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A Personal Epiphany
by melissaisdown
The wail of sirens interrupts House's dire awareness. Cuddy is
unconscious, barely breathing, on a stretcher in an ambulance with
him at her side. He's watching her vitals, trying not to look at her,
trying to stay detached, trying not to care as much as he denies does.
Her eyes open slowly, their first sight is House's arm, adjusting her oxygen.
Then his eyes, and the confidence in them when he realizes she's awake.
"You're in an ambulance," he tells her calmly. Then,
"I need to know why you passed out. Did you take anything? Do you have any
other symptoms?"
A long pause as Cuddy struggles to form the words,
"I just couldn't breathe."
"Anything else?"
She shakes her head, and House looks back at the monitor to see she is
running a fever. Cuddy struggles with each breadth and House adjusts
her oxygen again, before the paramedic can reach it, in need of
something to distract him away from the pang of seeing her suffer.
When they reach the hospital, Cuddy is somehow worse. She's
wheezing, gasping, fluid filling her lungs. Her temperature
has gone up and House's mind is scanning for all of the culprits that could
be responsible. Still by her side, he delivers her to the ER doctors to let
them run the tests he hopes will diagnose her. Away to his office he
goes to devise a plan for when they all fail.
After an hour, Taub and Kutner enter, not expecting House's presence.
"You were wrong about LAM, patient does not have tuberous sclerosis," Taub
says, almost happy about the misdiagnosis.
"What does she have?"
"We don't know."
"Why are you both here?"
"We're waiting for blood cultures, we think it might be viral."
"Why are you here?" Kutner asks.
"I'm not. It's a mirage. Now go away."
"If you're not busy, technically this is your case."
"We could use your help."
"I am busy. And it's not my case. Pretend I'm not here."
House stands, walking to the white board. He writes 'fever, diff. breathing' in
black marker. He thinks of how her hands trembled earlier and goes to write
it down but is interrupted.
"We've ruled out allergic reaction and autoimmune."
"She's on a ventilator now and is starting to show neurological symptoms."
"Such as?" House remarks.
"Seizures," Taub says.
"She's in a coma," Kutner admits.
"Acute disseminated encephalomyelitis. Attacked her brain and stripped it of myelin, it's still LAM. It can happen in women who don't have a heritable genetic disorder, like tuberous sclerosis.
"We tried steroids and intravenous immunoglobulin, but no improvement."
"I told you,plasmapheresis , you need to filter out the antibodies responsible
for her immune system's failure."
"But if we're wrong and it's viral..."
"Fine. Assume I'm wrong. Just leave," House shouts, exhaustedly.
Finally writing 'tremors' on the board, House struggles to remember if
he saw any other symptoms in Cuddy earlier. Suddenly he feels guilty for
having not seen her in a while. He may have noticed symptoms earlier, caught
it in time. If only. Such is the idleness of afterthought.
It's been long enough, and House goes to see her, a visit he has been
procrastinating for as long as he can. This is why he never visits patients.
It interferes with objectivity. You see a person instead of a symptom. But he
wants to see her.
Knowing he has already taken too much today, House swallows two more vicodin, needing to be numb for this. He rations his breaths as he enters, telling
himself composure is all about breathing. Intimacy alarms him, it is something
offensive when he is involved but in this case it is unavoidable.
The room is white, the personification of bleach in sight and smell. An assault
on both senses. Cuddy is asleep, again he focuses on the monitors.
With each descending peak of the EKG she seems a little farther away, just
out of reach.
Except she's right here. And this is the dilemma. House wants to touch her
to wake her even, but not for a diagnosis. For himself. He's being selfish again
and chastises himself for it, exercising restraint as he remains beside her.
Is he a romantic egotist or just a worried friend?
Cuddy hears him come in, the sound of his cane is soft as his feet shuffle.
She feels him standing beside her and looks up to see him staring just past
her.
"What are you looking at?" She asks.
His eyes shift, his heart thrilled at the sound of her voice.
"Boobs mostly."
"How long have I been here?"
"A few hours. Do you remember passing out?"
"I remember going home early, I thought I had the flu..."
She scratches her arm.
"Anything else?"
"Fever, fatigue, for a few days. I thought it just turned into an upper
respiratory infection."
"Any numbness, pain, swelling, vision disturbances? Anything other than the
fever and difficulty breathing?"
"No," scratching her neck.
"What do they think it is, pneumonia, pleurisy?"
