Shock
He doesn't sleep well. Keeps waking up. Always someone bothering him. Not a good place to rest, the ICU.
He's awake now. Can't remember if he slept between now and watching Wilson stare at him and leave. He remembers everything else, though. Finally last night makes sense.
But what he dreamed or hallucinated or envisioned—no one's told him whether his heart stopped again, but the line that separates dreams from the things beyond dreams doesn't matter so much at the moment—he doesn't like it. He should be dead. It bothers him that he's not.
And Wilson's angry. At least he came to visit. He should be angry. For the same reason House is bothered by not being dead, Wilson should be angry.
House considers that he's never expected life to be fair. Death isn't fair either. But maybe he has expected fairness and just hasn't known it until now. Maybe he's not so cynical.
He sighs, just a little, staring ahead at the quiet nurse's station. He doesn't want to be less cynical; doesn't want to feel faith or hope. He has to protect himself.
He knows that he's getting over a shock right now. Mentally. Probably physically as well, since he's not his usual restless self. And literally. Shock to the brain. Normally he'd appreciate the irony. Not right now. He's too serious. The shock has gone too deep.
Shock makes him vulnerable to feeling. He understands this, but it doesn't make him feel any less the things he's feeling. He's not bothered by the fact that for a while he wanted to be dead. And if his death meant she'd live, he probably would've done what he had to do to make that happen. The throbbing in his skull confirms this supposition.
He wants to tell himself he did it because he had to solve the puzzle. Not for Wilson. Not for Amber. For himself. Because he doesn't do things for other people. He dies for the puzzle, not for her. He wants to believe that this is the truth. He doesn't believe it. Doesn't believe the opposite either. Just…doesn't.
--
He knows time has passed when the pressure on his hand shifts. Ah. He must have slept after Wilson left because he doesn't remember Cuddy putting her hand on his, but he does remember it being there earlier. Clues. Puzzles.
Cuddy appears, leaning in from his left, saying his name.
"House."
Everything seems to happen slowly. The word, his name, sounds drawn out.
He looks at her. She looks tired. Good for having just woken up. Messy but good. The stimulation he usually gets from the sight of her is muffled. Everything is muffled. He knows it's the head injury. Doesn't care.
He knows he should be very concerned that he doesn't care about the state of his brain. Obviously something went wrong or he wouldn't be in the ICU. But he doesn't care that he doesn't care. Too muffled.
He's always willing to die to get the answer he needs.
She asks the same question she'd asked earlier. Blink if you can hear me. He watches her disappear as he blinks, then reappear. She's blurry. He counts. Three seconds to focus.
He should be worried. He's not worried.
He wanted to say something earlier. Amber, the bus, his decision—what he'd seen had been so fresh. He needed to say something. She'd shushed him. Now he doesn't want to talk.
She's pretty. Sexy. Always is. He doesn't want those thoughts, so he shifts his gaze back to the glass wall.
He listens as she tells him what happened. Complex partial seizure. Chase pushing phenytoin and diazepam to end it. CT revealing intracranial bleeding. Scoring a six on the Glasgow coma scale for three hours after the seizure. Slowly coming out of it. Took hours. Repeat CT in the morning.
It's something like 3 a.m. A six on the GCS. Too muffled to care.
Medications. Mannitol to reduce edema and elevated intracranial pressure. Labetalol to reduce his blood pressure. Low dose phytonadione to clot the bleed. Carbamazepine to forestall another seizure. Morphine to control pain and guard against increased respiration. Acetaminophen to combat fever. Famotidine to prevent gastric ulcers. Ampicillin to prevent UTI.
Lots of prophylactics.
She tells him she wants to call Foreman to do a neurological assessment. The way she says it, seems like she's asking his permission.
He looks back at her. Whatever. Okay.
He tracks her as she leaves. Nice ass. He can't help but notice every time. Tracking her movement is easy. Doesn't hurt. Makes him dizzy, but not too bad.
He stares at the wall again. Not the wall per se. The empty space before him which the wall happens to occupy. His feet share that space. So does the end of the bed. Occupied by objects but no less empty.
He stares. Morphine. He doesn't feel drugged, but he's not uncomfortable either. Stiff, yes. Sore. Headache, but nothing like it has been. Neuropathic tingling from the leg, not too bad either. Not hungry. Not nauseous. Tired but not sleepy. Not very awake either.
Just…alive.
--
Cuddy returns. Says Foreman's on his way.
Foreman on the couch in the longue startled awake by his pager flashes in front of him. It's no vision. Just memory and imagination.
"House?"
Cuddy's still looking at him. Standing on his left side. She's taken his hand. He looks from her hand on his to her eyes. What?
"Do you know where you are?"
He blinks to say yes. Doesn't feel like speaking. Too tired or just doesn't want to. Either way, he doesn't feel like it. Doesn't feel like investigating the cause of the feeling.
"Can you tell me where you are?"
He sighs a little. She would press him. And he would normally roll his eyes or make a face, but he doesn't.
"ICU," he says. The letters emerge half-whispered. He's hoarse. Throat dry.
"Want some water?" Cuddy asks.
He waits a moment, then blinks. Sure, whatever.
She pours and offers. He looks from the cup to her. He's not that thirsty.
Suddenly she's concerned. Adds a straw and hold it to his lips. He sips, concentrating on the straw. He cares just enough to suction the fluid from the straw. Tastes like plastic with a hint of chlorine. A few small swallows and expending the effort to suck from the straw outweighs thirst. Just enough to get his throat wet.
He releases the straw. Looks back up at her. Still concerned. Very concerned.
He doesn't want to see it or doesn't care, and returns to the empty space beyond his feet.
