tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101285842024-03-13T08:30:13.268-04:00House, M.D.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-84210133041293861642007-06-27T22:46:00.000-04:002007-06-27T22:46:44.222-04:00When Young Doctors Strut Too Much of Their Stuff - New York TimesI can't believe I didn't see this when it first came out.<br /><br /><blockquote><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/21/health/21essa.html?ei=5070&en=05788b1730b7d903&ex=1183089600&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1182996439-w8CE0y+UDWQUxx4zjv10bA">When Young Doctors Strut Too Much of Their Stuff - New York Times</a><br /><br />When I was a new faculty physician, I worked with a resident doctor who was smart and energetic and took excellent care of her patients.<br /><br />There was just one problem. As she delivered her thoughtful patient presentations to me and the other attending doctors, it was hard not to notice her low-cut dress.<br /><br />“You two have to say something to her,” one of my male colleagues said to me and another female doctor one afternoon. But while none of us would have hesitated to intervene had she prescribed the wrong drug for a patient, we felt weird saying something to her about her clothes. So we didn’t.<br /><br />Nearly a decade later, my impression is that more young physicians and students are dressing like that resident. Every day, it seems, I see a bit of midriff here, a plunging neckline there. Open-toed sandals, displaying brightly manicured toes, seem ubiquitous.</blockquote><br /><br />Midriffs, plunging necklines... so why is this a problem? This just proves what a great faculty member I am: I would never hesitate to say something about a low-cut dress. In fact, I should email this article to Cuddy. <br /><br />And then I should email the author of this article and see if I can get that resident's CV.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-58535117496661598992007-05-01T16:32:00.000-04:002007-05-01T16:35:45.478-04:00your author isn't dead...<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Your author isn't dead...just buried. The demands of real life continue to suck up House-time. It's been weeks since I've even seen the show.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">I haven't given up hope of resuming the blog, or of at least finishing the backstory arc. But it will be a while longer.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-55557783370001781132007-01-12T17:32:00.000-05:002007-01-12T17:32:53.241-05:00maxims<a href="http://theanchoressonline.com/2007/01/12/10-things-to-think-about-for-2007/"></a>Give a person a fish and you feed them for a day; teach a person to use the Internet and they won’t bother you for weeks.<br /><br />Some people are like a slinky - not really good for much, but you can’t help but smile when you shove them down the stairs.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-7066987045928431102006-12-25T23:18:00.000-05:002007-01-09T18:53:19.895-05:00myrrhThis can't be happening.<br /><br />This <span style="font-style: italic;">can't</span> be happening.<br /><br /><br />What's going to happen to me?<br /><br />Am I going to lose my job?<br /><br /><br />Am I going to lose my license?<br /><br /><br />Am I going to go to jail?<br /><br /><br />It's not fair. I didn't do anything --nothing they didn't make me do. If they'd just left me alone, everything would have been fine. Everything would have been like it was.<br /><br />Of course, "like it was" is short for "when my life sucked, but <span style="font-style: italic;">manageably</span>."<br /><br />And now... what am I going to do? They want to take away my license and send me to jail. How did it come to this?<br /><br />I've been fired before. But they always come back, always, because I have what they need. I can do what they can't. It's only one thing, but it's a big thing, it's an important thing.<br /><br />But they're not going to care about that any more. And I have nothing left to offer.<br /><br />I'm almost fifty years old. I'm crippled, I'm alone, I spent Christmas morning with puke in my hair. Despair is clutching at me, pulling me down. There are six messages on my answering machine, three from Wilson and three from my mother. I played them but I didn't really listen to them. I didn't.<br /><br />I couldn't.<br /><br />I vaguely remember Wilson being here... sometime. All I really remember is the sight of his eyes hard with anger as something broke within him.<br /><br />God, what was I thinking? It made sense at the time -- I was frantic with pain and nausea, I just wanted it to go away. I wanted it all to go away -- pain, nausea, Cuddy, Tritter, Chase, everything. And I was going to keep on taking that oxycodone until it all went away. Probably not the best prescription I've ever written. <br /><br />Of course, it didn't do much good for Wilson's patient either; he's still dead. Still.<br /><br />If I lose my license I might as well be dead.<br /><br />Is that the only part of me that's still alive?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1166746286941283052006-12-21T19:11:00.000-05:002006-12-21T19:11:27.086-05:00I got your diversity right here. On a plate.<a href="http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,236483,00.html">Wisconsin Man Runs Over, Eats Seven-Legged Transgendered Deer:</a><blockquote>FOND DU LAC, Wis. — Rick Lisko hunts deer with a bow, but got his most unusual one driving his truck down his mile-long driveway.<br /><br />The young buck had nub antlers — and seven legs. Lisko said it also had both male and female reproductive organs.<br /><br />...John Hoffman of Eden Meat Market skinned the deer for Lisko, who wasn't going to waste the venison from the animal.<br /><br />"And by the way, I did eat it," Lisko said. "It was tasty."</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1165876735704918972006-12-11T17:38:00.000-05:002006-12-12T09:32:37.810-05:00microbe stuffiesOne of the many things I hate about Christmas shopping is that when I find things to inflict on other people, they are often the same things someone might want to inflict on me. Exhibit A: <a href="http://www.giantmicrobes.com/">GIANTmicrobes</a>:<br /><blockquote>We make stuffed animals that look like tiny microbes -- only a million times actual size! Now available: The Common Cold, The Flu, Sore Throat, Stomach Ache, Cough, Ear Ache, Bad Breath, Kissing Disease, Athlete's Foot, Ulcer, Martian Life, Beer & Bread, Black Death, Ebola, Flesh Eating, Sleeping Sickness, Dust Mite, Bed Bug, and Bookworm (and in our Professional line: H.I.V. and Hepatitis).</blockquote><br /><br />I could just see some wag giving me the one for sleeping sickness. <a title="link to stuffed toy shaped like Gonorrhea microbe" href="http://www.giantmicrobes.com/us/products/clap.html">This one</a> would make the perfect gift for a certain out-of-control asshole cop who's on a crusade because I didn't diagnose him with venereal disease. I should go down to the lab and nick a Petri dish with some of the real stuff to use as the gift tag.