Another Sunday gone. Didn't do much. It was snowing and sloppy outside, and I was tired and achy, so I just hung around at home. As usual. Read the paper, watched some TV, surfed the Net, updated my Netflix queue. I used to play The Sims but it was too damn depressing that even my Sims had more of a life than I did. I gave them all horrible diseases, and then built a hospital and mismanaged it and ran it into the ground, and that was fun for a while but it finally got boring. Then I found two of them getting it on in MRI #7 (I'd purchased ten MRIs and five hyperbaric chambers for the hospital, and I guess there just weren't enough cases to keep them all busy.) One of them was the one with mad cow disease, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, gigantism, and acne. Well, enough was enough, so I crashed a helicopter into the hospital. But I still found him fornicating in a pocket in the wreckage, and I finally could only satisfy my envy by dropping another helicopter on him.

My eyes open slowly. I realize I'm still in my chair. The lamp is still on, and there's a half-eaten pudding cup on the side table. I can see the first hints of dawn through the window shades.

When did I fall asleep? And how much am I going to pay for falling asleep in that chair? I reach for the Vicodin and shake out two tablets. I pause, put one back, down the other one, and mentally prepare for the morning routine.

Last night's sleep rating: B-.

No, make that a B.

I've been staring at the ceiling for the last half hour trying to get back to sleep. I'm giving up.

I heave myself out of bed. Blink a couple of times, put on my cruddy old bathrobe (damn it's cold), grab my cane, and head off to the kitchen. I rummage around and find a couple of pudding cups (chocolate) and a clean spoon. I pour a glass of juice, stick the spoon in my mouth and the puddings in my robe pocket, and make my way out to the living room. Okay, juice on the table, pudding on the table... I grab the Vicodin bottle off the piano and lower myself into the chair with a grunt. If I'm going to be awake, let's just do it all the way.

I take a Vicodin and break into the first pudding. My stomach sighs with gratitude as the first swallow arrives. I hadn't realized I was hungry. I take another spoonful and pause. The piano is open, and the lamplight's reflection glints on the keys and the dark finish. And if I squint, I can see my own distorted reflection there too.



I was playing a piano when I first met Eileen.





It was a dreary afternoon in February. I was in my second year of residency, and I'd just finished a really long stretch -- lots of admissions, very little sleep. I'd finished report, put everything to bed, and was looking forward to going home and bringing all kinds of new depth to the word "crash."

But I was too wired to go home just yet. All this freedom and what to do?

One of the nice things about my university hospital ID was that it granted me access to the university facilities (though in those days we weren't quite so paranoid about IDs; the guards at the door with their guard dinosaurs tended to scare off most of the unauthorized troublemakers.) It had been a long, long time since I'd touched a piano, and a couple of hours unwinding with some music sounded very appealing. So I headed off for the practice rooms at the music department.

I'd forgotten that it was the middle of the semester. Every last room was spoken for. The schedules taped to each door were filled with the handwritten names of the music majors claiming each half-hour block -- and they'd actually shown up!

I checked my watch. It was four thirty-two, so maybe someone wasn't going to show. I walked around the halls, peeking in the windows. Finally, success -- an empty room! I stepped in, pulled the door shut, stashed my coat and bag, and set to.

I had hardly begun when the door burst open and slammed shut again. "Well, it's about time!" She was already dragging a music stand over to the side of the piano. In a flutter, she doffed her long blue coat and started shoving music in front of me. "I've been looking all over for you. Let's get going."

I stared at her. She had long, sandy brown hair and a round pale face. She looked young -- really young -- which made the haughty, accusing look she was giving me that much funnier. It was like watching an infant trying to impersonate Queen Elizabeth the First (as played by Judi Dench.) I tried not to snicker. How long could I pull this off?

She gave me the "off-with-your-head" look again. "Can we warm up, please? You know -- doh-re-mi-fah-so-fah-mi-re-doh? I thought you'd said you'd done this before."

Little diva! I played a C chord. She took a breath -- I could see her starting to relax the muscles in her throat and shoulders -- when she stopped short, sniffed, and walked over to my coat. She wrinkled up her little nose, grabbed my coat, draped it over a music stand, and thrust the makeshift coat rack out in the hall. "If you must smoke, could you at least keep your stinking habit away from me? Okay, let's start with doh-mi-so-doh-so-mi-doh. A, please."

I started playing the arpeggios. To my surprise, she wasn't a soprano -- the little prima donna was an alto. She started on the A below middle C and we started climbing the scale. Doh-mi-so-doh-so-mi-doh. I was starting to limber up myself. We got up to the top of her range, warmed up her bottom notes, and did a few scales.

Finally she announced that we were done with the warmup. "Did you get the music I sent you?" I shook my head. "Stupid campus mail. Okay, here." She spread out some music across the music desk. "Let's just do what we can."

