Esse Est Percipi

"House?" Wilson sat next to his best friend who remained virtually catatonic since waking fully from his ordeal. There was no response. As per usual. It was getting to be worrisome that James could no longer connect with the one person in the world that mattered most.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way. I didn't want to have to do this, but as your Health Care Proxy, I think it's best." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the pamphlets. "It's called the Kessler Rehab Center. It specializes in people with..." God, he didn't want to say it. But his friend had to hear what he had been denying all this time. "It's the number one facility recommended for people who are dealing with amputation." There, he said it. "It's got everything you could need in one place: doctors, counselors, therapists, prosthetic technicians..." He let his voice trail off. The process would be long and arduous, no doubt. Much better than what PPTH and the surrounding hospitals could offer. And it was an inpatient skilled nursing facility that took the patient from post-operative care to independence. Although James doubted his friend would ever think of being independent again.

Inside Greg listened. He just refused to respond. It was overwhelmingly too much information. His brain had been assaulted upon waking with the lack of sensation, weight and being below his right hip. His body would never be whole again. He'd never be who he was pre or post infarction. It didn't matter. For all he cared, he could be dead. Emotionally he was.

There could never be words or actions that would make Wilson or Cuddy or the members of his Team - anybody for that matter - understand what exactly he was experiencing. It was unique to him. Not even another amputee could comprehend. They did not live his life, experience the same successes and failures and have the same set of values he placed on his body parts. Before the infarction he had been strong, healthy and vibrant. An athlete, musician and doctor, all of the highest caliber. After the loss of the muscle, the athleticism was gone, the musician - at least the pianist - was mediocre, for lack of the consistency on the pedals, and only the doctor remained; albeit wounded in pride and appearance. Who would want a doctor who was less than one hundred percent healthy? It was bad enough he had to use a cane and limp his way around the hospital.

And then Mayfield. Jesus, it was a miracle that he even got past the psychiatric testing to get his license back. Yeah, he had problems with the drug abuse, and the State Licensing Board could see fit to give back his license once he got clean. But they gave a mentally fucked up doctor, granted a brilliantly fucked up doctor, a license. If any of his patients knew he was a nut case, he was sure they'd opt to die than be diagnosed by him. And now he was a one-legged, smart-mouthed jackass whom nobody cared about. If he couldn't stand the pity of having to use a cane, imagine what patients and the public in general would feel for his peg leg. Maybe he could be a doctor-pirate.

Wilson leaned back, curiously watching his friend, who had just cracked a small smile.

"House, you're responding!" To what, he didn't know, but it seemed like a good sign. "You're actually, smiling. And if I didn't know better, I would say you were on your way to a full-blown smirk."

Had he been reacting to his own thoughts of being a peg-legged pirate doctor? Perhaps he'd get a parrot to perch on his shoulder and spew out insults and dirty phrases. He'd call the bird Wilson without hesitation.

"I don't know what has captured your thoughts, but I'm glad to know you're at least having some...thoughts, I mean." Could it be that he finally processed something Wilson said? Was it the Kessler place? Had House heard of it before? Was he thinking he could make progress if he attended the prestigious rehab facility? That maybe life could be better if he had a prosthetic that look somewhat normal and returned him to a sense of stability in functioning?

"Are you aware that you will probably be able to go back to jogging? I'm not sure about other sports, but hell, the advances they've made in this technology have come a long way since the wooden leg. No more splinters."

Greg House was not happy. Well, that was an understatement. He had hardly ever been happy, and since the amputation, he was downright miserable. More miserable than anyone who knew him thought possible. It was never suspected that he would shut down completely, but he had.

It worried them enough to keep them ever vigilant. It was suspected that if he had the chance, House might actually attempt suicide. As it was, they were sure he at least thought about it - if not once a day.

Locking himself away within his own mind only confirmed what they already knew. Gregory House, M.D. had given up on the patients, the puzzles and his life. There was nothing left to be done at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital or by any of his doctors or friends.

Greg had been relegated to a different kind of rehab facility. Kessler. Great, another institution just for his needs. The staff had one goal: to make him feel whole. Fuck that. How can you be missing a leg and still be whole? Physically impossible. No means of prosthetic was as good as the original article. Damn them for interfering.

And so the once great and imitable Gregory House, MD, diagnostician and brilliant mind was reduced to a self-pitying mass of human waste.

[H]

Not long after his institutionalization, as he referred to it for himself, he had been forced to sit in the rec room. His assistant, Sara, with the help of a few aides, transitioned his lifeless body into a wheelchair, strapped him in and rolled him out of the blissful silence of his room.