<br /><br />Usually I'd be grateful to anyone who provided an ironclad excuse for not going up to my mother's for Thanksgiving AND Christmas. But somehow "sorry Mom, can't jump bail this year"... it just isn't the thing for squelching unwelcome conversation.<br /><br />Speaking of unwelcome conversation, I need to go see Cuddy to beg for a Vicodin before she heads out. I wonder, will she give me a couple to take home? Or will I have to come ring her doorbell in the middle of the night?<br /><br />Either way, there's going to be a whole lot of stuff she's going to want to talk about that I don't want to even think about. I don't want to think about anything right now. Not until she gives me my damn pills, until I know I can count on turning the pain down another few hours.<br /><br />This is all Tritter's fault. Why is Cuddy being so weak? If only I could give him a nice Petri dish of flesh eating... of <span style="font-style:italic;">Ebola</span>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1161801783434589472006-10-25T14:43:00.000-04:002006-10-25T14:43:03.513-04:00sometimes natural selection just doesn't workGravity, entropy, action and reaction, and Murphy's: the laws of nature are pitiless. Sometimes technology lets you evade the laws -- like radar detectors or plastic surgery.<br /><br />There's one law that should always be enforced, and that's the law of natural selection. Unfortunately, technology lets the wrong people get around <a href="http://www.wnbc.com/news/10121527/detail.html">that law as well</a>:<br /><br /><blockquote>Police said a lovesick teenager tried to kill herself but ended up killing someone else instead.Authorities in Atlanta described what they said was a suicide attempt by a 16-year-old girl, who they said sent text messages on her cell phone as she was about to drive into an oncoming car. They said Louise Egan Brunstead had told friends she was going to kill herself, because another female student at her high school had refused to have sex with her....<br /><br />[B]efore driving her family's Mercedes into the oncoming car, she counted down, "Nine, eight, seven, six -- I'm going to do it" in a text message to the girl who had rejected her. Brunstead survived the Oct. 4 crash with just an ankle injury -- but the driver of the other car, Nancy Salados-Mayo, a mother of three, was killed.<br /></blockquote>The law of unintended consequences. It's a bitch, isn't it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1159454610373559562006-09-28T10:43:00.000-04:002006-09-28T12:50:46.330-04:00bread into stones<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">This backstory post alludes to people and events in earlier entries, most importantly:</span><br /><br /><u style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/favor-for-dr-ball.html">a favor for Dr Ball</a><br /><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/while-i-looked-around-for-my.html">while I looked around....</a><br /><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/09/its-springtime-of-my-life.html">it's the springtime of my life</a></u><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br />Thanks to Namaste for the beta.</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><br /><br /><br />PG-13 for language</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I blink as I look around. It's sunny, a splendid <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">early </span>fall day, a bright sun in a perfect blue sky. The trees are picking up their first glints of color. And I have the perfect view. I'm alone, on the roof of the hospital.<br /><br />It's like I'm in a dream. To be precise, it's like I'm in a dream at the exquisite moment when I've realized I'm dreaming and that it's a very pleasant dream and I'd like to keep dreaming it, right before it all dissolves into wakefulness.<br /><br />Once I would have been putting the finishing touch on the moment by enjoying a smoke or a cup of coffee, or even Stacey's company. But I've had to give up those pleasures, addictive as they are. Stacey's gone. Smoking's out; I could bring a cigar, I guess, but that takes too much planning. Coffee's still an option, but not for the roof; I can't carry the cup up that last flight of stairs. I need both hands for the cane and the banister. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />How long has it been since I've been up here? My rehab after the ketamine treatment didn't include jaunts to the roof, and I didn't come up here when I first came back to work. And now... well, there's a meeting going on downstairs, sponsored by the Committee for Graduate Medical Education. And since I have fellows, I'm supposed to be at that meeting. But G-Med is too cheap to buy doughnuts<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span>, so what did they expect? Especially when it's such a nice day outside?<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />I could have just gone out to the balcony, but my leg's feeling a bit better this afternoon. So even though I'm not pretend-hiding from anyone today, I decided to come back up to the roof while I still -- while it was still relatively easy. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to do this on impulse the way I used to.<br /><br />I lean against the low wall. The trees start to rustle as the breeze picks up the first of the falling leaves....<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/08/complications.html">Eileen looked down at her score, considering.</a> “Maybe we could get together sometime. I don’t know when; I don’t have my calendar with me,” she hastily added. </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">“I’m waiting on some stuff myself," I said. "I could call you.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I'd told Eileen the truth when I said that. The "stuff" I was waiting on was the results of <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/while-i-looked-around-for-my.html">my fellowship applications</a> -- invitations to interview -- and, indirectly, the results of everyone else's applications, to see what my work schedule would look like after it was bent, folded, spindled, and mutilated to accomodate everyone else's interviews.</p><br />It was still a little early for those invitations to be rolling in, so I wasn't thinking about them when I headed back to work the Monday after I went bowling with Eileen. When Hirsch gave me a couple of weird, knowing looks during morning rounds, I figured it was because he knew I was In For It somehow about some thing. But what? It was well past my birthday, so I was safe about that. I couldn't recall having done anything in the last day or two that would land me in trouble. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0); font-weight: bold;"></span>Maybe he'd gotten a peek at the next rotation schedule, and knew I'd soon be inflicted on one of his friends -- or one of his enemies. Or maybe one of my enemies. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />It was a busy day: lots of flu and pneumonia, and plenty of E.R. and clinic admits as all the people who thought they were well enough to go to work found out the hard way that they weren't. Soon afternoon rounds were upon us, and as I half-listened to my first-year make it through report, I realized that Hirsch was still giving me the funny look -- and now so was Barras, the other third-year; and even some second-year from another service who'd shown up for cross-coverage.<br /><br />It was annoying, especially since I was still smarting a little from the disaster with Eileen, so as report ended and people started gathering their papers I discreetly shot a rubber band across the table into Barras's sternum. He looked up.<br /><br />"What's up?" I demanded.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />"Haven't you checked your mail, House?" he asked.<br /><br />"What? How -- " I started, and fell silent with the rest of the room as Hirsch stood up. Barras smiled broadly.<br /><br />Hirsch looked around the crowded conference room. "Well, before we move on here, I have some great news. It looks like some of you have already heard it, but now I can say it officially: the nominations for Chief Resident have been announced. Congratulations to our own Dr Barras --" he held up a hand to hold the applause -- "and Dr House!"<br /><br />The applause started as Hirsch pompously shook Barras's hand, then mine. Some more people stuck their hands out at me; I shook them, mechanically, trying to position myself so no moron tried to slap me on the back. I glanced across the conference room to Barras. He was getting the same treatment and didn't seem to mind it at all. Maybe it was because for him, the congratulations were sincere.<br /><br />He looked up at me and grinned; I forced a kind of smile and nodded back. As the room emptied, he came around the table and slapped me on the arm. "Congratulations!"<br /><br />"Thanks. You too."<br /><br />He was still grinning. "Doesn't seem real, does it?" He chuckled at the expression on my face. "Well, maybe it does to you; I always figured you'd be nominated." He stared around the room as if he were so bewildered with joy that he couldn't figure out what to do next. Call somebody, probably; either that or make coffee.<br /><br />The phone rang, making the decision for him. Barras snatched up the receiver. "Hello? Yeah! Thanks, man.... No, I had no idea.... Well, a little.... Komeda, Rosenthal, Tanner, and Coombs...."<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br />So that's who nominated Barras. Not too shabby.<br /><br />"....Yes he did. ...That's right." He looked up at me. My stomach dropped.<br /><br />"It's Patel," Barras said. "He says congratulations."<br /><br />"Thanks," I muttered.<br /><br />"He says thanks," Barras reported. "....Sure!" He checked his watch. "Another hour or so?"<br /><br />I decided it was time to escape before Barras felt obliged to include me in his plans. I slipped out of the conference room and headed as quickly as I could for the mailboxes.<br /><br />As I threaded my way through the halls, I kept getting smiles and congratulations from the other residents and even some of the attendings. Finally I made it to the mailboxes. As usual, my box was stuffed full -- I usually only checked it a couple of times a week -- but I immediately knew that the envelope on top of the stack was the one I'd come to find. It was heavy, cream-colored, with my name handwritten on the front and THE COMMITTEE FOR GRADUATE MEDICAL EDUCATION engraved on the back flap.<br /><br />I tucked the rest of the mail under my arm as I opened the letter:<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Dr House:<br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />The Committee for Graduate Medical Education is pleased to inform you that you have been nominated to serve a fourth year of residency in the position of Chief Resident.....</span></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />I stared at the letter.<br /><br />I should have been happy to receive it. I should have been throwing the rest of my mail in the air and whooping for joy.<br /><br />But I felt none. The nomination was pointless. Who did this to me, anyway?<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 204); color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote>You were nominated by faculty members Lewis L. Roderick, M.D., Neurology, and Patrick Jennings, M.D., Ph.D., Nephrology....</blockquote></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /></span>Damn it. They meant well, they meant it as a compliment but...<br /><br />But even though it was a huge honor, I simply didn't want to be Chief Resident. It meant baby-sitting all the other residents, planning events, booking speakers, working on the schedules, mediating disputes, sitting in on disciplinary hearings -- all the administrative and supervisory crap I hated. And even if I wanted to be Chief Resident, there was no way in hell G-Med would ever offer me the position.<br /><br />I could always just not apply, but... Roderick and Jennings were two of my most important references for my fellowship applications. What would they say if I blew off this compliment they'd paid me?<br /><br />No, I'd have to go through with it. I'd have to go through the motions, apply and be interviewed, knowing the whole time that it was nothing but a big waste of time -- and knowing that everyone else knew it was a big waste of time. Great. <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />I took the rest of the mail out from under my arm. The next item was also from G-Med: the general announcement, including a complete list of all the nominees. I scanned the list, frowned, and checked the pocket of my lab coat. Satisfied, I stuck the letter in my other pocket, jammed the announcement back in my box with the rest of the mail, and went to go find someplace to think.<br /><br />January wasn't the most pleasant time for a smoke on the roof, and when I got up there it was almost dark. So I did what all the other smokers did in the winter and set up in the vestibule at the top of the stairs, propping the door for ventilation and an escape route. Some thoughtful person had even dragged an old chair up there. I pulled the letter, a book of matches, and my single cigarette out of my pockets, and settled in to read and think. Maybe I could just "forget" to turn in the application....<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 204); color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>A door slammed, down on the next landing. I sat up to listen. Two men's voices: one speaking, one laughing. I couldn't make out what they were saying because of the echoes, but their voices didn't sound like nurses or orderlies and weren't weary enough to belong to residents. Footsteps, climbing up the stairs, with the flat footfall of dress shoes.... Oh, shit. <span style="font-style: italic;">Attendings</span>.