Well, at least we were starting with something easy and I wasn't supposed to know it. I was a pretty good sight-reader, so I fudged and faked my way through. She shot me some vicious looks across the music stand, and it was really hard not to burst out laughing, but we managed to make it to the end of the piece more or less at the same time.

We played a few more pieces and finally got into some lieder that she didn't know as well. She ran through the songs a couple of times and then spent some time working on passages that sounded perfectly fine to me but somehow needed endless practice: "From measure 31, please." "Again, please." "Again, please." She still had that queen-of-everything manner, but with a piercing, intelligent look in her green eyes as she considered each passage and tried it again. It almost made her look old enough to drive. Then, in her concentration, she pressed her lips together and twirled a lock of hair around her finger, and I nearly gave myself a hernia trying to suppress my laughter.

I got the look again and pulled myself together. We ran through the piece a couple more times. I began to notice how rich and sweet the German text sounded, like dark chocolate candy.

We played a few more pieces of easy church-type music. I decided to mess with her a little and, in the middle of some song in Latin, transitioned into a Beatles song. She followed me from Palestrina to Paul McCartney without batting an eyelash, and then followed me back into the Latin song. She didn't say anything when we finished. We went to the next piece, and I let her sing a verse before I started messing with her again. She followed me through Gershwin, Dire Straits, something from "Cats," the "hei-di-hei-di-ho" part from "Minnie the Moocher," and some Debbie Gibson crap I had to pick out with one hand. She never blinked or balked -- until I tried "The Star-Spangled Banner." I realized too late that I'd started too high, and broke off. "You're going to have to transpose that," she said.

At last! I gave her an insolent grin. "What do I look like, some kind of accompanist?"

"Oh, no, not at all, but if you're going to steal my practice room you might as well make yourself useful, Dr. Gregory House."

What?! She raised her little round chin as she smiled in triumph. "I can see your stethoscope in your bag," she explained. "The ID in your stinky coat was a bit of a giveaway too. But I would have known who you were anyway."

"Oh really?" I swung my right leg over the piano bench as I turned to face her. Had I seen her around the hospital?

She nodded. "David Kopp. We're dating."

I stared and burst out laughing. "You're dating Dave?" He was one of the med students I was supervising at the time. How did that scut monkey get time for a personal life? I must not have been working him hard enough.

She got that absurd we-are-not-amused look on her childish little face. "I am. He pointed you out to me a couple of weeks ago at Denny's. Then he hid behind the menu. You probably didn't see us. We were in the non-smoking section."

I looked down and snickered, then remembered that it probably wasn't her fault that her boyfriend was a helpless disoriented larva in a short coat. I straightened up. "Well, it's nice to meet you. And yes, I am Dave's overlord for another six weeks. But you can call me Greg. Not Dave. Just you."

She smiled and extended her right hand. I shook it. "Eileen Abney. Very nice to meet you. And for someone who isn't an accompanist, you play pretty well. Dave never mentioned that."

"He wouldn't know." I helped her on with her coat. "And let's just keep that our little secret, shall we? Dr House, softie, serenading a med student's girl in a secluded practice room. Might not do good things for my reputation."

"Your reputation? What about mine?" We gathered our things, and she put on her backpack, a strap over each shoulder.

"Oh, your reputation is safe. Everyone knows bad stories about good people are envious lies. But a story about a mean guy with a soft heart? People want to believe stories like that. Gregory House, M.D., R-2, tyrant! -- with a heart of marshmallow... I could never show my face in the hospital again. I'd lose my residency!" She gave me a look -- not quite as good as an eye roll, but good enough.

"So what's the deal with your accompanist? Stand you up?" I opened the door for her.

"I wasn't expecting anyone, it was just going to be me. But like I said, I saw you in here, and I figured you didn't slog all the way over here just so you could play "Chopsticks" as loud as possible. And you were stealing my practice room. So I thought I'd put you to work." She waited while I put my coat on, and we walked down the hall towards the stairs. "You did a pretty good job. If you lose your residency, with a little practice you might have something to fall back on."

"So," I asked, "where are you headed next?"

"Over to the caf, silly, it's dinner time."

"The caf?" I stopped again. "You're an undergraduate?!"

"Duh!" She glared. "Oh, yes. Dave. I'm a junior, and yes, he's four years older than me."

Oh, Dave.... dating a college junior who looks like she's in junior high! My mind was whirring with mischief as we climbed the stairs. I held the door and followed her outside. It was almost dark. She turned right, and I walked alongside her, our hands stuffed in our coat pockets. "The caf, huh? Aren't you're sick of macaroni and cheese? Let me take you to dinner."

She thought about it for a moment. "Thanks, but sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone after dinner and I don't want to be late."

We were outside now. "Really?" I asked. "You're not just thinking it would be too weird to go to dinner with Dave's evil overlord?"

"Well, there's that."

I raised my eyebrows. "So you told me a fib."

