Watching the news. Shelby Foote has died.

Somewhere out there, old Dr Ball's sent his residents home early and is drinking a memorial toast of bourbon on the screened porch.

Spent most of the weekend holed up watching movies, reading the paper, ignoring the people leaving messages on my answering machine. Finally called James back this afternoon; he wasn't in, but by then I was ready to do something. I went to the used bookstore by the park, picked up something to read, and headed over to Gilbert's for a sandwich. Afterwards I went to the coffee shop for dessert. They were doing a brisk business in lemonade, frappes, and ice cream.

I got an ice cream and made my way to a window table in the back, sighing a little as I sat down. Only a couple of the chess guys were there; it was still pretty early.

I took the first bite of my ice cream, savoring the chocolate syrup and the sprinkles. I had a good spot for people-watching. Shoppers, couples pushing strollers, a few girls with pleasingly short tops and low bottoms, a couple of ugly tourists. They were mostly coming in and out of the shops; it would be the restaurants' turn later, closer to dinner.

I looked more closely. What happened to that little place next to the antique shop? The sign was down and the windows were papered over. The Whatever-it-was Bistro -- why couldn't I remember its name? probably because I always called it Oiseau Bistro, back when... oh, dammit. Back when Stacey and I would go there. When was I there last, five? six years ago? I poked savagely at my ice cream.

So they'd picked up one too many chops off the kitchen floor and had been closed at last. Good. Wonder what was going in next? Probably another coffee shop; God forbid someone should have to cross the street to get a mochaccino.

After I finished my ice cream, I trudged back the car and drove down to Whole Foods to get some groceries. Back to my place. The flashing number on the answering machine was in double digits; I let it blink some more while I put the stuff away.

A beer, the Simpsons, another beer. I put the bottle down and looked around: high time to do something about the clutter. I limped around the apartment gathering newspapers and getting things ready for the new week, half-listening to the messages on my machine.

Suddenly I stopped short. The last message was playing. My brother Mark. He'd called this afternoon.

Mark? Using a telephone? I tossed the newspapers by the door and stumped over to the phone. Stupid warthog. Had he called on Sunday afternoon on purpose, so he wouldn't catch me in?

I repeated the message and listened to his dull, plodding voice: last-minute change of plans, got extra time off, driving up to mom's for the Fourth of July, would I like to go up with him....

Accept a charity ride? from my brother Mark?

No way in hell.

I deleted the message, finished with the papers, and lowered myself into my chair. I clicked the TV on -- something about Hitler versus Nostradamus on the History Channel -- but I wasn't paying attention.

You're being stupid, the tiny rational part of my mind insisted, stupid, how long has it been since you've seen your mother, you've got the time, an easy trip, a natural thing for Mark to ask, stop being such an ass....

I sighed in frustration and disgust. It's bad enough that I can't just drive up there myself; even when I still had the hand controls on the old car, it was too long, and now with the 'Vette.... there's just no way I can make the drive alone. So if I want to get up there, I have to either fly, take the train, or get a ride. Long drives with Mark were always bad enough, but now? sitting next to the walrus all those hours, knowing the whole time that, once again, he's doing me a favor?

No way.

I slumped further in my chair. At least that call gave me something else to do tomorrow -- composing the email in which I'll say thanks but no thanks. And something else to take my mind off Stacey and Stacey's Mark: how I'm going to explain this to my mother. Maybe Wilson will be able to remind me of something I'm supposed to be doing that weekend.

July 18, 2005: by request, for ease in navigation and in "catching up": right sidebar permalinks to the posts for the infarct story, the "Honeymoon" fill-in, and all the Eileen posts to date. Hope they are helpful.

I'm standing by the fireplace, my cane hooked over the mantel. Dinner's over, the kitchen's clean (throwing that take-out box in the trash was such a job) and I'm having another wild Friday night: drinking at home alone.

I take a sip of my bourbon.

My apartment's in its usual Friday state of clutter -- newspapers piled on the piano, piled by the fireplace; books in heaps on the floor. It'll get worse this weekend and hit the nadir on Sunday. Sunday evening's when I usually pick up the books and put the papers in a stack by the door. On Monday I'll come home and find the floor dusted and the newspapers gone and Mrs Brudzik's weekly note, written in the lovely penmanship probably beaten into her by some nun long ago. The place will be neat and clean and smelling of that orange stuff she uses when she dusts. And then the whole weekly cycle will begin again. Just the way I've arranged it.

