Chapter 26
"Get up get up get up!"
I blinked my eyes open lazily, and morning light assaulted my irises. I was napping in House's recliner, something that was becoming a nasty habit of mine – or at least House thought it was a nasty habit – and it was currently being twisted back and forth while also being shaken. I gripped the arm rests so I wouldn't tumble off.
I grumbled low in my throat. "What do you want?" I mumbled, turning my face away from the sunlight. House shook the chair harder.
"You're not going to believe who was just admitted to the hospital."
"John Henry Giles," I said in a monotone. The chair stopped shaking, and I could practically hear House deflate.
It had been two weeks since I'd altered Poison and Histories, and Fidelity had come to a close – I'd been wondering how long it would take for DNR to begin.
"You know, your bordering-on-omniscient knowledge of the future is a real drag sometimes," he said. "Well, you may know exactly what's going to happen, but I don't… so you can't suck the fun out of my day."
"I wasn't trying to." I opened my eyes again, and then reluctantly departed the comfortable embrace of House's Eames chair. "I'm sure this will be a blast for you."
If you could count spending an afternoon in court, being charged with a restraining order, and having to deal with Foreman's way-too-nice boss and, well, having to deal with Foreman… it was going to be interesting, but fun wasn't the word I would use.
I didn't like or dislike Foreman, but in season one, he was the focus of a lot of development – more so than either Chase or Cameron, really. The continuous conflict (and comparisons) between he and House were entertaining, but tended to grate on my nerves after awhile.
"Come on. We're going to go convince Cuddy to let me weasel my way into the case."
"Not that I don't love watching live action scenes, but why exactly do I need to come…?"
"Cuddy's bitchiness decreases by a solid margin when you're around," House informed me in a matter-of-fact tone.
House and I walked straight past Cuddy's secretary – who had somehow managed to escape my notice for seven years of watching the show – and into her office. She looked up at House, looking exasperated even though he had yet to speak.
"I want in," he said simply.
Cuddy actually seemed surprised. "John Henry Giles. You're a fan of his music?" I was shocked that she even asked; this was House. There wasn't much music he wasn't a fan of. He easily had the most varied and eclectic vinyl collection I'd ever seen, blowing my brother's admittedly impressive collection out of the water.
"He's a musician?" House inquired, feigning ignorance. House tapped his cane on the floor, and I sank down into a nearby chair, content to serve my purpose of making Cuddy more amenable to House's desires, in spite of the fact that I knew he was going to end up knee deep in the case regardless of whether I was here or not.
"That paralysis thing… guy can't walk for two years, nobody knows why. It seems mildly interesting."
Cuddy already seemed to have lost interest. She opened her briefcase, removing a stack of papers on PPTH letterhead from within. "Forget the paralysis," she said, with a slight shake of her head.
"Tell that to the rest of his bowling team."
"As far as this hospital is concerned, this is a simple case of lobar pneumonia. Boring."
"But that not-walking thing. It could turn into something serious."
Cuddy watched him for a moment, seeming to weigh her words, and then said, "Marty Hamilton is his primary physician, out in California. He's dealing with the paralysis."
Marty Hamilton. Foreman's old boss. Foreman's old, much-nicer-by-comparison boss who told him that things weren't his fault and called him 'Eric'. It was no wonder Foreman hadn't stayed in California; he could never stay at a job that boring.
"I know all about it," House said. "Multiple treatments, multiple surgeries. He's making real progress – fixed everything but those pesky legs."
"Dr. Hamilton already called and asked for your team," Cuddy informed him, circling her desk to stand in front of him. "And by team, I don't mean you."
"Like I always say, there's no 'I' in 'team'."
"There is a 'me', though, if you jumble it up," I put in, catching a short, irritated glance from House. He was never a fan of me saying his dialogue before it could leave his mouth. Cuddy turned her attention to me, and then back to House.
"House.
"Yes?"
"Does patient confidentiality mean absolutely nothing to you?"
"Is this a trick question?" House cocked his head. "Also: as you just said, he's my team's patient, not mine… rendering all confidentiality null and void."
"Look, Dr. Cuddy, I heard that John Henry Giles was admitted, and I asked him to look into it. He's one of my favorite musicians, he's always been such a huge inspiration to me, and if anyone can help him, House can," I told Cuddy, lying much easier than usual. I wrote it off as a side-effect of extended time around House.