"No, I didn't! I really am meeting someone."

"No, you told me a lie," I teased.

She stopped and looked me straight in the eye. "I never lie," she said, slowly and carefully.

"Now, Eileen. Everybody lies."

"No, not everyone. I don't."

"Well, you didn't tell me that you thought it would be weird if I treated you to dinner."

"But that wasn't a lie. Lies are what you say, they're not what you don't say." She stopped and thought. "Well, most of the time."

"Look, I'm not trying to... I just thought you might like to get away from the caf. I always did when I was in undergrad." She looked me straight in the eye again, and I looked straight back. "That's all."

"Then thank you, I really appreciate it. But I really can't."

We had almost reached the cafeteria. If I couldn't treat the girl-child to an institutional dinner at T.G.I.Friday's, at least I had escorted her to her intended institutional dinner. "Well, Eileen, it was very nice meeting you. I hope we'll see each other again sometime."

"Thanks, Dr House."

"I told you! Call me Greg."

She got an brief ew that's so weird look on her face, but she said, "Okay, Greg. Thanks again for a good practice." She stuck out her hand -- she was wearing mittens! -- I shook it, and she disappeared into the jumble of students. Suddenly I felt a little... old. I had already been out of college almost six years.

I turned back towards the parking lot. What a satifying afternoon I'd had. I'd gotten a chance to play the piano and unwind a little, plus I had been handed -- on a silver platter -- all kinds of new ways to torment my med student. And if he didn't give that darling girl-child a big heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine's Day... well, there was going to be hell to pay.

I'm slouched in the back row of the auditorium. Wilson at my right, Chase at my left, Cameron and Foreman in the row behind me. Cameron and Foreman each have their own reasons for preferring not to sit by me, and that's fine. I'm not here to be their pal.

The case this week had kidney complications, and I know I should be paying attention, seeing as I'm a kidney doctor and all that, but it's a pretty obvious case and there are plenty of other nephrologists to discuss it and, you know, for some strange reason everyone seems happier when I keep my mouth shut. And of course I aim to please. So I stop fighting the distraction and let my mind drift.

And of course it does not drift at all, but instead speeds like a Jet-Ski to exactly the place I did not want it to go: Eileen. Her head on my shoulder. My arms around her. The IV tubing snaking around us both.

That was six years ago. Everything happened six years ago.

I was sitting in bed, in this very hospital. The curtains were open but I couldn't see much -- only a glimpse of the afternoon sky. Somehow the fact it was bright and blue and sunny, with crisp adorable fluffy white clouds, didn't make much of an impression. It had been many days since I'd seen the outside world; it seemed like many years. The outside world was already beginning to seem like a strange, faraway place, a place I knew existed, and where I knew real people lived and people I knew had seen, but that had no real impact on my own life. A place like... oh, I don't know, Monaco. Or Boise.

The exotic outside world had sent an ambassador to me. When I had been admitted and it was plain things were going down the tubes, Wilson had asked whom he should call. But I couldn't think of anyone -- I couldn't think at all.

He quietly, patiently, persisted: "Greg, Greg, your family. What about your mom? Do you want me to call your mom?"

"No!" I croaked, "no -- it's okay--"

"No, Greg, you're sick, you're sick as crap. She needs to know. Do you have her number with you?"

"Wallet--"

So the afternoon of the next day, when I started coming out of the haze a little, there was my mother. She'd flown in and was staying at my apartment.

But now it was Saturday and my mother was worn out. I was doing a little better, so she'd gone back to my place to rest and pack. She was going to go home the next day.

Of course, "a little better" wasn't saying much. I wasn't clenching my teeth on screams of pain any more -- that's always a good sign-- and I wasn't dumping horrible scary proteins out my kidneys either. But the reason I wasn't clenching my teeth on screams of pain was that my quadriceps muscle had become more of a... a monoceps? a hemiceps? They'd explained it to me but I'd lost track. They'd done an embolectomy, an operation to get the clot out of my artery and restore blood flow to the muscle. Of course, that didn't do much good for the muscle fibers that were already dead, and the muscle fibers that were almost dead just wanted to die in peace, and kicked up a great deal of protest at being disturbed. So they debrided the muscle -- took the dead tissue out and left the remaining viable tissue to do what it could. Maybe I'd get some of it back. A little. Perhaps.

So now I was recovering from the surgery and had finally been transferred from the step-down unit to the regular floor. My nervous system was mourning the loss of the muscle but was being consoled with a continuous infusion of intravenous morphine. I had also been given a little button that connected to the pump. If I had any pain, I just pressed the button and got a top-off. A wonderful thing, PCA, Patient Controlled Analgesia. It's also known as dope-on-a-rope.

And I was dopey indeed. Dopey from the morphine. Dopey because I was weak and exhausted. Dopey for having trusted that stupid orthopedist. (I wasn't quite coherent enough for anger yet.)