Except that on Monday, Stacey will be working at PPTH again.

I finish my drink. Stacey. At PPTH.

Damn it.

Wasn't this morning bad enough? Just when I thought I'd settled this in my mind, when I thought I'd moved on like everyone keeps telling me -- and then she springs this on me. With you I was lonely.... Wasn't it enough that she came in and informed me that I Was The One and it Still Wasn't Enough -- with you I was lonely -- that apparently she found me incapable of even just keeping her company? Without her I was... I'm lonely. Now I'm going to get to look at her at work too. Maybe I'll be able to avoid her, but I'll still know she's there. When I buy my coffee in the morning, I'll know when she likes to buy hers (though apparently she likes sugar now.) When I go to get lunch, I'll know what she likes to eat. Even if I just get on the elevator and see the button for Legal's floor, it'll remind me that she's here.

It's time to move on. Well, how in the hell am I supposed to move on when the past keeps tagging along, murmuring you're The One, but you're still not good enough.....

Like I have anything to say about it. Has Cuddy planted some kind of tracking device on my cane or something? Snagging me like that on my way out the door; Stacey "leaving it up to me" -- and leaving it to Cuddy to ask my permission! Stacey knows how to get hold of me. She could have come to my office, she could have called, she could have paged, but instead she leaves it to Cuddy to put me on the spot. Did I really have a choice? No, it's not okay if you hire this experienced lawyer who knows the hospital and whose poor sick husband is getting treatment here, because I broke up with her five years ago and I still Haven't Moved On. I was supposed to take Stacey's dare and say that? In the middle of the lobby? Especially with Cuddy giving me that concerned look? Either way, Stacey wins. If I say yes, then she can say Oh, but it was okay with you. And if I say no, then I'm the bad guy, the selfish immature ex.

So why fight it? "Fine. Good." I said, and shoved my way out the door.

You were The One... but with you I was lonely....


It's one of the great tragedies of life: something always changes.

Once, Stacey and I both worked at PPTH, for the happiest two years of my life. Then things changed.

We broke up, Stacey left, then -- then the infarction. Things changed back, sort of; we got back together, Stacey did a few cases for PPTH, we fought all the time, we broke up again for good.

Something always changes. Stacey's back. She's married to someone else.

Which means that other things stay the same. Monday morning's going to roll around, and I'll still... still be crippled. And I'll never be good enough for Stacey.

Maybe Cameron was right the first time and that "you just couldn't love me" bit was just her trying to be nice. Maybe I am too messed up to love anyone.

I fill my glass and drink it straight down. God, this is pathetic. How long have I been standing here anyway? I set the glass firmly on the mantel. I've had enough.

I've moved on, I've accepted. There are some things I won't do, some things I can't do, some things I won't ever be able to do. Something always changes. But why is it always the wrong thing, and why always for the worse? Why can't something, just something, ever get better? Why this futility?

I lift my cane from where it's hooked next to the bottle, but instead of heading for the chair, I twirl it, toss it to my left hand, considering.

The voice inside my head is insistent. No. Fight it. Try again. Try something. Try anything.

Baby steps, that physical therapist used to say, baby steps, until I was ready to beat her with my crutches. And then, before I know it, I toss the cane back to my right hand -- it's, what, three feet to the chair? -- and, before I lose my nerve, pitch the cane across the room to the sofa.

I clumsily turn myself till I'm squarely facing the chair. I take a breath -- my stomach is churning, knowing what's coming next -- hesitate a moment, and then carefully step forward onto my right leg.

The remains of my quad start to protest, but it's okay, it's okay, I gather myself for the next phase and get ready to swing my left leg forward. I step off. The front of my right leg explodes with pain. The muscles are too weak, and my knee starts to buckle. I shift my weight to my left leg and grab my right knee but it's too late -- the damaged nerves are burning, screaming, nothing but pain, and I can't do anything with my right leg. I start to fall. I grab the arm of the chair and just manage to keep from hitting the floor.

My heart is pounding. I didn't plow the rug with my face, at least, but I'm still in an awkward spot. I bring my right arm around and push up on first the seat, then the other arm of the chair, until I can hitch my left foot forward and plant it on the floor. I start pushing myself back up again, panting as I drag my right leg forward a little.

I've got to sit down. I plant my left hand on the side table, grit my teeth, and hop my left leg over towards the piano bench, seeing stars as I lean a bit on my right leg for balance. Almost there. I straighten up a little, grab my right knee, and lower myself onto the piano bench. Made it.