<br /><br />They were getting closer. I quietly stood up and slipped out onto the roof, gently closing the door behind me and leaving it open a crack, blocking it so it wouldn't close in the wind and lock me out.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span>I stepped away from the door and around the corner of the vestibule, out of the wind. Hopefully they wouldn't be jerks and pull the door shut.<br /><br />They didn't. Instead, one of them decided to be an even bigger jerk and open the door again. "Anyone out there?" he called.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span><br />"Oh, just leave it," one of them said from inside. "Come back in and close the damn door, it's cold out."<br /><br />"Hang on," said the first guy. "Smell that? Someone's out here, let me just see...." His voice grew louder as he came around the side of the vestibule. "Well, look who's here!" It was Ogilvie.<br /><br />"I was wondering who'd be out in this kind of weather. Partying it up with your friends?" He looked down at my smoke. "Give me one of those, will you?"<br /><br />"Sorry. My last one." It was the truth; I never carried more than one for precisely this reason.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />"Liar," he said. "Don't worry, I won't stay long. I've got enough sense to come in out of the cold. Of course, I've got someplace to go," he sneered. "So: nominated for Chief Resident! Bet you never thought you'd live to see the day, especially considering how you started off here."<br /><br />I took another drag on my cigarette and stared straight ahead, refusing to take the bait.<br /><br />"But you've made it all the way up to now without getting thrown out...."<br /><br />"I've still got five months to go."<br /><br />"...and you even managed to impress Jennings and Roderick enough for them to throw their nominations away on you. You've done well for yourself, House." <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />I didn't say anything, but I wondered how Ogilvie knew who nominated me. That information was confidential, so I hadn't thought it would hit the grapevine quite that quickly.<br /><br />"But what about your pal Foghorn Leghorn?" Ogilvie asked maliciously. "He didn't come through for you? Oh, too bad. I bet he even gave you <span style="font-style: italic;">the talk</span>."<br /><br />I kept silent, but gave him a quick look, <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/favor-for-dr-ball.html">pretending not to understand</a>.<br /><br />"No? I'm surprised," he said. I made a mental note to get him in a poker game the minute residency was officially over. "Apparently, every so often he invites some resident over for a mint julep on the veranda and a long chat. It's usually one of his pets, but sometimes it's one of the problem children. If you weren't on his pet list, I thought for sure you'd be on his shit list.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br /><br />"It makes sense that he wouldn't recruit you. There was a lot of controversy about whether or not even to admit you, and Ball was in the 'no' corner. So was I. But G-Med voted to let you in, and here you are."<br /><br />I'd heard enough, so I walked across the roof to the low wall at the edge. But Ogilvie was persistent as pinworms.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"> </span>He followed me over and stood by my left elbow, looking out over the wall at the panorama of the college town.<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /></span><br />"There it is," he said, "the whole world spread out before you. You're smart, you're just starting your career, you've got the world at your feet.... and there's still only two faculty members who can stand the thought of seeing your face for a fourth year. You've been nominated for Chief Resident, yet you know you haven't got a prayer of actually getting the offer.<br /><br />"You're in a real pickle, aren't you? It's a waste of your time to apply; I think you know that, even as conceited as you are. G-Med will never offer you a slot.<br /><br />"But you still have to do it. You're going to have to send in the papers and sit in that interview and pretend that you can't tell that they can't wait to get you out of there. If you don't, it's going to look terrible. You've got fellowship applications out, you've got to show that you take opportunities and you're striving for excellence and all that future-doctors-of-America crap. And most of all, you can't take the tiniest chance of ticking off the guys who nominated you, because they're also your references, and they're the only ones you've got. So you're going to have to go through with it."<br /><br />"Thanks for caring enough to point all this out," I said sourly.<br /><br />"Oh, I don't care one way or the other. I don't even care if you stay. As of July 1, I'm out of here. Anesthesia," he bragged. "Starting a fellowship downstairs. So do what you want, as long as you stay out of my PACU.<br /><br />"I just saw you out here and wanted to congratulate you. Only you could be so screwed up that a CR nomination's a trap instead of an honor."<br /><br />"Aren't your shoes getting wet?" I asked.<br /><br />"Roof's been clear for days, but thanks for asking," he said.<br /><br />The door opened. "Hey! Are you coming?"<br /><br />"Yeah, hang on," Ogilvie shouted over his shoulder. He turned back to me. "Well, enjoy your nomination, House. Take as long as you like. Don't worry, I'll leave the door open."<br /><br />He walked back across the roof and rapped on the door. As the door opened, I could hear his friend complaining: "Jesus, Stan, what took you so long?" To my relief, I didn't hear the door slam shut again; Ogilvie must have kept his promise and propped it open. I gave them another minute or two to clear out of there before I went back inside.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />How long ago that was. And now I'm a department head with three fellows (of whom one was himself a Chief Resident, as he loves to remind us.) I even have my own conference room, with a coffee pot, plenty of chairs, and a carpet stained with my own blood.<br /><br />The trees quiver, and another couple of dried leaves skitter across the top of the wall. I check my watch and decide I'd better get back before my leg stiffens up. I take my cane and head for the door, back down to my little kingdom.<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1158448906050529562006-09-15T20:21:00.000-04:002006-09-16T19:33:24.066-04:00looking back to the path ahead<span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Sitting up in bed, a pillow under my leg. There's a journal open on my lap, but I'm not really reading it. There's music on -- Mozart's 40th -- and I'm listening to that. Somehow the Andante makes it a little easier to think about the events of the day, lets me approach them from an oblique angle instead of crashing into them face-first.