Dopey. Frustrated: no matter how often I pushed the button, there was still a dull ache in my thigh (served up with a side of weird annoying tingling!) Vaguely nauseated: not enough to actually barf, but queasy enough that I wasn't interested
in anything to eat or drink. Bored and irritated: it was Saturday, dammit, and the reason I knew it was Saturday was that they were showing football instead of the soaps. But I couldn't even summon the mental energy to follow a football game.

So, to review: dopey, exhausted, frustrated, weak, queasy, bored, irritated, stupid, and oh yes -- newly crippled. And in pain. Unshaven, because my mother hadn't been around to make me. In a hospital gown (not one of those nice wrap-around gowns PPTH has now, it was a thin cotton old-school short-sleeved tie-in-the-back open-in-the-butt hospital-logo johnnie.) Lolling in a hospital bed with the head of the bed up (such a treat to sit up at last.) And if you'd pulled back the blanket to look at my right foot, you would have seen little X's drawn with a Sharpie on my arch and in back of my ankle bone: the places to check the pulses in my feet, to make sure the restored juice flowed still.

Gregory House, M.D.: Physician, faculty member, train wreck.

I'd barely seen or spoken to anyone since morning, when James had brought my mother by for a quick visit. I was getting drowsy and thinking about trying to take a nap when I heard a tentative knock at the door. "Greg?"

I was about to snarl something rude when I realized it was a woman's hand at the door -- and the arm it was connected to was not wearing a white coat.

My stomach lurched as I recognized the voice.

"Greg?" she said again. And then she stepped into the room.

It was Eileen.

Is it really Wednesday already? Wilson should be by in around half an hour or so. Then lunch, and off to the M&M picture show. I want to swing by the gift shop on the way. Chase is going to make popcorn, but I think I'm in the mood for something else. Maybe some Junior Mints. Or maybe I'll just pick up some ice cream at the caf.

I hope M&M is boring today. I want some time to think, or, more precisely, to scheme. I need to get back at Wilson for reading that patient's poem in front of the entire desk. He got me good. I would have gotten back at him sooner if I hadn't been so preoccupied with those other cases. Who was that cute nurse at his elbow, anyway?

And no, I am not taking any questions on Mrs Adams. How did such a pleasant woman come to have such an irritating son? Perhaps I should ask my mother; she might have some insight.

Here, for posterity, is the text of the poem.:

The healer with his magic powers
I could rub his gentle brow for hours
His manly chest, his stubbled jaw
Everything about him leaves me raw--
with joy! O House, your very name
Will never leave this girl the same.

Line 4 is enjambed. Nice touch.

mood: irritable

last night's sleep rating: D-

rounds start: as soon as I get up and say let's go

who's late?: nobody.

But I am the one keeping them waiting. They're out in the conference room. The coats are off. The coffee's made and poured.

I'm in my office, just sitting in my chair, my back to the door and my face towards the drawn blinds.

Eileen.

Eileen is the kind of girl who inspires middle-aged men to crank up "Brown-Eyed Girl" when it comes on the radio.

Actually, I don't know what made me think of that song, because there's no way it reminds me of Eileen. It's all wrong. Sure, there's that sweet nostalgia thing, but the song's too perky to get the sorrow and regret part. We never made love in the green grass behind the stadium. Eileen doesn't even have brown eyes. (They're green.) And Eileen was never mine.




I realize that I'm sitting with my head in my hand -- and the ducklings are outside my office waiting for me, I can hear them murmuring, and did they just get Cameron to peek in the window and see what I was doing? I snarl, grab my cane, and haul myself out of my chair. Let's go.

mood: don't even ask.

last night's sleep rating: F

rounds start: whenever my sleepyhead ducklings can get themselves here

who's late? All of them, dammit.

Wilson called me late in the afternoon and asked if I wanted to watch the game with him. He ended up inviting himself over again, this time bringing sandwiches and beer. He was all excited about the Patriots so I thought I might cheer for the Steelers just to be difficult. I didn't ask why we weren't at his place.

You know, I should send a bill to the Patriots.

After the game he hung around a while before he headed home. After he'd left I paced around the apartment for a bit -- I wasn't sleepy -- and thought of the books I got last week. Maybe I'd check out the Yeats; I'd been wanting to read more of it since that Wilson's disease case. Palermo, that's it. It impressed me how into it she was even when she was most delusional.

I had to search around in the stacks on top of the piano, but I finally found them. They were still in the bag from the bookstore. Suddenly I remembered being in the cafe last week: sipping my coffee, gnawing on that dog-treat-cookie-thing, flipping through the magazine, the bag on the table in front of me, the couple passing in back of me -- remembering -- remembering what?

