Denial Isn't a River in Egypt - Part 9/?
Title: Denial Isn't a River in Egypt (9/?)
Rating: R (for occasional use of profanity)
Spoilers: Through Who's Your Daddy; all subsequent episodes are just figments of your imagination. :)
Disclaimer/other: See Part 1
Previous entries:
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
By Wednesday morning, a mere 48 hours after his admission, Wilson felt utterly depressed. Now that a couple of his medications had been switched to something less sedating and the mental fog had begun to clear, he had become painfully aware of the latest indignities fate had bestowed upon him. He wasn't allowed to have anything to eat or drink until the intractable vomiting was brought under control, get out of bed to use the perfectly good bathroom only ten feet away, or take a long, hot shower to wash away the stench of sickness-simple things that he had always taken for granted before. It was...humbling.
The fact that he had to suffer these humiliations in front of House's team wasn't exactly helping matters. However, in all fairness, Foreman and Chase had been the consummate professionals in a very awkward situation-managing to strike a perfect balance between demonstrating their concern and keeping a respectful distance. Cameron was...well, Cameron. She had an annoying habit of overstepping personal boundaries-all with the best of intentions.
So for the past fifteen minutes, Wilson had been trying to get rid of her-albeit as politely and tactfully as possible. She simply wouldn't stop asking all sorts of intrusive questions about matters that really weren't any of her business, whether he was a patient of House's or not. Unfortunately, Cameron was either incredibly dense and couldn't take a hint, or she was just incredibly persistent.
Wilson raised his hand to his mouth, faking an impressively convincing yawn to exaggerate his fatigue. "There's no need to bother my parents," he insisted as a real yawn suddenly snuck up on him in the middle of the phony one.
The corners of Cameron's mouth turned downward into a slight frown. "Why don't you want me to call them? You shouldn't have to go through this alone."
"I'm never alone! It's like Grand Central Station around here. There's always someone stopping by to check up on me, to give me my meds, drain what's left of my blood..."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm okay. Really."
Undeterred, Cameron's forehead furrowed in concentration as she persevered. "Do you have any brothers or sisters I should contact? Aunts, uncles, cousins?"
Wilson was rapidly losing his patience. How many times did he have to repeat himself before she finally gave up on the idea of arranging a bedside family reunion? He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing at the oily buildup that had accumulated since his admission. "Look, I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate that. But..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to come up with a plausible excuse that would discourage any further discussion on the topic. "It's just that...well, I don't know the whole story yet. I want to wait until more of the test results come back before I start making any telephone calls."
Cameron reluctantly conceded defeat. "All right. But let me know if you change your mind, okay?"
As Wilson noted her dejected expression, an idea suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps there was a way to get her to leave the room by making her feel useful. He rubbed his stubbled chin as if in deep thought. "Actually, there is something you could do for me."
Her face immediately brightened. "What do you need?"
"My briefcase. It's in my office...probably somewhere by the couch. Since there's nothing worth watching on TV, I might as well get caught up on some paperwork."
Cameron's cheerful countenance quickly faded. "I wish I could help you out, but House wants you to rest, not work."
Wilson vehemently objected to the absurd restriction. "But it's just paperwork! It's not like I'm going to get out of bed to see patients, or attend any committee meetings."
"Sorry."
"Fine. Then bring me bring me something to read. There's a stack of oncology journals that I haven't had a chance to look at yet. They're on the right side of my desk, next to my in-box."
Cameron shrugged apologetically. "That counts as work."
"You can't be serious!"
"'Fraid so."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" Wilson exclaimed, shaking his head in stunned disbelief. "House has completely lost his mind!"
Cameron hesitated, torn between her loyalty to her boss and her need to console a distressed patient. "He's worried about you," she finally admitted.
Wilson was highly skeptical that his friend would have made such a statement, especially to a subordinate. "House said he was worried about me?"
"Not in so many words."
"What exactly did he say?"
"He didn't actually say anything," Cameron tried to explain. "It's more a matter of what he's been doing."
"How so?"
"He's constantly berating us, breathing down our necks, double-checking our work, making us repeat the same tests over and over-that sort of thing."
A faint smile crept across Wilson's wan features. "House always does that. I thought you'd be used to the abuse by now."
"No, this time it's different. It's like..."
"Like what?"
Cameron tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "It's like he's going to hold us personally responsible if we screw up and anything bad happens to you, so he's been making some rather explicit threats."
"What did House do?" Wilson asked, genuinely curious. "Threaten to fire you? Not give you a letter of recommendation when your fellowships are over?"