"Dr. House, like I said before, you can't just wallow in here and do nothing. There's more to life than laying around. And the chance for bed sores, pneumonia and infection will increase.

"You're already working on passive physical therapy. Becoming an active participant would do you a world of good."

House didn't want to hear platitudes. He was angry. Not once was he consulted about what he wanted or needed. Even at PPTH no one directly asked him his thoughts on what treatment he'd prefer, if any. Wilson, in his infinite do-gooderness plotted with Cuddy on a course of action they thought best for him.

Even if he didn't know exactly what he wanted - other than his leg back - participating in a recovery he didn't want seemed futile. And so he began the forced 'socialization' with a purely analytical eye. If he could spend the waste of time observing other cripples, then he could continue his masque of tortured soul while delving into unrelenting self-castigation while he was on parade for everyone to see.

Damn, this was worse than Mayfield. At least there he could be a bastard. Here they left him alone. Oh sure, occasionally they tried to get him to do some stupid task or other, but mostly, they treated him like some idiot who didn't know how over his life really was.

Nobody really thought he was participating, yet in his own way he was looking for something within this rag tag group of people who hoped and were praised for it. He knew hoping was useless. At the end of the journey there was always some disappointment. Always.

And then a man walked in, catching his eye. He was probably about sixty or sixty-five, used a cane and moved like Greg had once upon a time. Well almost like that. This guy seemed to be moving like he had an infarction and muscle debridement in both thighs. Worse yet, the old timer had the stride of a guy with two stiff knees to boot.

Probably one bum real leg and the other an old fashioned mannequin leg. That would explain the stiffness. But he was walking. That gait was a painful reminder that House could no longer pass off his disability as just a bum leg. His hand subconsciously went to where the right thigh had been, intending on rubbing away the soreness.

Every now and again he felt it - the ache and clenching muscles that were no longer there. Phantom Limb Syndrome. Just what he needed, another idiopathic diagnosis. Might as well tell him the stump was a bleb. The massaging of the thigh was just habit, and he knew it. The pain in his leg had been his go-to guy, that companion you could count on always being there. Just because it physically wasn't didn't mean he had to abandon the friend. He couldn't have that. Once Doom, Gloom and Howie left him, the constant reminder was all he had left.

The gimp got closer. 'Probably here for his biannual pep talk with his shrink or something' Greg thought. He couldn't help but snort. The bastard was a figment of what he could be in ten years. He wasn't sure which was better, a painfully slow and awkward hobble or a permanent seat in a rolling chair. No amount of medical miracles was going to bring him to pre-infarction status, no matter what Cuddy or Wilson or even Nolan said. It just wasn't possible.

As far as post infarction status, he refused amputation in the first place for a reason. The point was moot now. The leg was gone. Not even post infarction was possible. Flesh and bone and blood and nerves couldn't be substituted with some plastic and metal. Not possible. Not for him.

The old man continued his walk past House. He was average height, with a substantial upper build from hauling his body around for what looked to be tens of years. His hair was silver. He was probably a light blond or ginger before time crept up and aged him. The closer he got, the more House became aware that the cane seemed to be the only thing propping him up. The guy's legs didn't work so well. Hell, even on House's worst days, he had walked better.

The man stopped in front of him, looking at House curiously. "Do we know each other?"

Greg was astonished to discover the man was talking to him. "No, I don't think so."

He extended his hand in casual greeting. "You're new here. Joe Dawson."

House looked at the proffered appendage noting the calluses on the man's fingertips instead of responding.

"I'm here for my ten thousand mile tune up." He banged the cane against each leg to indicate neither was real. "What about you?"

House's initial instinct was to tell him to bug off, in not so pleasant terms. Yet there was a light in this guy's eyes. Something about the way he smiled when he introduced himself, the way he carried his body through a room, making Greg wonder just how it was a guy could be half a man and still face the world like he owned it.

"I'm sorry if I've overstepped my bounds. You just seemed a little lost in the midst of all that's going on around you. This place can be overwhelming. Especially if you're...well, if you're in the first steps of recovery, it's not so easy."

Normally House would have found a way to walk away from the confrontation. At the very least he'd tell the person they were moronic. But Joe Dawson was different. He exuded a confidence that House only had when he was practicing medicine or playing music.

"What do you do for a living?" Joe pulled up a chair, easing himself down.

Greg couldn't help but watch his movements - ever critical.

It was something Joe had faced for most of his life. "Some days it ain't easy, but it's a hell of a lot better than sitting in one of them things." He pointed his cane at House's 'fancy' ride. "I hated the chair. Couldn't wait to get up and walk again - no matter how awkward the movements might be."

"I'm not you," House said stoically.

"Hell no. You at least have one good leg. Should make it a hell of a lot easier."