Suddenly I didn't want to read any more. I stood there with my hand on my neck, thinking, and finally slid myself behind the piano and started to play, just picking out a few notes at first, and then playing from memory, a snatch here, a snatch there, mostly pieces I'd mastered when I was a kid. I found myself playing another Bach prelude when I thought of the bookstore again, of the couple -- the woman passing behind me. She'd just had her hair done, I could smell the shampoo and the styling goo and the hairspray; she also might have gotten a couple of perfume samples while she was at the mall.

And then I remembered. Embracing a woman. Her head on my shoulder, the scent of her hair next to my face, the whiff of her perfume. Her silk jacket crumpling against the thin cotton of my hospital gown.

Seven years ago.

Oh, God, seven years ago.

Eileen.

I don't really like Sunday afternoons.

last night's sleep rating: C+

I had no idea you people were paying such close attention. I thought about trying to make it more objective, but I don't think I can. It's like asking patients to rate their pain where zero is nothing and ten is the worst they can possibly imagine. And that, of course, is assuming that they are telling the truth. And we know what a mistake that is.

With kids you can have them point to a scale with little frowny and happy faces.

But back to the sleep thing. Last night I was up pretty late and woke up twice during the night, which is about average. If I had had to get up more often, or if I hadn't slept well once I fell back to sleep, that might have turned out to be a D. But as I said in the comment box, I could have been up three times and slept really well once I got back to sleep, so I might rate that a B.

This morning I got to sleep in and I can catch a nap this afternoon if I want to. So that's a higher sleep rating in itself.

Don't read too much into this. It's so subjective; I could give a sleep rating of B at the beginning of the post and by the end realize I probably should have given it a C. Really it's just another way to complain.

And yes, I know there are all kinds of wonderful sleepers out there; Wilson's got a closet full of samples. Sometimes I'll take some Benadryl if I'm really desperate. But, you know, I take Vicodin because I have to. I drink Scotch because I want to. I don't think I need to add a hypnotic to that cocktail.

ugh. clinic. tired. only 35 more minutes.

mood: disgusted

last night's sleep rating: C-

rounds start: now

who's late? nobody.

I can't believe I let myself get so maudlin last night. And then I had nightmares and found myself staring at the ceiling at 3:30 AM trying to get them out of my head.

As we left M&M, Wilson took a look out the window and informed me he wanted a ride to his car that afternoon, and that he would be by at 4:45 sharp. Foreman gave him a quizzical look; I thought about pointing out how Wilson needed to protect his spiffy new shoes, but then I looked at Cameron's shoes and thought better of it.

He was on time, but it was already getting dark. We headed out to my car. The walks had been cleaned and salted, but they were already filling back up with snow.

I started the car and unlocked the passenger door. He didn't get in right away, but stood outside while I brushed the snow off the windows. Finally I was finished and got in. I settled behind the wheel, pulled the blue hangtag off the mirror, and tucked it behind the visor. He didn't say anything; he's used to the routine.

"So, where are you parked?"

"Over there." He nodded to the right. "Two more rows."

"I thought you got here early."

"Doesn't count for anything when everyone else is early too." He glanced out the window. "You up for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking about inviting myself over to your place. I could pick something up on the way over. How does Italian sound?"

Italian, of course, it's Wednesday, isn't it? "Sure. Why don't you go ahead and call in your calzone?" He'd already dug his phone out of the briefcase. I let him off at his car and waited while he warmed up and brushed off. I pulled forward, he backed out, and we drove off into the snowy dusk.

The restaurant is not too far away from my place. I got there first, and Wilson pulled in beside me. He waved me back in my car. I unwrapped a lollipop (grape) as he went in to pick up our order.

It wasn't about protecting his shoes at all, of course, and it wasn't just about dinner. He was making sure I made it home without falling on my face -- and that I had something for dinner, as well. (He knows the uncertain state of my pantry.) As I looked toward the restaurant doors, I could feel my leg aching terribly, but I was distracted by the lollipop and by an overwhelming flood of anticipation -- and gratitude, for lack of a better word. In another fifteen minutes or so, I would be back at my place, warm and dry, ripping into the carryout boxes and smelling the garlic and the oily nip of the salad dressing, happy and not alone. It isn't just about dinner -- but a big part of it is just about dinner.

The fact that I was driving at all was Wilson's doing. He was the one who prodded me out of bed and then out of my apartment. He was the one who gave me hell when I balked at getting the hand controls. I hate them, I hate looking at them, but I hate the alternative even more. And M&M today -- he was the one who goaded me back into going. Dr Nussbaum, the old Director -- he pleaded; Andersson (Cuddy's predecessor) threatened; Wilson was the one who got me to go. He waved interesting cases under my nose. He whispered gossip as we walked in to keep my mind off the stares and whispers. He fed me lollipops, trying to distract me from the neuralgia -- and keep my mouth shut.

I can never repay him, and I hope I never have to. He's had his rough spots, and I think I see another one coming soon; I'll do what I can for him -- he's no stranger to my sofa -- but it looks like he's already got a cure lined up for the coming crisis. No, I hope I don't have to in the sense that I hope I never see him huddled in a chair, his face to the wall of a darkened room, with his life -- personal, professional, everything -- in ruins.