"Well, uh...he told Chase and Foreman that they wouldn't be able to make any contributions to the gene pool to perpetuate their monumental stupidity, and promised to perform the appropriate medical procedure with a jagged piece of glass or a rusty knife-without benefit of anesthesia."
"What about you?"
Cameron blushed as she broke into an embarrassed grin. "House said he'll sell me to a brothel in some remote corner of the globe. Banishment to Outer Mongolia keeps popping up as a possibility. But I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered that he's willing to barter my life away for a herd of goats and a couple of yaks."
"And they say you can't put a price on everything," Wilson noted wryly. "Maybe I should offer him a dozen chickens in exchange for my oncology journals. Think he'd go for it?"
"House isn't trying to punish you," Cameron answered defensively. "It's just that...I think he's sorry that he didn't take your symptoms seriously before, and now he's trying to make it up to you."
Although Wilson understood that was probably as close to an apology as he'd ever get from his friend, he thought House was overcompensating for months of neglect. There was no reason why he couldn't get some work done while he was confined to bed. He just needed to call his assistant and have her bring a few things-like his briefcase, a handful of files, his journals, and his Rolodex. However, he couldn't very well go behind House's back to make the necessary arrangements as long as Cameron was sitting right next to him. She'd rat him out in a heartbeat, convinced she was acting in his best interests.
Wilson sighed in pretended resignation. "Then could you pick up some things from the gift shop for me to help pass the time? I have an account with them, so they can just bill me for whatever you pick out."
Cameron nodded enthusiastically. "Now that I can do. What did you have in mind? Books? Magazines? Crossword puzzles?"
"All of those sound good. Whatever you choose will be fine."
"Anything else?"
"I could use a few pairs of thick cotton socks if they have any. I can't seem to keep my feet warm. Maybe some toiletries. I don't know. Just browse around to see if there's anything you think I might need while I'm here. And if I'm asleep when you get back, just leave everything on the table, or someplace within arm's reach." To emphasize his limited mobility, he lightly fingered the nasogastric tube that kept him tethered to the bed.
Cameron positively beamed as she pushed herself out of the chair. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Wilson waited until she was safely out of sight before he reached for the phone. He had only managed to press the first two numbers of his assistant's extension when he heard the glass door slide open. He instinctively looked up, and wanted to scream in frustration when he realized who had just walked into the room. Shit. What was this, some kind of weird relay event, where he was the baton being passed from doctor to doctor?
He dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and attempted a half-hearted wave as his visitor sat down in the recently vacated chair. "Hey."
Cuddy nervously cleared her throat. "Uh, how are you feeling today?"
"Bored," Wilson complained. "I'm about ready to tie my sheets together and make a daring escape out the window in the middle of the night-or in broad daylight, for that matter. I'm beginning to suspect that more patients die of boredom than hospital-acquired infections. You really ought to consider upgrading to a better cable package. The channel selection sucks."
She distractedly picked up a stuffed animal from the spot on the nightstand usually occupied by a water pitcher. "So, uh...besides bored, how else do you feel?"
Wilson debated how much to tell her. Cuddy might be a friend, but she was also his boss. He didn't want to say anything that could come back to haunt him later and jeopardize his job. But he couldn't lie to her either. As far as he knew, Cuddy was still listed as his attending and had access to his chart. Maybe he could just put his spin on whatever was already written down, without disclosing anything new.
He tiredly turned his head toward Cuddy, taking a deep breath as he tried to figure out where to start. "Well, I feel a lot better than I did on Monday, that's for sure. The cardiac arrhythmias finally stopped, and Chase discontinued the lidocaine drip last night. They're still working on trying to get my electrolytes straightened out, especially my potassium level. Maybe that will be a little easier now that I have the NG tube and I'm not constantly throwing up anymore. House started me on ranitidine, and said he'll probably clamp the tube off for a while tomorrow to see if I can tolerate some juice or Jell-O without barfing it back up." Wilson held his hand to his mouth as felt another yawn coming on. "God, I'll kill for a cup of coffee right now."
Cuddy smiled sympathetically. "I can imagine."
The yawn failed to materialize, and an exhausted Wilson let his hand fall back onto the bed. "You know, I'm almost tempted to start freebasing Folger's Crystals. Maybe that would make me feel more alert, or at least take the edge off the steroids. The Solu-Medrol is making me moody as hell. One minute I feel really good-damned near euphoric. Then the next, I'm about ready to bite someone's head off."
"If it's any consolation, you're only going to be on the steroids a few more days." Cuddy awkwardly cradled the stuffed animal in her lap. "I, uh...stopped by last night after the board meeting, but you were asleep. I understand you had another bad migraine."
