A Wrinkle In Time

The Rec room had become a stable fixture in Greg's routine. The only real reason he allowed himself to be taken from his room to that one was the piano. It called to him, although he dared not play in. He didn't want the staff or other 'inmates' to know he had been a musician once. It was bad enough the staff thought they were doing him a favor by using his professional title as a courtesy, but this only gave cause for the other patients to try to defer their medical concerns in his direction, feeling somehow he had some inside information on the facility and chose to pick and choose his options for treatment. Other patients didn't dare speak out against their proscribed course of recovery.

Greg held out. Still no one had asked him what he wanted. It was more of the same platitudes of 'the best possible course of treatment.' He snorted at that thought. How in the hell could anyone know what was best for him?

He sat in a corner, diagonal from the magical instrument that held his attention. No other clients seemed to notice him in the shadows. No one bothered to acknowledge the old upright just waiting to be played. They were too busy reading, playing cards or just gawping at the boob tube. Greg surveyed the room from where he sat, bound to the chair that he had come to mentally call 'the chariot.' Some days he wished it was like the chariot in Ben Hur with dangerous metal spikes ready to gorge anyone who got too close.

Not that he wanted to inflict more damage on the already damaged patrons at CASA DE PROSTHESIS. Lord knew the peons were doing their best to make good with bits of metal and plastic that passed for artificial limbs. Truth be told, those things gave him the creeps. Basically he was too freaked out to even contemplate having anything like that attached to his body.

Finally, he could solidify the thoughts that had eluded him since the initial infarction. Prosthetic limbs gave him the heebie-jeebies, although he hadn't given much thought as to why. More than likely it had something to do with that rat ass bastard that called himself Greg's father. It always seemed more acceptable to the man if a cripple sustained his injuries in an act of war. For all intents and purposes, stepping on a land mind was the best way to lose an appendage. Having a namby-pamby infarction and then being shot was for nancy-boys.

'Toughen up, Greg. You don't know how good you have it.' John House's harsh voice echoed through his subconscious.

Greg snorted with that thought. No, he wasn't a milksop. He wanted to be tough; not lose his curmudgeonly temperament that everyone had come to know and love. He wanted to be Yacci, the old merchant who ran the corner store from his wheelchair. The bastard had both legs clipped off by a train. Not a pleasant thought in the least. Evidently one shouldn't be falling down on the tracks when trains were present. Who knew if you stood too close to the wheels of a speeding locomotive, you could get sucked under? Gives a whole new meaning to drafting.

Yeah, he wanted to be scary like old man Yaccobucci. The kind of guy who was really nice but seemed creepy at the same time. Yacci never wore legs. Of course House couldn't say for sure what extent of damage the bastard had suffered at the mercy of the steel wheels. Who cared? Certainly not Yacci. He just lived his life day-to-day, kind of how House wanted to spend the next, oh, say, foreseeable future.

Somewhere in the yesteryears of amputee war veterans and mangled working man hid the real explanations for House's adverse reaction to his own situation. And after a long while of analyzing his predicament, Sara noted his melancholic air. He needed to be rescued from the gaiety of the Rec room and returned to the placid environment of his private room.

Yes, he had his own mini suite at Kessler. Part of it was because he was a doctor and could afford a little extra privacy. Mostly it was because of his caustic demeanor. The man, upon arrival, made several of the staff and guests cry. Whether it was the doctor's desire to stir up a little trouble or just his inherent nature, it took the staff a while to figure out. And they practiced a lot of patience - especially with House.

Every one of them could imagine themselves in his place: head of a department of a prestigious teaching hospital where he didn't have to teach with perks and a big office. And even thought he was an asshole, it was mostly brushed aside as his rare gift of medical genius saved many lives. Too bad the loss of his leg crippled his mental faculties more than it did his physical ability. It was better to keep him out of the general populace.

His colleague and best friend, Dr. James Wilson, warned them that on a good day, Greg House was brash and insolent. But since the amputation, he had become withdrawn and callous. Any sight of his caustic wit was to be taken as a good omen. But House had been introverted and mostly silent - downright brooding. He spent his free time staring at an old piano forlornly, keeping his rude outbursts to the patients at a minimum while refusing treatment. Kessler became an adult day care facility for the diagnostician. Well, it was more like an adult orphanage for Greg, except for the fact that he wasn't an orphan.