The pain in my right leg rebounds, and I rock back and forth on the piano bench until my ears stop ringing and my brain clears a little. What a stupid adventure that was. I reach in my shirt pocket, pull out the Vicodin, rattle the bottle a little, and shake out a pill.

It's one of the great tragedies of life that something always changes. It's one of the other great tragedies of life that some things don't.

I look down at the pill in my palm. Hydrocodone bitartrate/Acetaminophen.... onset of action 20 to 40 minutes....

I suppose I should be grateful for the things that don't. At least I know what to expect -- if nothing else, it's good for perfecting stupid drug tricks. I toss the pill in the air, catch it in my mouth, and sit back to wait. Moving on, staying still, it always catches up with me. Might as well wait.

mood: drained. Utterly drained.


Of course. I got what I wanted, didn't I?

After rounds, the kids scattered to their various tasks, and I headed back to my desk. It's been raining all morning, dark and dismal; I switched on more lights and put on a record.

Delia's poor mother
Took a trip out West...

I was looking at the back of the album cover when Stacey walked in. I did what she asked me to do, so what did she want now? I leaned over and switched off the turntable.

"You fixed him," she said.

"De nada," I replied. It's what I do.

"Thank you. You were right --"

I was calm, I was appropriate, I was... accepting. I could do this. "He's going to be fine." We're done.

"-- no," Stacey interrupted, "about me. I'm not over you."

No. My stomach went into free fall. Was I dreaming? This couldn't be real. Could it?

"You were... you were the one, and you always will be."

And oh, God, she was smiling... I stared, barely breathing, my heart pounding. She loves me. She loves me still. Hope... it's been so long, it went straight to my head...

But then her smile faded and her face hardened. "But I can't be with you."

And my moment of joy was over. The only sound was the splatter of the rain outside.

She seemed to be waiting for me to say something; I swallowed and looked away, embarrassed at having looked so desperate. "So I'm the guy... but you want the other guy... who, by definition, can never be the guy."

She smirked. "What’s so great about you is you always think you’re right. What’s so frustrating about you is you are right so much of the time. You are brilliant... funny... surprising... sexy. But with you I was lonely and with Mark... there's room for me."

But I wasn't lonely!.... So even being The One isn't good enough. I will never be enough for Stacey. She is never coming back. I nodded a little to myself as it sunk in.

"Okay," I whispered.

She stepped forward and, as I stooped a little, lightly kissed me on the cheek. I caught one last whiff of her hair, of her perfume... And then she turned and walked out of the office without another word, leaving me leaning on the desk.

I stood there, staring, for a while, before I finally turned around and put the record back on.

I solved the puzzle. My job is done. And now Stacy and Mark are going back to their wedded bliss in Short Hills.



Delia, Delia sitting all around
Some of your old rounders gonna pay my way back home
Sitting on the housetop, high as I can see
You love that old rounder, but you don't love me


I should be working on touching up that article, but I'm just sitting here staring at the computer screen.

The thunder booms. The rain is still pouring down.

My eyes are burning. I rub them, blinking a couple of times, until my vision clears and I'm able to start back to work.

I blink and look around.

I'm slumped in my chair. The TV's on, my drink's on the end table, and the bowl of cereal is still on my lap. I carefully lift the bowl -- amazing it didn't hit the floor -- drink the milk, and set the empty bowl aside.

I blink again. Maybe I should just go to bed.... I lean forward and gasp -- my leg -- dammit, dammit, my leg -- I catch my breath, lean back, and reach for the Vicodin. I shake out two pills and swallow them dry. I'm still paying for that trip up to the roof.

And for today. I feel like I've been body-slammed against a brick wall -- and again and again. Stacey getting all testy when I tried to say something nice about her guy. Elation when the solution slid into place. Frustration when Mark refused the trigger challenge. Stacey telling me to just give it to him anyway, like it was nothing. And then throwing that stuff in my face about how my not browbeating Mark meant I wanted him to die...

No. No.

I shift in my chair. Stacey doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does. Suddenly I'm thinking of the teacher, Wilson's "cousin", the one with the tapeworm, the one who refused treatment because I couldn't prove she had what I thought she did. Didn't I treat her the same way I wanted to treat Mark -- didn't I respect her decision? I wasn't planning to hold her nose and force the med down her throat. I can only solve the puzzle, I can't make people make the right decision.