He came back out with the bags and grinned. I just lifted my eyebrows. He got back in the car and we headed back to my place. The condo guys do a pretty decent job of keeping the walks and parking lot clear, but it was dark and starting to freeze. I pulled into my spot and put the tag back on the mirror; he parked and caught up with me. We headed up to my place. I switched on the light and headed straight for the piano -- I'd left some Vicodin there and it was easier than trying to get at the one in my pocket under my overcoat. He set the bags on the table and took off his own coat. And before long we were sitting in front of a Simpsons rerun, eating calzone and ziti and garlic bread and wedding soup and Greek salad, talking shop and making fun of the flying PowerPoint bullets. He stayed until a little before seven before he took off. I watched his car pull out of the lot and then looked out the window at the snow for a while before settling in with a Scotch and a pile of journals and books.

Had a good lunch. Foreman and Chase got into it over something, I don't even remember what, but it was just funny. But did I see Cameron giving some kind of knowing look to Wilson? I'm going to have to keep an eye on that.

After lunch, we headed on over to the auditorium for the conference: the weekly Department of Medicine Morbidity and Mortality Conference, otherwise known as M&M. Of all the array of time-sucking futile weekly meetings that Cuddy prods me to go to, this is probably the most worthwhile. The residents (newly fledged doctors) and fellows (like my ducklings) take turns presenting an unusual case -- the presentation, the labs and test results, the treatments and their results -- and then the attendings and faculty (like Wilson and me) discuss the diagnoses. If you're the kind of person who likes watching pro tennis but is secretly longing for the match where one of the players throws down his racquet, jumps the net, and cracks a folding chair over the other guy pro-wrestling style, you might like M&M. At best, you'll hear about a really interesting case with lots of gross pictures and hear a really good discussion about it. If you're really lucky, you'll get to see a distinguished physician with a silk tie and a dozen letters after his name talking trash to another distinguished physician with similar credentials. And at worst, you'll get a nice long Powerpoint presentation in a warm dark room with comfy chairs. They renovated the old auditorium a few years ago, and the old green Formica chairs gave way to padded blue cloth cradles of comfort.

Chase drops back as we get closer to the auditorium. White coats are crowded around the doors like a school of stain-resistant fish. Wilson looks at me, and then looks pointedly at my pocket. I obey: I fish in my pocket, retrieve a lollipop (cherry), and cork my mouth with it as we plunge into the throng.

Wilson, of course, knows everyone and I quickly lose him. Cameron and Foreman have dropped back too. I slip through the crowd and head off to my favorite spot in the back row. I don't have to worry about spreading out my jacket or anything like that. There's plenty of room in the auditorium, and seats next to Dr House are not much of a prize.

Chase appears from a side entrance and sits on my right. He's holding two hot unopened bags of microwave popcorn and shaking them by their top seam. "Extra butter, " he reports, and hands me a bag. He starts to open his. "Not till the movie starts," I tell him. If you open the popcorn before people sit down, the aroma attracts moochers and prissy self-appointed hall monitors who take themselves and those NO FOOD AND DRINK signs much too seriously. One of those latter appears in the person of Pruitt, a nephrologist. He starts looking down his nose at Chase. Chase leans back and I lean forward. Pruitt shakes his head and walks on. I used to be his boss. I also used to take him to school in this very auditorium. But that was a while ago.

Cameron and Foreman take seats directly behind me. The resident of the week is at the podium and straightening out his papers. Endocrine. I hope there are some cool slides. Maybe they'll have a pituitary! I love pituitary slides. As the presentation begins, Wilson slides into the seat on my left.

The lights go down for the first slide. Some of the residents get way too excited about PowerPoint. But as the list of complaints starts swooping up onto the slide, one flying bullet by one, I feel a strange sense of contentment. Part of it is Vicodin and the hot sandwich I had for lunch, with a cherry lollipop and the promise of popcorn to come; Chase has opened his bag already, and Cameron is leaning forward so he can pass it back to her. And part of it is just familiarity. I've been going to M&M since I was a lowly medical student; it's more familiar to me than the hoariest TV rerun.

I slouch down into my seat. Wilson is eyeing my popcorn. I shake the bag, open the seam, and pass him the bag.

Looking out the window again, jiggling my left leg, lightly bouncing my super ball on the desk. It's hard to tell what color the sky is through the tinted windows; probably dull, pale, snow-laden grey.

The Vicodin hasn't kicked in yet. Foreman looks up, catches himself, and quickly looks back down at his work. He is irritated as hell but he's biting his tongue. He isn't quite used to it yet. Cameron and Chase are. Or else they're just more practiced at pretending to ignore it.