"I don't know," shaking his head. And,
"They're still running tests. Chem panel came back negative for all strains
of influenza. Chest x-rays revealed a lung infection, looks like pneumonia..."
"But you don't think it is?"
A beat.
" I... don't know."
Biting her bottom lip, vexation fills Cuddy's face, the kind that does on
the rare occasion of Greg House's uncertainty. House is always certain he is
right even when he isn't. To see him doubting himself was unsettling.
She wants to talk with him now. She had wanted to talk with him for some time
but always occupied herself otherwise. Both scared, both scarred, neither have
any idea where they stand. Relationship has too many syllables for their
mouths to repeat. And now fear compels her to be silent, to stop
asking questions. She reaches out her hand, an admission of this fear
and House goes to grasp it. But, Kutner's head and voice project through
the doorway breaking a bond before it forms.
"House, need you."
Augury.
Had House taken her hand,he may have seen the rash on the underside
of her arm. Before it spreads. Before she gets any worse. But he doesn't, instead
he stands, with a most pissed off look on his face, and follows Kutner.
"Patient's liver enzymes are off the charts."
"Liver failure puts her case back in the unsolved pile."
"So, her liver is failing..."
"That's not a symptom of LAM," Taub intercedes a chart in hand.
"And we still can't explain the blisters."
"Blisters are an infected rash, we explain the rash we explain the
blisters," House states, not quite finished,
"Dermatitis? Maculopapular eruptions? I assume she's had her MMR."
"No allergy, no dermatitis, she's had all the baby boomer vaccinations."
"No measels, no allergy, well, this woman must really be sick."
They reach said patient's room. Her name is Kris Andersen. Kristin, Kristy, Krista, it doesn't matter because House will never call her by it. She is alone, unconscious,and intubated. House approaches her, putting on a latex glove and lifts her arm examining the blisters. Then he lifts her other arm, and the blanket to look at her legs and see the pattern, and how much it's spread.
"Lyme disease fits," House says.
Kris's husband enters while House is suspiciously looking under the woman's
blanket.
"I hope you're her doctor," the man says to House.
"Nah. Theses guys are, I'm just a pervert."
Not sure if he's joking or not, the husband looks at Taub and Kutner, who offer
little reassurance.
"MRI her brain for cerebral hypoperfusion, see if Lyme disease is the cause of her encephalitis and start her on a hundred milligrams doxycycline, before she slips
any deeper into a coma," House says.
And they obey.
House returns to his office, the white board offers some solace.
He erases Cuddy's symptoms and begins a new list:
Fever
Rash
Encephalitis (seizures/coma)
Pneumonia
Liver failure
House sits, alone and scrutinizing his written word. His back itches and he scratches it with the marker. Before he can write the next symptom, it itches again, lower and he scratches it absently. He's thinking of Cuddy. He's always thinking of
Cuddy but now his mind won't venture to any other thought.
And then the epiphany.
As he remembers Cuddy scratching earlier, his lips part. Pins, needles, the thought.
It is like an anvil dropping on his chest. It is the moment he wishes he had no
gift for solving puzzles, for seeing the interconnectedness of everything.
House stands and races to the MRI suite. Entering the booth where Taub and
Kutner sit,
"She doesn't have Lyme disease."
"What? How do you know?"
"Whatever she has is contagious, because Cuddy has the same thing."
The man disappears before they can respond.
One place, one room, his only destination. He walks now, nearly running,
the leg pain is his last thought. His right leg holds him in this quick stride because
he gives it no choice. To save his own life it would not strain this hard.
House enters her room fast, gallantly even, seeing only the focal point of his journey. He bridges the gap between the door and her bed, and takes her arms.
She turns and looks up at him, defenseless. He lifts one arm and as he feared there is a rash where he saw her scratch earlier. Pulling down the bedsheets to reveal her legs, the rash is everywhere and he swallows hard, almost choking at the sight. His voice weary,he calls for a nurse's assistance.
"What is it, House?"
And he tells her she has the same thing as her patient.
A return to familiar surroundings, House is back in his office. The white
board, Taub and Kutner his only company. The board now reads:
Fever
Rash
Encephalitis (seizures/coma)
Pneumonia
Liver failure
contagious/infectious
And a conversation begins:
House: What disease is contagious and causes fever, rash, encephalitis,
pneumonia, and liver failure? Differential diagnosis, gentlemen.
Kutner: Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia.