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Like Cuddy, lying to me. Like Wilson, lying to me. About a </span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">patient</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">! </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And all... for what? For my own good?</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">They used to yell at me because I was miserable, because my successes didn't make me happy. Now they're yelling at me because I'm too happy, that if I'm happy and successful I'll think that I'm God.<br /><br />I suppose it's easier to be miserable. At least they didn't think I was suffering from delusions of grandeur; they just thought I was an ass. <br /><br />And now....</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I glance to the side. Propped against the nightstand, my cane is waiting for me.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Just as it always was. Cameron probably took custody of it and then gave it to Wilson. Wilson brought it down to my hospital room; I used it for a day or two, brought it home with me, and stuck it in the closet.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">But I never really forgot it was there.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I don't know what was worse tonight: c</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">oming home and having to stop and think about how I was going to take the steps up to the condo door? Having to stop and lean on the desk before I could even make it across the living room? Feeling my muscles respond to the paresthesias by starting to cramp -- with all their newly regained strength?</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><br />Was it the moment that I realized I was going to have to get out a cane if I was going to make it to the bedroom?<br /><br /></span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Or was it that small ripple of relief at knowing that the cane was there? At seeing its handle and knowing those last steps down the hall would be a little more bearable?</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Once I got myself the thirteen steps down the hall and into the bedroom, the old routine came back so easily it was like getting back on a bike: jacket over the small chair; watch, phone, and newly-filled pill bottle next to the alarm clock; make sure the remote's within reach; start the slow process of undressing and getting into pajamas. And then just wait for the relief brought by rest and Vicodin.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I become aware of the music again. The last movement is winding up, in all its sober, stoic splendor. The final chord sounds; a pause, and then the next playlist starts.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />My stomach lurches as I realize what's coming up next, and I start to reach for the remote. But then I think better of it. Might as well face this too.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />When I was in rehab, there were only a few hours a day when I wasn't thinking about rehab. Some of those hours were devoted to sleep and, sometimes, to meals; some of them were devoted to catching up on my TiVo; the rest were mostly spent on the Internet. I kept up with my journal habit, and then there was all that music to download. I also tried out a couple of podcasts and checked out the freakshow that is YouTube. </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I also Googled a lot. Cuddy, Wilson... Not much on Robert Chase, but still plenty on Rowan (who is still dead.) Foreman's name is plastered all over the site for his medical school's alumni association. If Cameron has a MySpace page I couldn't find it. I tried to look up a few old classmates but it was difficult; I could usually remember a first name or a last name, but not both. Not unless they'd done something that had especially pissed me off, like old von Lieberman, who I discovered has a new clinical trial going. Something small. Even he should be able to manage that one.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I moved on through the select group of people whose first and last names I do know. It's a small group; some of its members got to join it the easy way, by being related to me. I looked up my mother and was amused to find her name in her retirement community's website, on the page for the garden club. Then I looked up my brother Mark. At first I couldn't find much on him, just a bland-looking page in some obscure federal agency announcing its assimilation into a bigger agency. I had better luck when I looked him up as M. House: I found links to his chess articles, including an archive of his columns for </span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Chess Nerd News</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Chess Nerd News</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">. I stared at the screen for a long moment.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And finally I looked up Eileen.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />She has a website. I looked all around, clicked most of her links. She's in a couple of thousand different ensembles and I looked at them all. She has an "About Me" section; I skipped that one. She has a "Contact Me" link; I skipped that one too. </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />She has a page where you can buy CDs. Most of them are by her couple of thousand different ensembles; I didn't buy any, but I listened to all the sample clips. It was hard to pick out her voice.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />She also has a page with a few complete tracks: early music, baroque music, folk music, opera. Solo tracks. Downloadable. </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />So I downloaded them all.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And that's what's playing now.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Her voice has changed a little without really changing: a bigger range, more power, but still Eileen. I make myself listen. It's dark out, and the only light in the room is the bedside lamp. The recording is of a Bach cantata.</span> <br /><br /><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I visited her site every night that week. It was out there on the Web, wasn't it? Like an invitation. </span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Contact Me</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And I was feeling good, and I was feeling hopeful, and I was beginning to get my old life back, my life before the infarction, and if I could be the person I was in some ways, why couldn't I be the person I was in other ways? Why couldn't I turn the clock back?</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And every time I clicked away from her site, I heard the voice from the hallucination -- not the fun ketamine flight hallucination, the other one, the exsanguinating-on-a-gurney one. The voice of the guy who shot me, whispering in the back of my memory: </span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Would anybody care that the world lost that wit?