Bounce. I'm about ready to crawl out of my skin. Bounce. I'm tired -- my eyes feel like they're about to fall out of their sockets. Bounce. I'm hungry, so hungry I have a headache. Bounce. I ache -- I can feel that storm coming. I don't blame Foreman for being annoyed by my fidgeting. I annoy myself.

The door opens, and four pairs of eyes look up to see who it is. It's Wilson, here for lunch. The ducklings stand as they murmur hello, Dr. Wilson and eagerly shuffle their papers away.

"Dr. House. Are we going straight to conference after lunch?" Chase asks.

"Sure, if you eat all your vegetables."

Chase grins under his ridiculous haircut and walks over to the microwave. He rummages in a drawer and sticks something in his pocket.

Wilson looks around; they're all collected. He looks at me and lifts his eyebrows. Yes, I'm ready. I haul myself to my feet and we're off to lunch.

mood: snappish

last night's sleep rating: D-

rounds start in: a minute

who's late: nobody. (I am never late.)

mood: ready to go

last night's sleep rating: B-

rounds start: now.

who's late this morning? nobody

Damn, it's cold.

mood: somewhat... relaxed.

nothing much. worked at home for a while, took a long nap, made some dinner. Noodled around on the piano for a bit and then started some serious practice. It's been a while. It felt good. Sometimes I can almost feel my mind ordering itself when I play.

Oh, all right. I'm playing Bach's Preludium in C Minor from Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier. I'm not in practice, so I sound pretty awful. In a little bit I may call my mother.

Sent Cam to the medical library. I'm leaning back in my desk chair, staring at the ceiling, bouncing my super ball against the floor. bounce. bounce. bounce. I forget what room my office is above, but if they don't like it they can tell Cuddy they need soundproofing.

I'm distracted, and I don't even know why. Think, think, think!

Yesterday I got sick of looking at the four walls, so I went out and ran a few errands. I wasn't ready to go home yet, so I stopped by the bookstore, poked around, picked up a couple of books and CDs and a magazine, and went over to the coffee shop to read for a bit. (Okay, and I had a cookie, too. Satisfied?)

So I'm flipping through the new issue of Cigar Aficionado, and someone's walking behind me on their way to the counter, and suddenly I'm hit with this sense of... well, I don't know. It's like my memory is trying to retrieve something and it doesn't even know what it is it's looking for.

I looked over at the counter. It was just a couple, nobody I recognized. They didn't even look like anyone I knew. The woman ordered something involving whipped cream, white chocolate, and caramel, the guy ordered something a little less elaborate, and they sat down.

It's been gnawing at me ever since. What am I trying to think of, to remember? And what set this off?

Bounce. I catch the ball and straighten up in the chair. I'll think about this later. You can smell the snow in the air. I don't have clinic this afternoon (and Cuddy couldn't even make me go, it's closed) so I think I'll get out of here early before the roads get bad.

I am mesmerized by this object.

mood: distracted

last night's sleep rating: C-

rounds start: as soon as the beautiful Cameron fills my cup and delivers it to my outstretched hand

who's late this morning?: Nobody. Rounds do not start without me, therefore I am never late. It's good to be king.

It's just me and Cameron this morning. Foreman took the day -- I think he's giving a talk at a middle school or some such thing. I think I shall make him give a presentation on it tomorrow. Chase just took the day because he could. Why is he doing a fellowship here? He should be working with some guy in plastics so he can open his own Botox clinic in Florida someday.

I wish Chase, at least, had come in. Then he could take Cameron down to breakfast. Too much attempted nurturing going on when it's just her.

This book about intuition looks mildly interesting. Maybe I'll make Foreman read it and give a presentation.

mood: displeased

Cold, and getting colder. A good night for a Scotch, a cigar, and a hockey game. But we don't have any hockey this winter, do we? Miserable greedy curs. Thank God for Netflix.

mood: bug-eyed tired

last night's (or tonight's, whatever) sleep rating: D

nothing to say. got bored with staring at the ceiling. Vicodin, snack, "Hitler v. Nostradamus" on the History Channel, I think I'll be able to drop off again soon.

mood: resigned surly

So there I am in my office minding my own business watching my show. My charting was done; the ducklings had been sent on their errands; Wilson was over in onc with the outpatients. The hour was all mine. All I wanted was my little time to myself to think, surf a little on the laptop, put my leg up for a bit, give my hamstring a stretch, and grit my teeth in privacy. Really, is that too much to ask? I could probably hold out until 3:45, dose, onset of action just in time for the first patient, therapeutic peak in time to finish and get home.

3:40 -- five more minutes -- and then what do I hear but that click click click coming up the hall. That click click click being the dreaded sound of Dr. Lisa Cuddy's heels on the hallway floors. Keep going, keep going, I thought to myself. Just walk on by and leave me alone. But no, it stopped right outside the office door. Damn it all, I should have turned off the office lights.

So of course Cuddy looks in. "Hello?" she asks.