Taub: She was tested for HIV, and has no autoimmune disease.
House: He's right PCP wouldn't affect both of them.
Taub: Hepatitis.
Kutner: Not this fast, and not in both of them.
House: Differential diagnosis will never lead anywhere if tweedle dumb
keeps refuting everything tweedle dee says. What about the incubation
period, we're looking for something that doesn't show symptoms right away.
Taub: How long?
House: About a week between when Cuddy treated this woman and the rash appearing.
Kutner: Scarlet fever.
Taub: If it were scarlet fever I would have it.
Kutner: Not necessarily.
House: Maybe Taub has a point maybe there's a reason two women have this
and no men. How's her husband?
Taub: Healthy, I mean I've seen him eat about fifty hotdogs since his wife
was admitted but other than that...
House: So we're looking for something with a gender bias.
Kutner: Infectious diseases don't have a gender disparity, they can't look under your
skirt or tell if you pee sitting down or standing.
Taub: He's right.
House: True, but what would make a disease affect a woman differently than a man? Other of course, than the fact that they are weak and indefensible by nature?
Hmph. That comment works better when there's actually a woman in the room.
Kutner: Women's immune systems can be compromised in more ways than a
man's.
House: Such as?
Taub: Stress and chronic fatigue affect women more than men. Heart disease
and thyroid conditions.
Kutner: Grave's disease.
House: Grave's is not contagious.
Taub: There is still a possibility that they have two separate conditions.
House: With identical symptoms? Sure. Encephalitis and liver failure are next for
Cuddy if we don't figure out why this disease prefers girls.
Kutner: Kris's chart says she's going through menopause. Early menopause,
that could be significant.
House rips the chart from his hands.
House: It says she started experiencing menopausal symptoms three months
ago, not when she was twenty five.
And he throws the chart down.
Taub: But-
House: But? There are no buts in medicine. There are however huge, rotundous
asses,the finest of which is on the brink of death in the ICU. And it's our
job to save her. So can we focus here! ?
House tries not to look like he's bargaining. But he is.
And then an idea.
House: What if it's not menopause? Let's assume it's not. What would be the biggest factor to jeopardize her immunity?
All three speculate a moment to themselves and before Taub or Kutner
utter what they decide, the word escapes Houses mouth as a revelation, self-
realization and he knows what it means, what the women have in common, but under his breath it's personal,
"Pregnancy."
On the last syllable their pagers sound. It is the only thing that keeps House's
heart from sinking or his mind from complete anarchy.
Chaos in Kris's room. Her vitals are failing, her bloodpressure is 210/111.
She's still in coma but she's seizing. Jerking, twitching, the EKG is jumping unregulated, each wave's apex touching the ceiling. And then she flatlines.
Taub and Kutner rush to resuscitate her, charging the defibrillator, paddles in
hand. Once. Twice. Eight times they try. But she is gone.
Moments pass. Her husband comes in, slowly absorbing the tragedy. The man covers his face, not wanting them to see him cry. House notices a red bump
on his hand and suddenly it all makes sense. He grabs the man's hand and looks at it quickly.
"Hand feeling itchy?"
"A little. It's just a spider bite, what does that have to do with anything?"
"Your wife wasn't going through menopause. She was pregnant."
He's trying to not be cold, but the man deserves an explanation.
"Varicella-zoster," House says to Taub and Kutner. Then,
"Your wife died of chicken pox. The same chicken pox that you have
on your hand."
"What?"
"The virus attacked her immune system more aggressively because
she was three months pregnant. And didn't know it. We were diagnosing
on the belief she was menopausal, the thought never occurred..."
And he trails off, not wanting to be rude. Or abrasive. Or to make it sound
like it was the husband's fault. Even though it was in a way. A familiar
parallel, this man will have nearly as many demons to exorcise as House.
Calloused as he is concerned, House if off for completion by putting
into place,the final piece of the puzzle. He goes into Cuddy's room, takes
a blood sample and leaves, not letting himself look at her. Not letting his
mind entertain the possibility.
He takes it to the lab himself, not something he frequently does. With her
life-blood literally in his hands, House contemplates many things. Possibility.
Probability. Cause and effect. Even as his gut tumults at the patriarchal prospect
before him, it's not quite unease. Rather a change of plans. A byway. An unforeseen deviation. His hands shake a little with tangible evidence, tangible
certainty in them.He contemplates about Cuddy. About that night. Unperceived,
unimaginable fate intervening. Imperceptible in its first stages, he was
beginning to understand now. Perhaps from a balance beam this is all happening.