</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And finally, one night, I decided I'd do it. I'd get in touch with Eileen.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I didn't email her. Instead, I Googled again and found a couple of phone numbers. I called her work number first, in the middle of the night when she wouldn't be there, just to see if I'd really found her. I ended up calling it a few more times just to listen to her voice mail announcement, preparing myself for when I'd go live.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I thought about what I wanted to say, how I might say it. I thought about the best time to reach her. Finally I decided it was time. <br /><br /></span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It was around eight o'clock on a Sunday night, the day after I'd run my first mile. I stared at my handset for a long time and then started pressing the numbers.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />The first ring, and it suddenly hit me: what if Eileen wasn't the one who would pick up the phone? The second ring: what if it was?</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I hung up before it got to the third ring.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />A week or two later, I called again, and this time I even made it to three rings. But not to four. I hung up again.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I made it to five miles on a Tuesday morning, and that afternoon after lunch I called her. I held on until the answering machine picked up. But I did not leave a message at the sound of the beep.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />I told myself I'd try it again. But it was easy to put it off as I got ready to go back to work. Six miles, seven, eight miles....</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />And now here I am, back where I was before. My gaze flits to the cane and to the pill bottle, and the assassin in my head starts to whisper again: ...</span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">they know that their actions have consequences, and they know that those consequences are their fault....<br /><br /></span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's better that I didn't call her. It's silly to look back; there's nothing I can say to her anyway. She doesn't want to hear from me. </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />The cantata is over and the next track begins. </span><i style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Che farò senza Euridice? </i><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">she sings. ...</span><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Che </span><i style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">farò </i><span style="font-style: italic; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">senza il mio ben.... </span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br />Eileen isn't singing to me. This is just a recording of her singing for somebody else, and I'm just kind of eavesdropping. And that's enough.</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br />I lean back into the pillows.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1158246724864541982006-09-14T09:44:00.000-04:002006-09-14T14:22:38.366-04:00shuffle and replayA rainy morning. Coffee's hot, staff's on rounds, iPod's docked, and I'm looking over my playlists.<br /><br />Seems like I've been doing this a lot lately, ever since Cuddy woke me up from the ketamine sleep. (Now why couldn't she have done it with a kiss instead of just a word to her anesthesia guy?) <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">That </span>was weird: realizing in a detached way that I was flying, wondering how long I'd been flying, wondering if I was dreaming, wondering if I wasn't dreaming and flying was the reality, enjoying the sensation and then feeling the ground rushing up at me, faster and faster, and then Cuddy standing over my bed, her eyes huge and swimming in hope and anxiety... <br /><br />"How are you feeling?" she asked.<br /><br />"Like crap," I croaked. And then I thought about it. Yes, I felt tired and spent and sore, but I slowly realized I felt not so much sore but more the memory of having been sore, like the wrung-out relief you feel when you wake up the morning after a hard workout.<br /><br />And then it occurred to me that it had been a long time since I'd felt that kind of exhausted relief -- a very long time -- and only then did it hit me.<br /><br />My leg didn't hurt.<br /><br />I checked myself mentally, hip to toe. No joint pain, no muscle soreness or cramping, none of that sciatic pain I was starting to get now and then from supination....<br /><br />No nerve pain. <br /><br />I "listened" again: nothing. No buzzing, no burning, no pinpricks.... nothing. My leg felt quiet. It felt normal.<br /><br />I caught Cuddy's eyes again. "Ketamine?" <br /><br />She nodded. <br /><br />"How long?" I asked.<br /><br />"Five days," she said. "So tell me. How do you feel?" And as she saw the answer on my face, she started to beam.<br /><br />And then it was a flurry: my mother, smiling wearily as Cuddy whispered something in her ear and then covering her face with her hands as she started to cry; my brother Mark; Wilson, his arms crossed and a cautiously elated look in his eyes; the team fluttering in and out. Getting up for the first time, moving slowly because of my belly wound, realizing that even though my leg was still weak I could put a little weight on it without pain. Turning down Percocet when the nurses offered it to me, and laughing at looks on their faces when I told them that the pain from the wounds was no big deal. Walking out to the car on the day of discharge. Going home and getting the first good night's sleep I've had in years. Going to rehab and being able to do every exercise the physical therapist gave me -- and more -- and seeing the improvement every day. <br /><br />First the little changes: being able to lift my leg over the threshold of the shower door without thinking about it, or to tie my shoes without gritting my teeth. Being able to undress without using my hands to lift my leg out of the pants leg. Catching sight of myself in a mirror and seeing myself walking instead of limping. Even things like being truly hungry, because I was active and didn't have any Vicodin slowing my gut and dulling my appetite.<br /><br />Then the big changes. Like stairs. Just being able to take them without clinging to the banister for dear life, hoping with each step I could haul myself up with my left leg before my right gave out and I fell on my face, knowing I could go to the movies and sit where I wanted without being stared at.... oh, that was great. And then being able to take the stairs one after the other? Being able to run?