"Doubt it."

"Suit yourself. You can sit in that thing the rest of your life, or you can get up and walk, limp, hobble or stumbled your way on through life. You're choice."

"Yep. My choice." The conversation was getting just a little too preachy for Greg.

"Well, I should be going," Joe got up, awkward as all shit, but got up nonetheless and forced himself to move on.

"What did you do for a living?" House was curious. He figured the guy was retired by now, but wondered what he had done in the past, legless and all.

"Do for a living," Joe corrected. "I own a tavern. Play a little blues now and then. But that's just my cover. I'm a..." Dawson took a moment to look at the tattoo on the underside of his wrist; a gesture House figured was more or less a time check. "I'm an historian." He couldn't help but smile.

Before Greg could respond, Sara caught up with Joe. She was toting a case that Greg knew damn well held a guitar.

Joe noted the man's interest. "I like to travel with Betty Lou. She keeps me sane, helps me from feeling lonely in the dark times. And she reminds me that even thought I can't run a hundred yard dash, my fingers can make beautiful music." Joe's smile was calming in a strange way.

"You better go," House inclined his head toward the doorway. "Wouldn't want to disappoint your cheerleaders and be late."

Joe snorted a sardonic laugh. This fellow was one tough son-of-a-bitch wallowing in self-pity. He walked out of the Rec room with Sara and Betty Lou in tow knowing damn well that his every move was being scrutinized by the man in the chair.

House watched, wondering if he was doing it to analyze the man's gait or if he was just sad to see the prospect of Betty Lou disappear. It got him to thinking. Like Mayfield, this place had a piano. Unlike Mayfield, this piano wasn't locked. Fortunately for Greg, he hadn't heard anybody abusing it. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember it being played at all. He doubted that any dulcet notes could vibrate from the sound board, which most likely had been tone deaf from neglect.

Joe Dawson hobbled back into the room, followed by Betty Lou. He was about to re-engage his new found acquaintance in a bit of conversation when he noticed the patient staring intently at the old upright in the corner. Joe looked from House to the piano and back. There was an unmistakable longing in the man's eyes; an unconscious flexing of the fingers that spoke more than words ever could.

The power of music was therapeutic and the man seemed to have an unseen golden thread linking him inextricably to the upright. Joe redirected his path behind House as not to break the connection. He meandered over to a comfortable chair and settled in before reaching for his beloved guitar.

It wasn't until a few bluesy riffs registered in his consciousness drawing House in the new thought direction.

Joe smiled at him in acknowledgment, nodding his head in a 'hello again' as he continued to work out the melody in his head on the fretboard. He saw the same longing look in House's eyes that he had seen when the man looked at the piano.

Greg responded to the head nod by bristling before opening his mouth. "What's the matter, the sad sack before you still bending the shrink's ear?"

Dawson smiled. "Nope. I was early. So I decided to bond a little bit with my girl."

"Hopefully your better than I think, otherwise your opportunity to amuse the cripple will be cut short."

"The only cripple I see is the emotional one in front of me. Look around, brother - every one of us is missing something in this place. Here nothing makes you more or less than anyone else, physically. "It's what's up here," Joe tapped his temple, "and what's in here," he used the same finger to tap his chest over his heart, "that sets us apart."

House had no immediate response to that.

Joe got to his feet and headed for the man in the chair. "Would you mind holding her for a minute? Gotta potty." He didn't wait for a response as he placed the guitar in House's hands.

Dawson handing over Betty Lou was almost an invite to play. "May I?" House asked cautiously. He hated other people touching his instruments without his permission.

"If Betty Lou will make you feel better, then by all means."

Greg played a mournful series of notes causing Dawson to raise his eyebrow in surprise. "What did you say you did?"

"I was a doctor."

"Was?"

"I guess I still am. Just not practicing anymore." He continued strumming a melody, transitioning into picking.

Dawson just nodded in false understanding. "And you can't do that anymore?"

"It goes against my beliefs."

"What does?"

"Nobody wants a doctor who's in worse shape than they are. They want healthy and whole."

"Interesting."

"What's so interesting about it?"

"You're beliefs are based in your perceptions about what other people want."

"Would you want me as your doctor?"

"Depends. What's your specialty?" He saw the doubt in the doctor's eyes. "I mean, I don't need a gynecologist. But if I'm dying and you could save my life, then sure. I don't care if you're walking, crawling, drooling or have one eye spinning in the socket as long as you can save me, then we're golden."

"I thought you had to pee," Greg said hastily. He wanted the man gone for a bit so he could process the conversation. Joe conceded, heading for the facilities.

Was the man right? Did people not really care if their lives were hanging in the balance?