"When you're scared, you'll turn into me," I told her. Where did that come from, anyway?

Of course, Chase came up with that idea about the x-ray, so I didn't have to watch her die of her own stupidity.

But then, I wasn't her romantic rival. Or she didn't think I was. I rub my face. Even if it was true -- even if I really had been secretly crossing my fingers that Mark would die -- what good would it do me? Stacey had left me before she'd ever met Mark. It isn't that she loves Mark more -- it's that she doesn't love me.

Stacey doesn't love me.

I know that now.

And because I love Stacey, and because Mark is a decent guy -- a better guy than I am, and because that murderous jealous part of me isn't the one calling the shots... because I could do the math -- Mark could get really bad before the results of the genetic test came back...

"He'll never forgive you," I warned her.

"He'll forgive me," she insisted.

And so I did it. I deked the Musketeers (good thing it was only Chase at the foot end of the bed) and stuck that needle in his thigh. And then I stuck another needle to collect the urine sample by suprapubic tap. And I made it look like it was all me. Stacey got to clasp her hands and act all concerned in front of Mark. Maybe Mark will forgive Stacey, but he sure as hell won't forgive me.

But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It wasn't all for nothing. Swirling the test tube, willing the reagent to do its little reagent thing, turning on the light to speed the reaction, waiting for the kids to leave before I sagged against the table.... I was right, and Mark was going to live. And he has only me to thank for his continued ability to hate me.

The kids scuttled out of the lab, tripping over themselves to start the glucose and the hematin. I hung around late. After dinner, the thunderstorm finally started. I went down to the floor to see how things were going. I stopped by the nurses' station to look over the chart, and then turned around towards Mark's room... just in time to see him taking Stacey into his arms as she slipped onto the bed, curling up next to him, spooning him as he caressed her....

Guess the treatment was working. Great.

I drifted to that certain spot by the door, behind the pillar, where I can look in without being seen. I lurked there for I don't know how long as the rain kept coming down and the darkness fell.

"Dr. House?"

I turned. It was Cameron.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

In other words, how are you doing? I wasn't in the mood for fending off nurturing, so I turned back to the room.

"Never better," I finally said.

She didn't leave. I turned around to send her on her way and saw her gathering herself. "I thought" -- she took a deep breath -- "that you were too screwed up to love anyone." What? "But I was wrong.

"You just couldn't love me.

"It's good...." She nodded a little, with a faint little brave smile. "I'm happy for you."

She turned and walked away. I watched her go. I knew that brave face; even if it was just a silly, ill-advised crush, someone had still liked me enough to extort a date out of me, and now she was walking away. And I understood that brave face -- how much it hurts when the one you love doesn't love you. That "couldn't" nagged at me, though -- was she just protecting herself by clinging to that couldn't, because it lacked the clear-sighted rejection of didn't?

But one mess was enough, so I turned back to the room, where the woman I loved, who'd proved to Cameron that I was capable of love, was snuggling contentedly next to her husband.

Finally, I turned away from the tableau of matrimonial affection and headed off down the hallway.

I can't love Stacey.

But I do love Stacey.

Do I like Cameron?

Could I love her?

Do I love her?

But even if I did, it doesn't matter now, does it? She's moving on. Just like Stacey's moved on. Leaving me behind.



Enough of this stupid fruitless rumination. What time is it, anyway? I check my watch. I could still sleep, I think I'm still drowsy enough.... I haul myself out of the chair, grab my cane, and head off to the bedroom. On my way to the bathroom, I take off my watch and toss it on the dresser, and, out of the corner of my eye, vaguely notice the cardboard box that's still on the dresser. For the thousandth time, I make a mental note to take it to the dumpster on my way out in the morning.

Shoes off, pants off, and finally I'm easing myself into bed. I click off the light. Sleep starts coming, but part of my brain is still fighting, still thinking, still holding on to the sight of Stacey curled up in Mark's arm.

Once she curled up like that under my right arm.

I push the memory away, but another takes its place -- Stacey in the morning, smiling drowsily; my turning her crucifix around, her laughing and ordering me to shave. Working late on a case, knowing she was working late too, meeting her for dinner at nine. Shrimp scampi at Caffè Spoleto. Cameron looking down at her corsage -- it's beautiful -- Cameron laughing at the monster truck rally -- that was amazing! -- snatching her cotton candy back.... Grocery shopping with Stacey at midnight, slipping extra things into the cart -- anchovies, zweiback, clam juice, Count Chocula -- just to make her mad. Gre-eg, she'd say in that hint of a drawl, put that back! And she'd put the chocolate cereal back and hand me a box of some virtuous Healthy Flakes stuff that looked like bedding for a hamster.... stealing kisses in the cereal aisle....