Still, the lie was for a good cause. I didn't really remember how things went in DNR on the medical front – just that John Henry left on his own two feet and left behind a trumpet for House.
Cuddy's expression turned sympathetic, and when her eyes weren't focused on him, House gave me a thumbs up and an exaggerated smile that I had to make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes at.
"I understand that you're fond of him, Anya, and it's very sad what he's going through, but Dr. Hamilton wants someone he can trust attending to John Henry, and while your father is one of the best doctors we have-"
"Hamilton doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me," House finished. "Which isn't too far. Guy's got a weak pitching arm."
"And, Foreman did his residency with Hamilton-"
"I know," House cut across her. "I happened to accidentally glance at his resume before I hired him."
Considering the fact that House had hired forty people when he was supposed to hire three, I didn't have much confidence that his hiring process included reading resumes.
"He wants someone who's going to stick to the pneumonia," Cuddy continued. "John Henry's on an experimental protocol for the paralysis."
"I respect that," House assured her. "I'm not going to get in his way."
House saying that he respected anyone or anything was an extreme rarity; it showed just how badly he wanted this case.
Cuddy sighed, worrying the inside of her bottom lip with her teeth. "Look, it's Foreman's case."
"But," House said.
"But nothing. It's Foreman's case. If you're lucky, he'll let you consult, but all final decisions are his. I can't do anything about that."
Cuddy turned on her heel and made her way to the door, leaving us behind.
"Well, he's already paralyzed," House called after her. "How badly can he screw it up?"
Cuddy granted him no response. The glass door swung shut behind her, leaving House and I alone.
"I'm filled with fatherly pride. Nice sob story. Such an inspiration to you – he didn't even exist in the universe you came from."
"Nope," I said. "He's like a thinly veiled Louis Armstrong analogue though, and Louis Armstrong inspires me. So it wasn't a total lie."
"Oh, it was a total lie. You're learning."
"I'm not learning, I'm helping. That's what I'm here to do, remember?"
"Seeing as you never let me forget it for more than fifteen seconds, yes, I do remember," House replied caustically. "Come on." He turned, heading out the door, and I followed behind.
Thirty minutes later, the ducklings were seated at the differential table, all of them going through John Henry's file. I sat on the counter in the corner of the room, nursing a cream cheese bagel I'd snagged from Wilson (maybe I was picking up more than just one of House's bad habits) and watching as House rubbed his nose with his cane, watching Foreman with a bored and slightly pained expression.
He wanted this to be his case so bad.
Foreman was writing on the clear board, which I was starting to understand why it was retired, given the fact that I couldn't read what Foreman had written very easily, and I was in the same room, not watching on a TV screen.
"What are his sats?" Foreman asked when he finished writing down John Henry's symptoms on the board.
"Staying in the nineties on the nasal canula," Chase replied, eyes glued to the file.
"Coughing up much sputum?" Foreman inquired.
"Almost none. He seems to be stabilized," Cameron provided.
"Dr. House, is anything back from micro?" I was eagerly awaiting the time when the ducklings completely dropped all notions of formal titles with House; hearing them call him 'doctor' made me kind of uncomfortable, for some reason.
"Not yet. You gonna fire me?" Well, I was glad House was being mature about this. I took a bite of my bagel.
"You can make up for it by washing my car," Foreman replied, deadpan.
House finally lowered his cane, smirking. "Oh, this is fun."
Chase smiled and looked away, and Cameron merely turned her attention back to John Henry's file. One thing I did enjoy was season one Chase and Cameron, and their general admiration of House. Chase was a suck-up and Cameron wanted to sleep with him. It was nice to see the two of them young and enamored with the idea of working for House, rather than full grown adults with messes of scars, both physical and emotional, from their time at PPTH.
Damn it, things got so much darker… I could only hope I could turn the tables and make everything a little sunnier this time around.
"Okay, let's keep him on the broad-spectrum antibiotics. Since he's displaying septic physiology, draw blood for adrenal and thyroid function."
Cameron and Chase obediently rose. House did not. He kept his legs propped up on the table, blocking Chase's way.
"What about the paralysis?" House asked simply.
"We're sticking to the pneumonia," Foreman said sharply.
"Well, you certainly are… boss." House crossed his arms, a challenge in his eyes as he watched Foreman. "Like a wet tongue sticks to dry ice."
It was like watching a really unfair tennis match. I liked it more than I should have.
Cameron and Chase, unsurprisingly, sat back down.