It is such a long way down.
And then an almost optimistic aside. Perhaps, yes only perhaps, life and death
had a perfect symmetry. A sort of inevitable equilibrium. That maybe, the weight of Amber's death was being balanced on the scale of existence by this new life.
Or even now the potential for a new life.
It was overwhelming, this extent of involvement, a thought final thought, as he reaches the lab.
Approaching the only lab technician on call tonight in a lab crowded with
samples, with too much work and not people,
"Pregnancy test."
He hands it over, a long blink at the consequences.Then,
"I'm not going to see those results until morning am I?"
The tech shakes his head. As House turns away,
"Hey, this isn't labeled."
"I know." Anonymity, just in case.
"Whose is it?"
"Patient Kris Andersen."
"Didn't I already do a pregnancy test for that patient?"
"Yeah, but we just had sex. The condom broke and I'm sooo worried," sarcasm simmering. Then,
"Do it again." A demand, a command. And he walks away.
Seeking sanctuary and repose House decides to collect his thoughts one
last time before seeing Cuddy. He enters his office and turns out the light so
that nobody suspects. The door is locked and the moon and parking lot lights
are sufficient. His last action was to start Cuddy on Zovirax for the chicken pox
he had confirmed so he hopes Taub and Kutner are gone.
It is a strange world, he thinks and a strange life at that. The series of events leading
to this moment have been instigated solely contingency, by chance. By fate or
by a God he doesn't believe in, it doesn't matter. He knows the actions he
must take. But for now he sits, thinking.
House feels relieved. He saved Cuddy, that's something right?
House feels worry still, the kind that happens when you win the lottery and
think, 'What do I buy first?''What do I need most?' 'What if it's not enough?' Nobody ever plays the lottery expecting to win. Wanting to of course, but never
expecting. This is his situation. House feels sorrow. A patient died. One that he could otherwise have easily cured. But misinformation intervened. And objectivity was defeated. House feels many things but,for the first time in a long time, he does not feel guilty.
In the somber quiet of what is now early morning, House reaches for something. A keepsake, a memento,a reminder. It is taped to the top of the bottom drawer of his desk. A photograph of Lisa Cuddy. Frayed and dogeared, the
color faded much like memory itself. She is ten years younger. The picture
was taken at a conference, by somebody else, and House stole it. He recognized
her and was impressed. By her accomplishments, by her beauty, and by
her breasts. And in that order although he'll never admit it. Still, he doesn't
know why he has kept the photograph or why he felt compelled to take it
in the first place. It is a kind of possessiveness, he supposes to be able to call
her his. The infarction happened circa the same time,maybe that's it. For some
reason, through all these years he has felt comfort in knowing she was not
far from him. And, as he holds the photograph a moment longer, he realizes
it may be mutual now and that he owes her as much. So he goes, retreating
from the familiarity of loneliness, leaving the picture of his past on his desk,
instead of hidden within it.
On his way back to her room House's only thoughts are about union. Sex, marriage. Physical, documented, same difference. And reunion. The circularity of events that comprise life and the justice that time upholds. Irony, tragedy and all the things he's experienced in the past month. Love, affection, he's trying to decide how it is all connected. Trying to find a conduit, but he can't.
When he reaches her room she is sleeping, calmly, innocently. Unsuspectingly. He cannot bring himself to wake her. At this point even if
she were awake he is not sure what he would say. Or if he could say anything
at all.
House sits in the still silence for a while. It is his turn to keep vigil. The nurse was supposed to reapply the calamine lotion an hour ago. Incompetent, he thinks. Standing, slowly he limps to her bedside, absorbing her majesty as she sleeps peacefully. She was august, sublime, sacred. In a world with no real truth, she
was it. Determining in that moment that she is strong. It has taken incredible strength for her to make it this far, in every respect. Then he begins to apply the lotion to any part of her body where the rash remains. A patch on an exposed part of her chest above her collarbone,a spot on her belly, another on her hip. Even in a tattered,worn hospital gown she was beautiful. In this moment he considers, and accepts that it's not just the body he admires, it is the woman. He's daubing her arm when she begins to stir. At the sight of eachother both are satisfied. Neither could
possibly want more. Neither could ever admit as much. Cuddy feels her throat for an intubation incision, knowing the odds of one being there. As she regains cognizance, and the awareness that she is feeling better,
"What did she have?"