<br /><br />I pushed myself as hard as I could, and when I wasn't at rehab I was thinking about rehab. I went to a store to buy shorts instead of ordering long sweats online -- no more worries about the dressing room and about carrying the shopping bag. I pored over maps of Princeton looking for places to jog and then to run. I started logging my mileage.<br /><br />And I made new playlists for my iPod, with running in mind. Every day or two, as my endurance increased, I added a few more songs. And I was <span style="font-style:italic;">happy</span>. Nothing else mattered, not even that some guy had tried to blow me away in my own office and had gotten away with it. <span style="font-style:italic;">I was alive.</span> I was more alive than I'd been in years. And I was having to make playlists ninety minutes long to cover my runs.<br /><br />And now I'm sitting in my office, looking over my playlists, looking at the one I'd intended for my run this morning -- the one I'd had to skip. And every so often I have to stop clicking and just clench the mouse as a burning, stabbing sensation burrows through my right thigh.<br /><br /><br />I know what it is.<br /><br /><br /><br />I know what it means.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1157849181884570212006-09-09T20:46:00.000-04:002006-09-09T20:46:22.260-04:00Sex: more dangerous than cell phones<a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060908/od_uk_nm/oukoe_uk_slovakia_driver;_ylt=Al8wTA1HXAV3VDU7tMskB0oZ.3QA;_ylu=X3oDMTA4cmUwbnA1BHNlYwMxNzAy">Sex: More Dangerous than Cell Phones</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1157480902432003332006-09-05T14:26:00.000-04:002006-09-05T21:28:12.146-04:00companion fic: Ripples<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">For your reading pleasure: a little trifle of a companion fic. Think of it as like a DVD extra.</span><br /><a href="http://auditrixlectrix.livejournal.com/10394.html"><br />So what's Dr Ball doing now? </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1157326701790257722006-09-01T08:06:00.000-04:002006-09-05T18:54:02.950-04:00anticipationTwo pills? Or three?<br /><br />I'm in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew and looking down at the pills in my palm.<br /><br />I think over how I felt yesterday and how I'm feeling now, and I try to keep my mind on the decision at hand and not on the steep increase in my daily dose this summer.<br /><br />My old reliable. I first started taking it after the infarction. I complained the first time the nurse brought it -- <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't need this</span> -- but after a day or two I gave in. I found it hard to admit to myself how much better I felt. I kept taking it while I was in the hospital, and then all through my stay in rehab, and then in the weeks and months afterwards....<br /><br />And soon it was just part of my new life. Wake up in the morning, grab the cane, make the coffee, take the pills.<br /><br />But after a while, the usual dose wasn't always enough and I found myself taking an extra pill now and then. "Now and then" happened more and more often until my usual dose had doubled.<br /><br />And it kept creeping up, but so slowly it was easy to think of it as normal. Wilson raised an eyebrow when he was here -- by then my usual daily dosage had doubled again -- but he didn't say anything.<br /><br />And now I'm taking more than ever just to get by.<br /><br />But it's what I need. I buy the biggest bottle the drugstore has but it barely lasts a couple of weeks. I look down at the pills, forcing myself to think only about how many I need and not about why I need them, and why I need so many.<br /><br />They're not Vicodin.<br /><br />They're docusate sodium and casanthranol. They look a little like jelly beans.<br /><br />The more Vicodin I need, the more of this I need. It's almost a perfect correlation. And now, this summer with the morphine... I've had to take more of this as well. Every morning for the last month or so I've asked myself the same question: Two or three? The answer's been three every morning for a couple of weeks now.<br /><br />Oh well. I shove the implications of this out of my mind, decide that if I have to add a fourth pill I'll start with the bedtime dose, and toss back the three pills. I can swallow them dry, but they work better if I take them with plenty of water. I fill a tall glass from the sink and gulp it down.<br /><br />The coffee's done, and I pour myself a cup to complete my Breakfast of Champions. I finish it, pour the second, and push myself off from the counter to launch myself back to the bedroom to dress.<br /><br />I smile as I walk down the hallway. I had clinic yesterday, and I had a case that made it totally worth my while, some guy with an amazing swollen tongue. I don't think I've taken such a thorough H&P since I was in medical school. I picked up the admit and I'm going to present the case to the team this morning.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ippp crrrm."</span> This is going to be funny.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1156976965785648912006-08-31T01:26:00.000-04:002006-08-31T12:41:28.253-04:00complications<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">PG-13 for language and content.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Thanks to npkedit and Dr Mac for their technical help, and special thanks to Namaste for her patient, heroic beta work on this long chapter.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">It's been a while, and we've been joined by new readers from around the world, so here's a quick note on what's going on.<br /><br />Since its beginning, this fic has included chapters about House's past, including the infarction story and a series of chapters about his residency.<br /><br />The foundations of the backstory chapters were laid during the first season. Since then, the show has rendered all this backstory AU. For the ficblog, I have chosen to stay as consistent as possible with earlier backstory chapters. For example, Canon House is the only child of Blythe and John House. In the ficblog, House has a brother named Mark; their ficblog mother is named Nancy. The backstory is also populated with characters that live only in the fic, not in the show.<br /><br />House has been reminiscing here and there about Eileen, a woman who came unexpectedly <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/01/last-time-i-saw-eileen.html">to visit him in the hospital after the infarction</a>. (There's a complete list of Eileen chapters in the right sidebar.) He'd <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/01/i-was-playing-piano-when-i-met-her.html">met Eileen during his residency</a> and found himself interested in her. Things were complicated, though, for Eileen was significantly younger and -- even worse -- was dating <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/02/blackmail-is-sweetest-crime.html">a medical student whom House was supervising at the time</a>.