"The paralysis has already been diagnosed by Dr. Hamilton," Foreman said, and I could see that he was getting frustrated. "It's ALS."
"Kid," House called. "Give me exactly one reason why this could be something other than Lou Gehrig's disease."
"There are no tests for ALS," I explained, finishing off my bagel and hopping off of the counter." No treatment, either. An ALS diagnosis is always a guess – it's all about exclusion."
"And now that we've proven that Hamilton has at least the medical knowledge of a typical eighteen year old, what do you say we start talking other possibilities?"
"Watch who you're calling typical," I said, sitting down across from Cameron.
"She's right, ALS is a disease of exclusion," Foreman said tersely. "And Hamilton has excluded everything else."
"I haven't." House rose to his feet swiftly, and I never really could get over how graceful he was for a man with a bum leg.
Cameron and Chase exchanged 'oh shit' expressions. House approached Foreman, took the marker out of his hand – without any resistance from Foreman – and went to the clear dry erase board.
"What else could it be?" House asked.
"Guillian-Barre," I suggested. "It fits, and better yet, it could be reversible." I didn't remember what the hell John Henry actually had, so I was just putting my best idea forward.
"House, we've talked about Anya being here for differentials," Foreman said, glaring at House.
"No, you talked. I listened. Sort of. If she didn't come up with good ideas, I wouldn't let her stay in here. Upstage her, and I'll kick her to the curb."
Upstaging me wouldn't be hard, considering most of my medical knowledge was from obsessively watching a TV show. I honestly think that House just let me sit in on differentials because it did the job of confusing, amusing, and pissing off his team. Well, it amused Chase, confused Cameron, and pissed off Foreman.
"Excellent," House said, and he scrawled it on the board.
"No," Foreman said. "The progression of the paralysis would be symmetric. This wasn't."
I should've known that. Damn.
"Transverse myaltis," Cameron offered up.
"Hamilton tested for it. Negative. And he was negative for masses and AVM."
"Antibodies could be attacking the nerves," Chase suggested. "Multi-focal motor neuropathy."
"That's pretty uncommon though, isn't it?" I asked with a tilt of my head.
"It's rare," House conceded. "But it's treatable, and it fits." House turned to Foreman, seeming incredibly satisfied with himself. "Did Hamilton try putting him on IVIG?"
"No, because the MRI showed no-"
"Well, let's do an MRI of our own," House cut across him.
For a long moment, Foreman said nothing. Chase and Cameron gathered up their patient files and stood to leave, but Foreman halted them.
"Guys. It's my case."
And, once again, Chase and Cameron sat down. I was getting déjà vu from a scene like this that happened in… I wanted to say season six, but I wasn't sure.
I was getting déjà vu from something that hadn't happened yet. Now that was just screwed up.
"ALS fits," Foreman reaffirmed. "It even predicts the pneumonia. The paralysis is progressive."
House stared at Foreman, eyes bright with a challenge. "It's a death sentence."
"That doesn't make it wrong," Foreman countered. When House didn't respond, he turned to Cameron and Chase. "Chase, Cameron, go draw his blood… please."
Cameron and Chase exchanged an unsure glance, and then both promptly turned their eyes to House for guidance. It was almost adorable. Foreman looked like he wanted to smack his head against the wall repeatedly.
"You're the boss, boss," House said, eyes not leaving Foreman's.
After that statement, Cameron and Chase rose for the last time. They made their way to the door, exiting promptly. I threw my legs up on the table and craned my head back to look at Foreman. Foreman and House's glare-off lasted a few more moments before Foreman broke. He let out an annoyed sigh, and then exited the differential room as well.
"Well, that was a blast," I observed. "You like butting heads with him way too much."
"Wind him up, and watch him go," House said, twirling his cane. He turned to the dry erase board. "What is this episode called?"
"You're really not going to like the answer."
"You realize that saying that does nothing but pique my interest, right?" He tapped his cane on the ground impatiently. "Spill. Now."
"It was called DNR."
"DNR," House repeated. "Do Not Resuscitate."
"Yep."
"Hmm." House tilted his head. "That just makes everything all the more interesting."
"A man wanting to die is interesting?"
"Just because something's morbid doesn't mean it can't be fascinating," House told me. He was silent for a few moments, eyes distant.
Then, without another word, he limped quickly out of the room, leaving me by myself.
"Bye!" I called after him. "You know, that thing that people say when they leave the room to go somewhere?"
Unsurprisingly, I received no response.