"This isn't a nursing home, Dr. House. You need to top sulking and start living again," Sara chided.

Whenever she started with that rhetoric his hearing automatically turned off. She could have told him his shirt was on fire and he'd continue to ignore her.

She settled him back into his room, but not before noting a discoloration on the fold of his pant leg. "Did you spill something on yourself or am I going to have to force a doctor to assess the residual limb?"

"It's fine," he mumbled miserably.

"Prove it." Sara headed for the medical cupboard that was a fixture in every room, grabbing from it gloves and sterile gauze.

House knew the drill. The one thing that was gospel at Kessler was wound management. No one could afford infection setting in around an area that was already compromised. He unbuckled his pants, pulling them down enough to extract the stub with relative ease. Great, something was seeping from god knows where. Greg refused to look at the actual end of what was left of his right leg.

"Does it hurt?" Sara studied it closely.

"What do you think?"

"Did you bump it, or do anything that would cause the skin to become irritated?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Me and a couple of the ladies went out to jump rope this morning. I'm a Double Dutch champion."

"I'm going to have a doctor look at it, just to be sure. I could be an abrasion from the jeans for all we know."

"Great, now my pants are killing me."

She taped some gauze over the irritated spot. "You might want to leave your pants off."

He wanted to make a sexual remark but held his tongue. "Okay, but the medic better hurry. I could catch pneumonia without proper clothing."

It didn't take long for some on-loan quack to come in and be surprised. "You're three months post-surgical and the skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom."

House rolled his eyes as the pimple-faced physician marveled at the condition of the surgical site. "Are you a real doctor or just a dermatologist masquerading as a doctor?"

The young physician palpated the area, doing all kinds of manipulating that made Greg want to pull away and vomit.

"You haven't done any scar starvation therapy? Hoping to get a nice build up so you can't use a prosthesis?" He had briefly heard about Kessler's most obstinate patient. It wouldn't work to mollycoddle this man. He'd see it as a sign of weakness. No, give him a dose of his own bedside manner and see how he likes it. "Desensitization of the area would be best…if that's what you want."

House's response was to squirm a bit, repulsed and curious at the same time.

"Once you've grown accustomed to the sensations, working on a callous would be easier…again, if that seems feasible to you."

Doogie Houser swabbed a bit of the seepage. "We'll test the exudate for infection, but it's probably nothing more than lymph draining. Once we have the results back you can decide to keep a dressing over it or let it get some air. But for now, stay away from heavy materials that rub against it."

Sara watched, amazed as Greg House responded to the attending physician. No one had ever captured the man's attention for more than five minutes.

Both left him reclining in his hospital bed contemplating what would be the next potential phase of his recovery. Since the whole new end of the leg thing was sensitive to an extent, it seemed natural to proceed with a regimen that would leave him less grossed out and uncomfortable with the remaining stub. The only problem was the scar. He could hardly stand anyone looking, let alone touching the scarred area where a huge mass of muscle had been excised. Now he was thinking about the blob that was, well, what it was it exactly? Yes, a blob of tissues that constituted the termination of his limb. Egads. He shuddered emotionally and physically.

Greg had lain there thinking as heavy clouds rolling in from the horizon. He hardly paid attention to things like weather anymore. Why bother? He no longer rode his motorcycle because his life was too busy being calendared by the absence of a leg. It didn't matter if it rained, was cold or sunny. The limp was no longer pronounced, his leg no longer a living barometer. All things that affected the infarction site became inconsequential. Nothing mattered anymore.

He dozed in an out, his hands behind his head in thoughtful repose. Leave it to a snot nosed, just out of med school doctor to offer him the options of moving beyond the horror of the scar. Although scar starvation therapy sounded barbaric, he was vaguely aware of its purpose. And then there was the whole desensitization stuff. It sounded like a solid plan. Hell, he couldn't avoid what was left of his leg forever.