Wilson couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in her tone made him feel vaguely uneasy. "The trip back from the audiologist's office set off another vertigo attack, and everything went downhill from there."
Aware of the subtle change in his demeanor, Cuddy cautiously nodded in acknowledgement as she moved onto another topic. "At least the Norflex seems to be helping with the abdominal muscle spasms. You're not curled up in a fetal position, clutching a warm blanket against your stomach, like you were yesterday."
"Yeah," he replied, his anxiety already starting to fade. "Now I just feel sore all over from puking my guts out. And I'm always tired, even though all I seem to do is sleep."
"You need the rest. You've been through a lot lately."
When Wilson didn't respond, Cuddy tilted her head as she stared at the bizarre-looking object in her hand. The gray-and-white stuffed animal had large patches of black fur around the eyes, and a very long, bushy striped tail. "What is this thing supposed to be? Some kind of mutant raccoon?"
"It's a lemur," he explained with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "It's a gift from a 7-year-old patient. Somehow she found out that I had been admitted, and pestered Herrera until he agreed to bring it over here." Wilson smiled sadly as he recalled the message his colleague had passed along. "She said the white face and dark circles around the eyes reminded her of me, and wanted to know if I had leukemia, too."
A lump formed in Cuddy's throat as she set the toy back on the nightstand, next to the lemon glycerin swabs. "Wilson, don't do this to yourself. It's too early to start considering those kinds of scenarios. Some of your test results are still pending."
"I know. But you can't be an oncologist and not think about having cancer, especially when there's nothing to keep my mind off everything that's going on." In a forced attempt at levity, Wilson added, "So hurry up and spring for a better cable package to keep me entertained!"
Cuddy laughed. "That's definitely not in the budget, but I could probably scrounge up a VCR or DVD player for you. Unfortunately, I'm afraid you'll have to make do with movies from the pediatrics unit until I can make it over to Blockbuster."
"I have some DVDs in my office," he volunteered.
"Do they have anything to do with work?"
"Does it matter?"
Cuddy crossed her arms across her chest, striking a pose eerily reminiscent of a mother about to tell a whining toddler that he couldn't have a cookie before dinner. "You need to rest, not work."
Wilson groaned, convinced that the entire hospital was conspiring against him. "Et tu, Cuddy? You sound exactly like House!"
"Hey, there's no need to insult me!"
Her teasing remark fell flat as Wilson bemoaned his unjust fate. "I don't believe this. You guys are overreacting. I'm starting to feel more like a prisoner than a patient."
Cuddy uncrossed her arms and scooted her chair closer to the bed, her concern clearly evident on her face. "Wilson, don't take this the wrong way, but I think you should take some time off," she began hesitantly. "Maybe you've been pushing yourself too hard, trying to come back to work too soon every time you've been sick."
"That's not necessary," Wilson argued, worried that she might think he couldn't handle the pressures of his job anymore. "I can manage okay once my electrolytes are back to normal and I get the vomiting under control. I just need a few days, that's all."
"I don't want you to just 'manage'. I want you to take a leave of absence until the vertigo completely resolves and you get your energy back."
"But that could take weeks. I can't afford to take that much time off, especially since I'd need to take another medical leave after I have the acoustic neuroma removed."
"Which you can't have done as long as you're this sick and debilitated," she countered calmly. "I know you don't mean to, but I think you keep sabotaging your recovery. You come down with an infection, you don't get enough sleep, you skip meals, you work like a maniac trying to get caught up on everything, then you get even sicker-are you starting to see a pattern here? If you don't take better care of yourself, you're going to keep picking up just about every viral and bacterial infection making the rounds, and you'll never be able to schedule the surgery."
Wilson glanced at the infusion pump, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. "All this talk of surgery might be a moot point anyway, depending on what else is wrong. A malignant condition would certainly take precedence over a benign tumor."
Cuddy slowly let out a breath as she searched for some words of comfort. "I know it's hard to ignore years of clinical training and experience, but you can't torture yourself like this. Maybe nothing's wrong. Maybe you've just been under a lot of stress lately. I know I've certainly been, having to deal with political upheavals in three different departments this year."
"Is that what House thinks? That I'm stressed out?"
"He hasn't ruled it out as a possibility."
Wilson didn't know how to interpret that piece of information. Stress just didn't seem like something House would seriously consider, unless he was already resorting to what Wilson jokingly referred to as the spaghetti methodology-throwing everything against the wall to see what stuck. "So what else is written on the board?" he asked. "Or has House sworn you to secrecy?"