Go away, I'm thinking. She doesn't. I just give her a look and send her a telepathic command: Just retract your head from my doorway and keep walking. Just keep walking.

But then she COMES IN. Oh, Cuddy, leave me alone, please.

She pads over to where I'm sitting and looks down at me. I hold her gaze until she breaks eye contact. She glances out the window and then up at the TV. I knew I should have gone to the chapel.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Why, it's a continuing ed video on hospital management," I reply.

She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. "Oh really."

"Oh yes. I've decided that I want to assume more of a leadership role. I want to be... proactive. I want to be a change agent."

She looks up at the screen again. There's an ad on; some kind of electric-yellow liquid for cleaning floors.

She looks back down. She's trying to affect some kind of archly amused look, I can tell, and she's got the smile down, but her eyes betray something more like baffled disgust. "Hospital management," she repeats.

"Well, of course. I need to broaden my horizons. Learn about what puts the 'industry' in "health care." Doesn't every conference have some kind of corporate sponsor? Pfizer, Merck, Wyeth, Baxter? Whatever would we do for pens and sticky notes and little desk doo-dads without them?"

She nods towards the TV. "Lemon Shine floor cleaner?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't have to remind you how big a concern nosocomial infection is these days." (A nosocomial infection, for those of you not in the Secret Medical Club, is an infection acquired in the hospital. Like that one we had a couple of months ago with all those sick babies. )

Cuddy's eyes narrow. Yesss! I think. Now, get out! I press a touch harder: "And, after all, I am an infectious-disease guy. I need to be up on these things."

"Well then I'm sure I can count on you to give a presentation at Grand Rounds."

"Sure, one of these months. If I have time, of course. It's hard to prepare things like that, when all one's time is being taken up in the clinic."

3:45! Go away, Cuddy, go away! Cuddy rolls her eyes and says, "Speaking of the clinic, I'll be seeing you down there in a few minutes, won't I?"

I dig in my pocket for my Vicodin and start to rattle the bottle. Cuddy just stands there with that trying-for-bemused look on her face. I open the bottle with a flourish and peer in. "Is that all I have left? I could have sworn it was full this morning!"

I watch her out of the corner of my eye and am rewarded with a satisfying three-star eye-roll. I pop a tab -- is she going to sigh? YES! "Of course I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it. The summit of my professional life." I pointedly look back at the TV. They're about to spring the Friday cliffhanger.

She waits another moment but finally understands that I'm not going to walk down to the clinic with her. Doesn't she have anything better to do? "Okay, Dr. House. I'll see you there." She turns and leaves, pad pad pad click click click out the door and down the hall.

I am NOT going to treat her to the spectacle of watching me extricate myself from this comfortable, but deep, chair. She has already squandered five minutes of my precious time, almost ten percent of my hour. Besides, I want to catch the cliffhanger.

The actress makes that soap-opera "shocked" face as the camera pulls in. The credits roll, and I take a look outside. It's getting dark already, and the rain is pouring down in heavy sheets.

I think ahead to what the clinic's going to be like. This rain could be good -- all the mere whiners and malingerers will stay home. But that could also be bad.

All right, let's get going. Two hours of clinic, maybe talk to Wilson a little, and then off to home.

Grateful props to PipTook and her fic "Distractions."

mood: bleary

last night's sleep rating: C-

rounds start in: ten minutes

who's late this morning? Chase

I must order some of these

mood: sullen

clinic day. A two-Vicodin afternoon. What will the parade of humanity show me today? Only ninety more minutes.

I've been surfing around and looking at some of these blogs. Some of them are so cute it's disgusting. Should I start putting little blurbs about my feelings on each post?

mood: irascible

We're done with rounds and my ducklings are off to get some breakfast. Of course Cameron offered to pick up something for me. What is up with her? So I asked for a bagel just so she wouldn't get her feelings hurt. Foreman's stomach was audibly growling during rounds, and today is omelet day down at the caf. I don't think I'm going to see them for a while. So I pulled Cameron's chart again. Maybe I missed something am going to have to read between the lines because someone idiot didn't chart. It occurs to me that if she had been prescribed folic acid, then surely even the densest doctor would have also recorded that she had been pregnant. Maybe she's got another OB-GYN chart out there somewhere that we don't have. Maybe she was taking OTC PNV (that's over-the-counter pre-natal vitamins, for those of you not in the Secret Medical Club.) Maybe she had a miscarriage and never told anyone.

Please, please, please let this not be a clinic day. It is too early for my back to be feeling like this. Do I have enough for today? One of the many positive changes that this crip thing has brought into my life is that I am now an amazingly accurate human barometer, and I can tell you that the weather is going to go from merely dreary to pretty crappy in the next day or two. But then if the weather's bad tomorrow, I can skip the clinic. Are we going to get ice? Wilson should be in shortly -- I'll ask him to stock me up for the weekend.