Sleep is coming quickly, I'm drifting away, my mind is finally letting go, when suddenly one more memory pops up, a voice: so! tell me about Stacey -- Eileen's voice? What? where did that come from? -- and then sleep takes me....

Sitting at the bar. I swirl the drink in my hand and watch the ice cubes shrink and slosh in the bottom of the glass. Amazing how those old dead Romans could just sum it all up in three words. Odi et amo: so much pithier than approach-avoidance conflict.

"Some part of me wants him to die. I'm just not sure if it's because I want to be with her... or if it's because I want her to suffer."

Talk about a conversation killer. But what was there for James to say? I was grateful for the silence, actually. Telling me I was a jealous, selfish jerk would have been pretty redundant. If he knew about that little chat I'd had with Stacey earlier today -- the one that ended with her rather strongly hinting that I should just stay away from her -- he didn't bring it up.

He stayed a while longer. He didn't order a drink; he had his wife and his dinner guests waiting for him. I ordered my second after he left.

To be glad that Mark wasn't responding to treatment... I disgust myself.

And, my God, I am so stupid. Why did I have to bring that up with Stacey? Why did I ever open my mouth? I wanted to know if she wasn't over me, if I still meant something to her. Last night on the roof, when I was holding her again... but she was thinking about Mark.

Do I still mean something to Stacey? But what if I do? What if she were to admit it -- what then? Can I take the answer? It's like she said: did I expect her to drop everything and come back?

And why do I care? Do I love her? But how can I really love her when I could even think about wanting her to suffer?

But if I could possibly want to see her suffer, that means she means something to me. So does that mean I really love her?

I take another drink.

Wilson is right. Stacey is right. I should just stay away from her.

But I can't.

Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love: you're asking me how.
I don't know. But I'm feeling it. I'm ripping apart.

Night. I look around. The lights are winking on against the deep black of the Princeton skyline, and I have the perfect view. I'm alone on the roof of the hospital.

I'm leaning on the low wall. I know I'm awake because my cane is resting on the wall in front of me, and because I'm still tired and sore from the slow, painful climb up the last flight of stairs. I scratch my chin a little as I think. It's quiet in the way a small city is quiet; the only sounds are the crickets, the muted rumble of cars, the horn of a far-off train.

I stand there, alone. It's the same old story: I lose my temper and make an ass of myself and say something especially vicious, and for hours, for days afterwards, no matter how often I remind myself that I'm just a jerk, that that's what I do, the little voice in my head berates me; meanwhile the whole time another part of me flings out proud, petulant excuses, trying to defend the indefensible. That drama's been playing itself out in my head since before I could tie my own shoes; I know the whole script. It's just background noise now.

I just wanted to watch his limbic system light up, I tell myself, that's all, but I'm just lying to myself. I lost my temper and indulged my jealousy and made an ass of myself down in PET scan. And yet I'm not sorry. And I'm ashamed that I'm not sorry. And now I'm just waiting for the inevitable.

Stacey whacking me with a newspaper for being a jerk... that I can handle. I'm used to that. The other thing I'm going to have to tell her, though... that's what I'm ashamed of. That's what I'm dreading.


Behind me, the door latch clicks. This is a nightmare come true. I know what's coming next, but I still turn to look. Sure enough, it's Stacey.

I turn back to the wall and rub my face -- here we go -- as she stalks across the roof.

In her fury, she grabs my lapel and turns me around, forcing me to face her, spitting out her anger: "...you were just screwing with him! Low even by your standards!"

"Medical screwing. That's what I do."

She ignores me. "And then you run away like a twelve-year-old, go hide on the roof like you always do!"

Has she forgotten?! "I haven't been up here in five years," I snap.

That shuts her up for a minute. I turn and take a step away, gasping a little as I take the weight off my leg, getting a little distance back between us. I look at her, and then look at the floor.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," I confess.

She reaches for the wall.

"It's not Alzheimer's... it's not encephalitis....it's not environmental, it's not immunological; every test is negative every time. He's perfectly healthy... but his brain is dying."

I can't face her as she stands there, stunned. When she speaks again, her voice is choked. "It never occurred to me...that you couldn't figure out what's wrong."