"It would probably be easier to tell you what's not up there," Cuddy confessed. "They're considering just about everything to try to explain what happened to your immune system, including environmental toxins."
He cringed at the realization of what that involved. "Shit. They went to my apartment, didn't they?"
"Probably."
Wilson was absolutely mortified. "I never finished unpacking after I moved in. The place is a total disaster!"
Cuddy frowned, unable to reconcile the mental image of Wilson's apartment in state of disarray with his usual fastidious nature. "You've lived there for what, about a month?"
"More or less."
"That doesn't sound like you, to still be living out of boxes."
Wilson knew exactly where she was going with this. Great. Not only did she think he was stressed out, he had just given her the idea that he was depressed, too. He hastened to offer the first plausible explanation he could come up with on such short notice. "Everything happened so fast after Julie and I split up-I haven't really had time to figure out what I want to do about my living arrangements. I'm just renting on a month-to-month basis, and it doesn't seem worth the effort to unpack if I'm going to turn right around and move again. It just never occurred to me that anyone else would ever see that mess."
Cuddy wasn't convinced he was being entirely truthful, but she decided to let it slide for the time being. There was a more pressing issue that she needed to discuss with him. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, unable to make eye contact with Wilson while she summoned her resolve. "Uh, I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
Her words sent a chill up and down his spine. "Oh?"
"As you know, I drew House's blood for the lab work you ordered last week, and requested a copy of the report."
Wilson mutely nodded. Had it only been a week since he had browbeaten House into having the blood work done? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Cuddy looked up, offering a fleeting smile before she continued. "I presume we're in agreement that his AST and ALT levels are too high, and that he needs to be weaned off the Vicodin and transitioned over to something else."
"Yeah. And?"
"I think you could use a break from being House's prescribing physician for a while."
Wilson blinked in surprise. "Why?"
"Because...you need to concentrate on your own health right now, not worry about House's."
"Cuddy, I'm going worry about House no matter which one of us writes his scripts."
Cuddy leaned back in the chair, absently twirling her faux-pearl necklace around her index finger. "I know. But House is a creature of habit, and he doesn't handle certain kinds of changes very well. This is going to be like ripping his security blanket out of his hands. I don't want House to take his frustrations out on you while he's adjusting to a new pain management regimen. You have enough to deal with right now."
"That's not necessary," Wilson insisted. "I just need a few days to explore some other options, and I haven't had a chance to do that since this last bout of labyrinthitis got the better of me."
"You've been exploring other options for years," Cuddy reminded him. "We both have. The last time we compared notes, you had an expanding file folder about eight inches thick hidden away in your office, crammed with articles about various medications, off-label uses, pain management programs, rehab clinics, and experimental therapies. And as an oncologist, you have plenty of experience in treating patients who suffer from chronic pain."
Wilson grimaced as he arched his back to relieve the nagging ache that had been bothering him all morning. "I guess I just kept hoping that some promising new miracle drug, or magic combination of drugs already on the market, would come along that House would actually be willing to try. He hasn't been interested in anything I've suggested so far, not even a script for another form of Vicodin. I thought if I switched him over to the 10 mg. tablets, he could break them in half, continue to take the same amount of hydrocodone, and wind up cutting back on the acetaminophen by about 34%. Obviously, that didn't go over too well. Then I offered to switch him to another hydrocodone compound-something with ibuprofen or aspirin. Suffice it to say, House shot those down. And don't even ask what happened when I mentioned other meds, like gabapentin, tramadol, or God forbid, an antidepressant. I've even pleaded with him to try acupuncture, biofeedback, hypnosis, meditation, rehab...you name it. For every option I propose, House gives me a dozen reasons why it won't work. The man's completely unreasonable!"
"That's my whole point. You don't need this kind of stress in your life right now."
"Maybe. But I can't abandon him just because I feel like crap."
Cuddy let go of her necklace, folding her arms so that she could rest her chin on the back of her hand. "You wouldn't be abandoning him. You just wouldn't be acting as his physician for a little while. House will understand...eventually."
Wilson wasn't that easily convinced. "Like he did the last time, when I was attending an oncology symposium in Vienna when he had the infarction?"
"House lashed out at everyone, including me. You can't keep blaming yourself for being gone when it happened, and you can't keep prescribing for him as some kind of self-imposed penance. If anyone's to blame for anything, it's me."
"He wasn't your patient."
"No, but I jumped in to oversee his care after the first doctor screwed up. I should have done more to get him into a pain management program after the surgery, or to go to rehab. But I was still relatively new at my administrative role, and I was so worried about doing damage control so he wouldn't sue the hospital-"
Inexplicably, Wilson began to laugh.