He doesn't know why he does anything right now. He could be dead. Probably should be. Not swallowing chlorine-infused water sucked from a plastic tube, held in place for him by Cuddy.
He's always had the puzzle to live for. Curiosity. What comes next? He always wanted to know.
Not now.
He remembers telling dead Amber that he doesn't want to be in pain, doesn't want to be miserable. Those things have always been true. He lived because the puzzle distracted him from pain and loneliness and disability.
Not now.
He's not in much pain. Not that lonely. Not really miserable.
He merely is.
Cuddy moves, gets his attention.
"House?"
He looks up at her. Yes?
"Can you give me a pain rating?"
He thinks. His gut reaction is a four. Four is a very good day. But will she up his morphine for a four, send him to sleep? Not before Foreman arrives. Probably not when he leaves either, if he's still at a four. He doesn't know if he wants more morphine or not. He doesn't want anything.
"Four," he answers.
Cuddy blinks, taken aback. Really?, her expression asks.
He knows. She's surprised because the morphine in him is equal to about half his normal Vicodin dosage. He should be pushing an eight or a nine.
He's numb. In shock. Big deal.
Foreman arrives. He watches Cuddy meet Foreman near the door. Noting her findings. Foreman looking over at him with the disbelieving expression he wears when he's worried.
Their meeting breaks up and they move toward him, one on each side.
"House?" Foreman begins.
House shifts his gaze to Foreman. Still dizzying.
"I'm going to begin with a Mental Status Exam," Foreman says. "If you get tired, close your eyes for two seconds."
It's implied: do you understand?
House blinks. Yes.
"Okay," Foreman says. "First I'm going to say the names of three objects that I want you to remember. Ready?"
House knows he should resent Foreman's explanation. Say something biting to indicate he's still in possession of his wit.
Instead, he blinks.
"Hamburger. Fire truck. Flower."
Foreman waits expectantly.
"Can you repeat those objects?"
"Hamburger. Fire truck. Flower."
His voice is still set to hospital. Rusty and broken. He doesn't want to do all of the talking a Mental Status Exam requires. Doesn't want to blink for two seconds to make Foreman go away either. Just doesn't want.
He sees that Foreman's on high alert right now.
"What's the last thing you remember before you woke up here?" Foreman asks.
"Deep brain stimulation," House answers. "Amantadine."
His voice improves. It always does. He doesn't want to tell Foreman about his conversation with Amber. Too much talking involved.
Foreman nods. Looks questioningly at Cuddy, then back at him.
"Do you know what happened to Amber?" Foreman asks.
He's gentle when he asks.
"She's dead," House answers.
It's not just that he talked to her. Wilson's eyes told him everything. And it's past three a.m. No way she could have made it that long.
Foreman seems unsure of the next question.
"How does that make you feel?"
He's expecting something outrageous. A deflection.
"She shouldn't be dead," House answers. He's tired of talking already.
Foreman's forehead furrows. "House, that's not a feeling."
House stares at him. He knows it's not a feeling. It's a wish, a desire. The closest thing he has to a feeling.
He watches Foreman and Cuddy exchange glances. Foreman knew it was a stupid question to ask him. Part of the MSE, yes, but a stupid question.
Foreman looks back at him. Resolute. He's come up with a new tact, House can tell.
"Okay," Foreman begins. "Your cane was destroyed in the crash. What will you do about it?"
"Already…got a new cane," House answers, this time more slowly. Talking taxes him.
Foreman's more comfortable. It's a good answer. Accurate. Safe.
"All right," Foreman says. "I'm going to test basic motor skills and strength now. Lift your left arm."
House concentrates. His arm is heavy, but he can get it off the blanket.
"Higher," Foreman says.
He lifts it higher until it's almost even with the rail. It's shaking.
"Okay, put it down."
Foreman flips the back the blanket covering his feet. Too much motion, too quickly. House closes his eyes. Dizzy.
"House? What's wrong?"
He has to breathe before he can answer.
"Dizzy," he says. He sounds winded. Struggles to breathe through it.
"How bad?"
He breathes. Gone. Opens his eyes.
"Gone."
Foreman's concerned. "How bad was it?"
"Moderate," House answers. He's felt worse.
"Any nausea?"
House hears the heart monitor slow down. "No."
Foreman's gaze lingers as though he's trying to detect any subterfuge.
House stares at his now-exposed feet until Foreman shifts. Then looks at Foreman.
"Wiggle the toes on your right foot," Foreman commands.
House looks back at his feet. Concentrates. This task is easier. Less draining. His toes don't wiggle as fast as they could, but he's getting tired.
"Good. Now the left foot."
Left-right orientation. Muscle control.
"Good."
Flips the blanket back over his feet. Moves more slowly. Sits on the bed. Offers two fingers on each hand. House takes them.
"Squeeze."
Concentrates. Squeezes.
"Tighter."
Tighter.
"Okay," Foreman says. "Good."
Lets go. Hands down. Tired.
Foreman stands up again. "What's three times six?"
House has nearly had enough. His eyelids are drooping.
"Eighteen," he answers at length. Not that he didn't know immediately. Just tired.
He stares at his feet. Senses Foreman studying him.
"House, you getting tired?"
Blinks.
"Okay, we're almost done." Foreman has a decent bedside manner. Whatever. "Can you name the three objects I asked you to remember?"
House closes his eyes. Thinks. Concentrates.
"Fire truck…flower…hamburger."
That's it, he's done. No more.
"Okay, House, you're doing well," Foreman says. "I'm going to leave you alone so you can rest."
He hears their footsteps as they leave. He knows he's in bad shape. Still in shock, though, and he doesn't care that he's in bad shape.
He stops thinking. Everything is quiet and heavy.
He drifts.