No anger, no jabs... only trust. I look up, warily at first. Her face is tight with anguish, and it pains me. Instinctively I step forward, clumsily, as she brings her hands to her face, and then I'm holding her, oh God, I'm holding her again, her head against my chest, the smell of her hair, my heart is pounding in my chest, and I tell her not what I want to say, but what I know she needs to hear: "I haven't given up."

The moment ends too quickly. Stacey looks up and asks, "So what do we do?"

I'm not ready to let go, my face is so close to hers, but she's asked me a question about Mark, it's Mark she's thinking about. I cast about for a better way to put it, but I can't find one and finally just blurt it out: "We wait."

Stacey is almost in tears. "For what?" she whispers.

"For something to change. It's one of the great tragedies of life, something always--" I drop my embrace, and my gaze, as Stacey backs away from me -- "something always changes."

A minute or two passes before I'm able to look Stacey in the eye again. She's looking toward the door, her hands still clasped over her chest. Her thoughts are downstairs, with her husband.

"I should get back," she says.

I nod, and start turning myself back towards the wall.

She smirks through her tears, being brave. "So, who else are you hiding from?"

All the other jealous husbands, I almost answer, but for once in my life I shut my mouth in time and just shrug. "Oh, the usual."

"I thought you said you hadn't been up here in five years."

I smile weakly.

"Come on," she says. "This the part where we go get coffee."

I sigh and limp over to get my cane. I take a Vicodin while my back is still turned.

It's one flight of stairs down. Stacey doesn't say anything as I carefully take the steps one at a time, my cane in my right hand and the banister in my left. Was she serious about the coffee thing? She could have run down and gotten back to Mark's room in less time than it's taking me to get down to the first landing. But she hangs back, waiting for me, until I finally step off the bottom stair. In silence, we head for the elevator.

It's a short ride down, and I'm just getting my nerve up to ask about coffee when the doors open. We can see Mark's room from the elevator, and something's going on -- there are a couple of nurses in there, and the call light is still flashing. Stacey runs ahead.

When I catch up, she's standing over the bed. Mark looks terrified, and as I approach the room, I can hear him saying, "I'm scared, Stacey, hold my hand." What a guy -- never too sick to talk about his feelings. Must be that stuff he learned in guidance counselor school. His lack of feeling -- that's way more interesting: Stacey is holding his hand, it's cupped in both of hers.

She must have looked at him funny; "What?" he asks her.

She turns and sees me in the doorway. She's frightened, but keeping her cool. "What's happening?" she asks.

"Time marches on," I reply. "He's paralyzed."

Stacey and Mark look at each other, and Mark leans back into the pillow. I stand and look at them for a minute, but they've forgotten I'm there.

I grab Mark's bedside chart, go to the nurses' station, and look for some coffee. It's not time for change of shift yet, so there's none to be had. I grumble; the nurses pay me no mind. I flip through the bedside chart, looking for clues, finding none; I write a few orders and head back up to my office.

I page Chase first, since he's covering that night: NEED COFFEE. Cam and Foreman have the next two spots on the speed-dial.

I haven't turned the lights on. I limp through the dark office and stare out the window. I'm exhausted, and as I stare four stories down to the pavement below, my head starts to swim. The sensation of falling is so strong, I shift my stance instinctively and wince -- pain shoots up my leg, breaking the spell.

I look up and see dim reflections in the window: someone's turned on the lights next door. I hear water running; it's probably Chase, making coffee. I carefully turn around, grab a couple of dry-erase markers off my desk, and head off to the conference room.

CT: negative.


MRA: negative.


Labs: negative.


Surgeon's report: negative.


Stacey's extracurricular activities: negative.



Everything: negative.



Except for Stacey's report. And that distended bladder. Mike's too young for his bladder to have forgotten what to do.

I take a drink, eye the pizza, think for the briefest of moments about my lower esophageal sphincter, and close the pizza box.



It's there. The clue is there. I just need to know it when I see it.


I take another drink.


Back in high school, I was agonizing over a French paper late one night while my brother was home from college. I was so engrossed in the paper I didn't hear him come in my room, and almost jumped out of my chair when he came up behind me. He didn't say anything. He just put a beer on my desk and walked out again. At first I was furious -- condescending pedantic slug -- and I almost threw it down the stairs after him, but I drank it instead and grudgingly saw his point: as I started to relax, the French came more easily. It was the only kind of help that he would have offered and that I would have accepted.