When House returned an hour later, I was in his office, sitting in his desk chair and spinning around idly as I watched reruns of Doogie Hauser. It was kind of sad that every time I turned on the TV, my first instinct was immediately to search every channel in the hopes that House would be on – which in my universe, hadn't been difficult – but inevitably the logical part of my brain would remind me that I couldn't watch a TV show I was living.
He came in with his arms full of records. I looked at him curiously, and he deposited them all carefully on his desk. I read the titles – Swing to the Right, John Henry Giles Live in Memphis, Mindtrikz, and Blue Song. Three of the four albums pictured John Henry on the front of them, and all of them listed his named.
"You really are a fan," I observed.
"Do you like jazz? And no, that isn't a pickup line."
"Is that even a question? I'm a wannabe musician, it's kind of a prerequisite."
"Great. Get up." I obeyed, backing away towards the balcony door. House pushed the desk chair aside and went to his record player. He removed the current occupant, a vintage copy of Rubber Soul, and placed it gingerly back in its sleeve. He then put on the Live in Memphis album, turning it up so loud that I was sure we would receive complaints from somebody else on the floor.
House carefully laid down on the floor, propping his legs up on the office chair. He laced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. A kind of peace seemed to overtake him, and I smiled warmly at him as the first strains of trumpet began to filter over the speakers, accompanied by the roar of a live audience.
"Stop grinning like an idiot. Get down here and listen."
"On the floor?"
"It sounds better."
I wasn't sure what logic led House to that conclusion, but I wasn't about to argue, so I stepped over him and then sank down to the ground, stretching out and mirroring House's position, two feet of space in between us. I closed my eyes, and I focused on the music, listening intently to every improvised piano riff, the high and impressive falsetto of whoever was singing, and of course, John Henry's awe inspiring horn, both chaotic but impossibly fitting to the chord progression of each song.
House said nothing, though when I peered at him out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was conducting with one hand, occasionally mouthing along with the lyrics – when there were vocals, that is, which was a part of the music that wasn't always present.
He got up only once, and that was to exchange Living in Memphis for Blue Song. He returned to the floor, wincing as he propped up his leg again, but his pain seemed to fade as the second album began with a blaring report from John Henry's trumpet.
I hadn't seen him take any Vicodin in hours, not since before we'd left the apartment this morning.
Eventually, Foreman returned to the diagnostic offices. I opened my eyes, hearing the creak of the glass door, but House didn't seem to notice – or if he did, he chose not to acknowledge Foreman's presence.
"House," Foreman called. House still didn't respond, so I nudged his side with my foot.
House opened his eyes. "What?" he yelled over the music.
"He signed a DNR!" Foreman said loudly.
"He rhymes with dinner?" House asked, brow furrowing. I huffed out a laugh and rose to my feet. I skipped over House and went to the record player and turned it down low, so it was just pleasant background music.
"He signed a DNR," Foreman informed House.
"Oh. That makes more sense." House removed his leg from the chair. "Did you tell him that it might not be ALS?"
"No."
"Well, no wonder he signed. Who wouldn't?"
"I started him on IV steroids and Synthroid."
"Great. If it was my case, I'd be adding a little IVIG to the mix."
"For his pneumonia?"
"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it," House said, rising to his feet.
"He doesn't want anything done. No treatment."
"DNR means 'do not resuscitate', not 'do not treat'." House shrugged. "If you do nothing, it doesn't matter which of us is right." He passed by me, and he turned up Blue Song to full blast again. "You should hang onto that DNR!" House shouted over the music. "His signature's going to be worth a lot pretty soon."
Looking thoroughly dejected, Foreman left the room. As soon as he was out of earshot, House turned down the record player.
"Tail him," he told me.
"What? Why?"
"Because, I want to know if he's going to break and give John Henry the IVIG or not. My bets are on 'yes'."
"I'll save time and just tell you – he totally does." House was just going to know in a few hours anyway, so I saw no harm in telling him.
House fist pumped. "Yes. I knew he'd cave."
"Foreman's young," I said, which was an odd thing for me to say, considering the fact that Foreman was fourteen years older than me. "He looks up to you, though he'd never admit it, and he trusts your judgment more than his own. All of them do." I looked up at House. "I mean, the whole point of this fellowship is for Foreman, Cameron, and Chase to become the kind of doctors that don't need to depend on someone else's judgment, right?"
"Shh," was all House said. "You're going to spoil the ending."