Cuddy stared at him, confused by his sudden mirth. "What's so funny?"
"We are. I feel guilty because I wasn't there, and you feel guilty because you were. That's why we give him whatever he wants, because it makes us feel better."
"Guilt makes people do the strangest things," Cuddy agreed with a melancholy smile.
Wilson rolled onto his right side, rubbing his lower back as he tried to find a more comfortable position. "Speaking of guilt, I guess there's something I need to tell you if you're going to take over writing House's scripts for the foreseeable future. I, uh..."
"Gave him a couple of refills?"
"How did you know?"
Now it was Cuddy's turn to make a confession. "Between the dehydration and the meds, you've been pretty out of it most of the time. So I tried to call in a prescription this morning to make sure House didn't run out of pills and start detoxing while we're still trying figure out what happened to your immune system. That's how I accidentally found out that you had already written a script."
Wilson pulled his covers tightly around him, pressing the side of his face against his pillow as he began to shiver violently. Recalling the case that House had been working on last year when he accepted a bet to go without Vicodin for a week, Wilson muttered, "Maybe House's team should check out my apartment for a dead cat or termites."
Cuddy instinctively leaned forward and rested the back of her hand against his forehead. "Hmm. You don't seem to be running a fever."
"I'm just cold. It's freezing in here."
"We should probably get your temp."
"I'm fine," Wilson protested. "I just need another blanket, preferably one straight from the warmer."
Cuddy reached over and pressed the call button. "Not until someone checks your temperature."
"Check the thermostat first. I'm telling you, it's freezing in here."
"I'm not cold."
"You've been moving around. I haven't. And you're wearing a jacket."
Cuddy didn't believe the room temperature was responsible for Wilson's sudden chills, but decided to humor him anyway. She stood up and walked across the room, resting her hands on her hips as she looked at the thermostat. "It's set at 70 degrees."
Wilson ran his hands up and down his arms in a futile effort to warm himself. "The thermostat is probably broken. Try bumping it up to 75 or 80, and see about getting Maintenance up here to check it out."
Cuddy pretended to make the requested adjustment, and then returned to his beside. She impatiently tapped the side rail with her fingernails in a rhythmic staccato, glaring at the still-unanswered call button. "It shouldn't take this long for someone to respond."
"Maybe everyone's tied up with an emergency, like a patient suffering from severe hospital-induced frostbite or hypothermia." Wilson stuck one of his hands out from beneath the covers so he could adjust the angle of his bed. Unfortunately, something about the action piqued Cuddy's professional curiosity, and she intercepted the extremity before he could reach any of the buttons on the control panel.
Cuddy studied the discolored digits intently. "Your fingers are blue."
"Of course they're blue! I'm cold."
She scowled as she let go of his hand. "Let me see the other one."
"I'm sure it looks pretty much the same."
"C'mon. I want to see."
Wilson reluctantly dragged his left hand from the relative warmth of the covers and presented it for inspection.
Cuddy frowned as she let go of his hand. "I want to check your O2 sats, too. Have you been experiencing any chest pain, or shortness of breath?"
"Cuddy, you're overreacting again! I'm just cold. How many times do I have to say it? I'm wearing a thin, flimsy gown, I just have a sheet and one lousy blanket to cover myself with, I can't have anything hot to drink..."
"I'm going to grab a thermometer and a pulse oximeter. I also want to get a new set of vital signs, and maybe draw some blood."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cuddy, that really isn't necessary."
The familiar gesture didn't go unnoticed by the overly attentive Cuddy. "Do you have a headache?"
"I didn't until a minute ago," he deadpanned.
"Do you need some sumatriptan?"
"How about a little common sense? I'm fine. Really."
Cuddy motioned toward the sliding glass door. "I'm going find out where everyone disappeared to, and then I'll pick up a few supplies from the nurses' station. Do you need me to get you anything while I'm there?"
Wilson sighed dramatically. "If you're going to grab everything but the kitchen sink, you might as well bring me two or three more pillows."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure I want to tell you. I'm afraid you'll overreact about that, too."
"Wilson..."
"Oh, all right. My lower back feels a little achy from lying in bed all the time, and I'm having trouble getting comfortable," he admitted. "I just thought a little extra support would help."
Cuddy considered this latest revelation. "I'll check to see when you're due for another dose of Norflex. Maybe that might ease some of the muscle spasms."
Wilson nodded, grateful that she hadn't gone overboard and suggested an MRI. "That sounds great."
As she left the room, Wilson buried his face in his hands. He was beginning to wonder who was worried more about his health-him, or his overzealous friends.
Part 10