And now here I am, thirty years later, sitting up in my office, drinking something a bit stronger than my brother's beer, wondering what my ex's husband's neurogenic bladder is telling me about what's wrong with him.


Neurogenic bladder.

I'm not wrong. Stacey's not wrong. Something's up with this guy.

I mentally review the pathway: Normal voiding essentially is a spinal reflex that is modulated by the central nervous system (brain and spinal cord), which coordinates the functions of the bladder and urethra. The bladder and urethra are innervated by 3 sets of peripheral nerves arising from the autonomic nervous system (ANS) and somatic nervous system... The micturition control center is located in the frontal lobe of the brain.... When the sympathetic nervous system is active, it causes the bladder to increase its capacity without increasing detrusor resting pressure (accommodation) and stimulates the internal urinary sphincter to remain tightly closed. The sympathetic activity also inhibits parasympathetic stimulation. When the sympathetic nervous system is active, urinary accommodation occurs and the micturition reflex is inhibited....

Sympathetic nervous system... stomach pain... paranoia....


I point the remote and start the OR video again. The loops of bowel surge and roil under the surgeon's probe. Innervation. The clue is there, I just have to see it.


Rewind. Play. Stop.


Play. Stop.


Play. Stop.

Play. Stop.

I lean forward.

Rewind. Play.


What's that?








credit: Choe and Mardovin, Neurogenic bladder

I blink and look around. It's sunny, a splendid fall day, a bright sun in a perfect blue sky. The trees are ablaze with color, and I have the perfect view. I'm alone on the roof of the hospital.

I reach in my pocket and find a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. I light the cigarette and take a long, long drag. It's so good, it's so satisfying, it's almost disorienting.

I stand there, alone, enjoying my smoke and my magnificent view and my time alone to think. I feel... good.

"House," says the voice behind me. My stomach leaps.

I turn. It's Cameron.

She smiles. My chest tightens as she saunters towards me across the roof. I can only stare. What does this mean?

She stands in front of me, fingering the lapel of my jacket. I take a step back -- I'm not sure what I think of Cameron's following me up here.

But I'm thinking I like it.

She fingers my lapel again and looks me straight in the eye. I stoop to kiss her. As I straighten up, she smiles knowingly. She lightly brushes my cheek, my arm, with her fingertips and places her palms gently against my chest. I can feel the warmth of her hands through my shirt. I look down at her slender hands, her bare fingers. My heart pounds.

She smiles again. And then she shoves me backwards over the edge of the roof --







I wake with a jolt. My God -- that dream was bad enough the first time around.

It takes a few minutes to get my bearings; to remember I'm at home, in my own bed; to calm down and catch my breath.



I was at the hospital late last night, writing Matt's admission orders and reviewing his old films and labs. Got home, ate something out of the fridge, and went straight to bed. I'm still tired.

I check the clock. Only a few more hours and I'll be back in the office. I reach over to the nightstand for the Vicodin. I prop myself up on my elbow, take the pill, put the bottle back, and drop back on the pillow, hoping for a little more sleep, just a little more, trying to forget the feeling of teetering on the edge of the roof, of losing my balance, of starting to fall....

Sitting in my chair, bouncing my left knee. I check my watch. It's almost time to leave.

Stacey called me on Thursday after Mitch cancelled. She was almost frantic; apparently he'd not only cancelled but had been acting extra-wacky all day. Greg, I... what am I going to do? He can't go on like this, he can't, he's sick....

Et cetera, et cetera. So first I had to remind her that I believed her, that I was still going to take a look at him. And then I asked her why he kept cancelling, and she ignored the question, and she said something about I'll get him there, I'll call you tomorrow.

So then she called me back Friday with news of reservations at this restaurant and this idea we could all meet there, and she could just introduce me to Mike first.... And I promised her I'd be there. Which left me all weekend to stew on this.

I check my watch again.

I wish I could ditch this whole thing, but I can't, I'm in it now, and I know I won't be able to rest until I figure out the answer to this puzzle, even though I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like the answer. It's been bugging me all weekend; I hardly slept at all last night. But I got a bit of a nap in this afternoon; between that, a shower, and a cup of coffee, I guess I'm as ready as I'm going to get.

I don't know what I'm going to find when I meet Stacey and this guy. But I'm tired of messing around. I've called in a consult. If I can't persuade this guy to come in, and if Stacey can't.... I reach in my pocket, bring out a bottle, and stare at the label. It's not Vicodin. It's chloral hydrate. Perhaps Dr. Mickey Finn will succeed where Stacey has failed.