House continues daubing although it is unnecessary at this point. He just wants
to touch her. Not knowing how this will end, or if he will ever touch her
the same way again. Then,
"Varicella Pneumonia."
"She had the chicken pox?"
"Yes."
"So, I have the chicken pox?"
"Yes."
"Well, atleast she's alright."
House stops daubing, standing at her bedside like a shadow, a silhouette, a
loved one. He's holding her hand now,but only arbitrarily, keeping her arm
off the bed as the lotion dries.
"She died."
"What? From the chicken pox?"
"From multisystem organ failure. Her lungs, brain, and then her liver."
Confusion casts on Cuddy's face.
"She was pregnant."
These last three words escape like three separate sentences, three paragraphs.
An afflicted trio. The hardest words he's had to say. So far.
"And, I believe you are as well," the inevitable is released.
Frozen and speechless, Cuddy cannot even blink.
"It's why the virus attacked your bodies so aggressively. Her early menopause
wasn't early menopause. She got pregnant three months ago. And you got
the virus from her last week."
Shocked, perplexed, disoriented, a confounded smirk begins to shape Cuddy's lips.
"What?"
The question comes out winded as she's trying to hold back tears.
House is blank. Waiting for her reaction or opinion before he lets his own form.
"That doesn't make sense."
"Actually," he says, her arm now prostrate, touching only his fingertips to hers.
"It does."
A beat. Cuddy sits up a little trying to rationalize, and House just watches as it
all comes together.
"You mean...us?"
And then is sinks in. The room is suddenly cold and she buries herself deeper
in the blanket. Sighing, mute, in indescribable awe.
Another beat. An immeasurably long space of time. Effort to say something and
then another pause.
House breaks it as objectively as possible,
"You should know, if you are pregnant there are certain risks to the fetus
because you got the virus so early in the pregnancy...the odds
of miscarriage are higher. If you do go to full term though, odds of having
a healthy baby are in your favor."
He's trying to pretend like she's just an ordinary patient. He's stifling every emotion even ones outside this situation.
"You did a pregnancy test?"
House nods then,
"Waiting for the results."
"So I might not be pregnant?"
He nods once, up and down rigidly almost as if to say 'no' by saying 'yes'.
"But there's really no other explanation for..." But he can't complete the thought.
House takes a step back in an attempt to disconnect. Cuddy breathes 'wow'
inaudibly, still trying to rationalize, trying to make herself believe.
"Thank you."
"I saved your life. Of course, I'm also partly to blame for what was
wrong with you in the first place. Let's just say we're even."
He turns to walk away.
"House, I'm sorry-"
"Don't," cutting her off. Not facing her now because he can't.
"Don't be."
He steps out of the room, being lead by his mind and not his heart, and then under his breath, and to himself,
"I'm not."
Long after midnight the narrow halls of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital appear deserted. Haunted by spirits of the past, by ghosts of forgotten memories,by disease and remedy, life and death, it makes everybody
within its walls a victim. Gregory House,maverick diagnostician,tenured department head, infectious disease aficionado, is alone. With or
without a team, or a woman, or a best friend, House is always alone. This loneliness is a self fulfilled prophecy. It is a curse. It is above all else, a choice. But, in his casually morose stride, acceptance comes upon him. A liberating acceptance and with it responsibility and an appreciation of life (though not necessarily his own), the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. There will always be the Amber incident. But he loves his work.
"It's all a poor substitute at best," he tells himself .
A substitute for the white picket fence and three point five children. A substitute for a partner, some companion, for the ordinary mundane attributes of real life.
Instead he has guilt, pain, addiction. An inability to ever articulate his emotions
or maintain a relationship with another human being.
And he can not tell why the struggle is worth while, why he has determined to use to the utmost himself and his competence as a scientist. His expertise in
solving puzzles, in seeing connections that nobody else can, seems petty. He
cannot even remind himself at this moment why he became a doctor.
House is beginning to lose himself. With an overwhelming prospect on the horizon
and an unthinkable blunder hanging over him, change is on his mind.
He is afraid to change. Convinced he can't. Admitting defeat instead of actually
trying, complacent. Because if he fails, he's got nothing. It's giving up something
real so that he can hold onto hope, except he doesn't believe in hope either. There is
only futility in hope, so he has nothing.
And here he stands, outside a sick friend's hospital room, with nothing.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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