm. It felt like someone was ramming a pitch fork through his thigh.

He growled with pain, angry that he couldn't do anything to get to the spot. There was no way he could reach the slings, even if he let his leg drop to the mattress. He eyed the pulley system looking for a fail-safe mechanism that would quickly release in the event of an emergency. If there ever was a situation that required one, this was it.

Greg was able to reach behind him to the cord holding the weight bag. With great effort he swung at it, hoping to grasp any part that dared to cross his fingertips. The effort caused increase discomfort in his leg, but nothing as bad as the spasm was creating. With one last effort he reached for the cable, howling with the change of pressure it caused. He fumbled with the hook. The damn five pound bag wasn't easy to maneuver over his head, nor was it cooperative. Greg struggled, discouraged because he was in pain, couldn't move and couldn't get a damn five pound weight off a hook.

He pushed with his thumbs. 'Nearly there,' he thought. With one last breath he freed himself. His leg jerked forward but the cast did not drop. The sling under his calf was supporting it. He had one thought in mind, reach for his thigh, forgetting that the weight was still supported by his hands, until it slammed him in the face.

Cindy unlocked the door and immediately set down several packages that were threatening to fall. The first thing she noticed was Greg's absence from the living room. Dr. Wilson had called her to let her know he was sending someone over to give her respite. At the time she thought it was very kind of him to keep her in the loop. And yet she wondered how he even knew she had been spending time with Greg. Neither her nor Greg had given him their personal agendas. She shut the door behind her and forgot the packages for now. Her sole purpose for being there was to make sure Greg didn't need anything.

Before she reached the doorway to the bedroom something didn't seem right. It was a gut reaction that had been honed over the years of walking into patient rooms and sensing their agony before hearing their cries, making her acutely aware that all was not well. It was as if he had the super power of subsonic hearing.

"Greg?" She called out to let him know she was entering the room.

House lay in a mound in the middle of the bed. His body coiled as much as the cast would allow. He was clawing at the fiberglass shell trying to get his hands under the padding to squeeze the pain from his thigh. He didn't register her being there.

Greg was lost in a cocoon of pain. His breathing labored, his screams of pain no longer audible as he vocal chords were raw.

Cindy did not know how long he had been in this state, only that he was not in the beginning throes of torture. Sitting next to him she struggled to pull his hands to his chest to keep him from hurting himself further.

His face was a masque of agony. God she wished she had Atavan - or anything to knock him out.

"Concentrate on your breathing, Greg. Inhale."

He was diaphoretic and gasping like a fish out of water. The pulse in his wrist was weak. The carotid proved thready. She thought he'd have a heart attack or stroke out.

Cindy hated to leave his side, but she needed to call 9-1-1. The landline handset was in the living room. "I'll be right back."

Within seconds she was at side while talking on the phone. It felt like forever for the ambulance to arrive. Cindy stood back, shaking. It might be a ruptured aneurism or another clot. The way his body was responding, all things pointed to an interruption in blood flow.

The EMTs hooked him up to various monitors and tried to stabilize him before transporting.

"We're taking him to General," one said as he rolled the gurney out the bedroom door.

"Make it Memorial. His surgeon's there." She followed them down the hall.

"They've gone red."

"Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro. They have his history."