"What the hell?"

I stare at the pink slip the desk clerk's just handed me. While You Were Out: Mark Warner -- called. "Have to cancel this afternoon. Sorry."

I stuff the message into my jacket pocket and flee for the elevator -- if Cuddy catches me down here she'll find some way to rope me into the clinic, which means I'll have to come up with something lewd to try to throw her off, and I'm really not in the mood, which is in itself annoying. Damn Stacey and damn her no-show husband.

I jab the elevator button with my cane and bounce the cane impatiently until the doors open. I step in, push the button for 4, and stare at the ceiling.

Maybe Stacey isn't really married. Maybe once she decides she wants to leap into my arms again, she'll confess that there is no Martin, that she made it all up. But she would have had to forge all those medical records and the films, and that's a lot of trouble. Wilson seemed to know she was married, too. So that rules out the imaginary-friend hypothesis.

Maybe he's just jerking me around, which both pisses me off and pleases me, in a petty way. Because if he's going to all that trouble, then I still matter.

I see Mike didn't leave a call-back number or say anything in his message about rescheduling. Maybe he's not sick, in which case all those other doctors are right and Stacey's delusional. That's not it either.

Maybe he's sick and doesn't realize it, or he's listening to some idiot doctor who can't diagnose anything that's not on the short ICD-9 check-off form. In which case I really do need to see him.

The doors open and I trudge out. Stacey will be calling me soon to find out how the exam went. We're going to have to come up with something better than this.

mood: tense
last night's sleep rating: F

Holed up in my office. The team has been looking at me funny all morning but nobody's said anything, not even Cameron.

Again and again I look at my watch; the minute hand creeps closer to the 12, closer to the time when I'll get the call, when I'll get in the elevator and be carried down, down; when I'll go to the exam room and see Stacey standing there with the man she loves now. She'll say, Greg, thanks again, this is Bob or Dave or whatever the hell his name is.

She doesn't love me. Or she loves me, she just can't stand me, whatever. But she knows I love her, and that I believe her, and because I love her and believe her I'll look one more time for the illness that nobody else can find.

My phone rings. As I reach in my pocket, the clinical part of my brain notes that my heart is beating faster.

"Greg? It's Stacey. I'm sorry, but Mark... we won't be able to meet you this morning after all. I'd like to call you back to reschedule...."

Sure, Stacey, I say automatically.

I put the phone away and reach for my tennis ball. Fury and relief.... sometimes they just go together like peanut butter and jelly.

I swirl the drink in my glass and stare across the room.

What have I gotten myself into?

Walking out of Cuddy's office, preoccupied about the stupid lecture, and walking straight into... into her. Into Stacey. Just as... just as she always was. I make some stupid predictable joke; she tells me she misses me. She tells me she needs my help. And then she shoves films in my hand. Her husband's films.

Why does she still set me off like this? It's been years -- five years -- since she went away. And here I am still getting upset -- sick with longing, sick with surprise -- sick with jealousy, for God's sake -- running away from her, but not before giving her that one last slap about not wanting her husband to live.

And even as I gave the lecture -- on leg pain, of all things; the staph guy and the sarcoma kid and... and the infarction... I couldn't put her out of my mind.

"She loves you; she just can't stand to be around you," James said.

And even as I try to absorb that -- hatred had made way more sense -- that part of my brain that never leaves well enough alone was concluding that Stacey is right and her husband is sick; attaching itself to the puzzle, to what could present with such persistent and subtle symptoms yet leave no trace on the exams, on the films, on the lab results.

Nothing's going to change. It always ends up the same way. I'm still the jerk with the limp and the cane, still alone, and Stacey's gone -- and married, married to someone else.

And part of me wants to hurt her, wants to see her hurt like I hurt. Wants to rub her face into it like she's doing to me. Maybe it's because I can't stand the idea that she has no regrets about leaving, and if I can hurt her it means I still mean something to her. Maybe it's because I'm just a mean vindictive bastard.

But I can't. I think I want to hurt her, I try, but I can't push it too far, I can't, I always relent. I remember the look in her eyes, right before I walked away, and I can't finish the job.

I called Stacey. She's supposed to bring what's-his-name in tomorrow morning. Well, actually today. I look at the clock. I have to examine this guy in a little over eight hours.

I take another drink.