When he awoke again, it was considerably later. At least it seemed to be. The sky outside his window was darker. He could just make out a few branches from a nearby tree moving in the wind. It didn't captivate his attention long. The yearning to return to sleep tugged at his eyelids. There was no attempt made to fight it.

At least not until he felt movement. Greg tried to orient himself to his surroundings, but his body felt heavy and his mind was a bit numb and fuzzy. He was being rolled somewhere, not in his chair, rather on a gurney. Oh god, the leg was infected. They were taking him back to the OR for more debridement. He could feel his heart pumping with frenzied fear. It was too late to stop it, he was already sedated.

Greg's eyes felt like they were rolling around the sockets behind his closed lids. He was lost somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness. His mind worked at some semblance of recognition of what was being done. He was secured to a metal table. Wouldn't want to fall off. His voice bounced around in his head. He almost giggled at the thought.

The anesthesiologist placed the gas mask over his mouth and nose. The last thing he remembered seeing was Doogie Houser in his face.

"We're going to cauterize the seeping area to get a nice seal."

Housed waited for the gases to kick in. But nothing happened.

"You didn't think we'd knock you out for desensitization, did you?" The doctor called out from behind the surgical draping.

Like a cattle branding iron, House felt the sting of his flesh burning as a malodorous scent wafted in his direction. Although it didn't hurt as badly as he expected, he screamed out of pure fear.

Doogie held up an enormous Wartenberg wheel. The archaic tool was still used by neurologists to ascertain sensation. House writhed with anticipated anguish as the sharp tines rolled across his flesh.

"Sharp or dull, doctor?"

Greg arched against the restraints trying now to howl in pain. "Sharp," he hissed with ragged breaths.

"Good." The physician continued to poke and prod the patient with various objects. House experienced a myriad of sensations: hot and cold, wet and dry, soft and hard, being able to identify each properly when applied. It was a bit like waiting to be tortured, but it also turned his brain on to accommodate an area of feeling it had chosen to neglect.

"You're doing good," Doogie called out. "Now if we're going to set you up with the scar therapy. Let's see if we can keep the tissues from hardening into a welt."

Something gooey was applied to the area. It started warm and cooled quickly as hands molded it over the terminus of the leg. Something heavy creased the paste over the scar as if trying to push it back under the skin. Once in place, the stump was bandaged. Then something hard and heavy was placed across the bottom and wrapped forcefully, strapping it to Greg's leg. The pressure was excruciating, but nothing was as bad as when he was released from the bed and manipulated into standing on the stump, his right stump fastened to some medieval torture device used to force him to stand upright.

What was left of the thigh throbbed and spasmed, reminding him of the crippling pain that tormented him when he was a little more whole. All in all, if wearing a prosthesis was going to feel anything like this, he'd rather sit in a chair for the rest of his life.

The pressure was building at the site as well as in his hip, all the way up his right side. The synapses of his brain were firing, bouncing around in his skull until a keening could be heard over the chaos. It was his own voice sending out a beam of sound like a dolphin using echo location. Only he found himself to be alone. Nothing but him and the wooden pedestal from hell in the darkness.

The room was illuminated and he thought someone had come to relieve him of the unbearable pressure. But the light went out as quickly as it came.

Another flash and Greg jerked awake in his bed. His hand went to the thigh habitually, although lately he didn't bother to massage what was left. There was no clawing pain, just the remnants of a nightmare. He exhaled shakily as a bolt of lightning lit his room again.

He forced himself to sit up and calm his heavily beating heart. He needed air. With almost a practiced ease he slid out of bed and into the wheelchair. Opening the window was the goal. Fresh air was the prize.

As he maneuvered the chair in that direction he could see snow falling, swirling in the wind that jostled the tree branches. He got to the window just in time to feel the pane rattle as a clap of thunder rumbled across the sky. Greg watched enthusiastically as the storm intensified.

Lightning flashed and he froze. The light, the snow and the glass provided the perfect mirror. Only the reflection staring back at him wasn't his.

Yacci sat on the other side of the glass, his mirror image. He smiled at Greg, but it didn't last for more than a glancing moment before infinite sadness graced his face. He made no sound, yet his lips were moving.

Gregory House shuddered as the man from the past begged him to get up and walk.