<br /><br />Eileen and House <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/codes-coffees-crayons.html">bumped into each other</a> a <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/working-late.html">few times </a><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-dont-care-if-i-ever-get-back.html">that spring</a>. <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/while-i-looked-around-for-my.html">Their paths crossed again </a>that November: Eileen, now a senior in college, had just broken up with her med student. <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/09/its-springtime-of-my-life.html">House found himself giving her a lift</a> <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/11/weaving-time-in-tapestry.html">home for her Christmas vacation</a>, taking her bowling in January -- <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/03/memory-lanes.html">and then inviting her out for a bite to eat....</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Sitting here in my bedroom chair, in the dark.<br /><br />Wilson left a couple of hours ago. We finally went to see "Snakes on a Plane" last night. The closest place it was playing was down at the fancy theater on Route 1, which happens to be in a mall, and Wilson's price for the privilege of seeing this fine piece of cinema was dinner at the seafood restaurant instead of the food court and side trips to Williams-Sonoma and Restoration Hardware. Gotta feather the nest to attract the chicks, I guess.<br /><br />My leg's been better lately, but wandering around the mall wasn't good preparation for climbing the stairs in the theater. At least stadium seating means I can stretch out a little. The theater wasn't too crowded, which also helped. I wondered idly where all the high school kids were; the local schools aren't in yet. Not that I missed them.<br /><br />As we were leaving the theater, Wilson's cell phone went off. I wondered who it was -- he wasn't on call -- but I quickly saw that whoever it was would be talking a while. So I found a bench.<br /><br />Another movie let out while I was waiting -- apparently, the one that all the high school kids and other local yokels were seeing that night. They streamed out, clumping into groups and pairs, some of them turning the corner to go drink mochas at the bookstore and others going straight ahead toward the Friday's for cheese sticks and illegal beer. Just another Wednesday night. I suddenly felt very conscious of how invisible I was to them -- some old guy sitting alone on a bench.<br /><br />And that was fine. Wilson finally got off the phone. From there it was back to my place for legal beer, and now it's just me again.<br /><br />It's getting dark earlier now. Aas we left the mall we passed the restaurants, their windows lit up in the dark. It struck me how cozy and merry they looked. I quickly reminded myself that that cozy and merry look was a commodity, produced by architects and designers, and a pretty trite commodity at that. That brass, beer, and antiques look has been around for what, thirty years now?<br /><br />But once it was tempting and new. I glance up at my dresser and start thinking it's time to go to bed, but I don't. I force myself to remember....<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/03/memory-lanes.html">I looked around the counter to the bowling alley's snack bar. </a>The lanes were full now, so the snack bar was only going to get more crowded and smoky, and I wanted something a bit more substantial than pretzels and watery Cokes and cold plastic chairs.</span> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">I turned back to Eileen.<span style=""> </span>“…Maybe I’ll ask if you want to go get something to eat.”</p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">She smiled.<span style=""> </span>“That sounds great.”</p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We ended up near the mall, at one of those R.T. McHooligan’s places.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t seem too busy, but the perplexed hostess sent us to the bar anyway.<span style=""> </span>I grumbled, went to get a couple of drinks,<span style=""> </span>and came back to find Eileen gone.<span style=""> </span>I looked around and saw her trying to catch my attention from a nearby booth.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Good work, Abney.”<span style=""> </span>I set the drinks – a Guinness and a Shirley Temple – on the table and started to take off my coat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen’s face lit up.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, my favorite!<span style=""> </span>How did you know?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I frowned -- no tantrum? Not even a little eyeroll? – and then stared in chagrin as she started drinking my beer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Mmm.”<span style=""> </span>She put the glass down.<span style=""> </span>“Thank you so much, that hits the spot.”<span style=""> </span>She looked at the lonely mocktail. “How cute!<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know you liked those.<span style=""> </span>Aren’t they called ‘Roy Rogers’ when they’re for boys?”<span style=""> </span>She chuckled as I glowered at her.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I figured you’d be up on your kiddie drinks.”<span style=""> </span>I tossed my coat into the booth and sat down.<span style=""> </span>Eileen looked like she was going to say something, but instead abruptly pulled the mocktail in front of her.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hey,” I complained, “don’t I – ”<span style=""> </span>Eileen ignored me; she was staring over my left shoulder.<span style=""> </span>I looked around.<span style=""> </span>The waitress was coming with menus.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I cut her off before she could start the recitation of her name and the evening’s specials.<span style=""> </span>“We’ll have the appetizer sampler – the big one.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Um, okay—”<span style=""> </span>She tucked the menus back under her arm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And another Guinness, please,” Eileen added.<span style=""> </span>I waited, amused, as the waitress carded her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s a lot of beer for you to be crying into, Abney, I didn’t realize you were that competitive.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Competition is my <i style="">life</i>.<span style=""> </span>Besides, aren’t there nachos in that plate?<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I’m going to need something to drink.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Who said those nachos were for you?<span style=""> </span>You had your chance to order, you should have taken it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You said we!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That was the <i style="">royal</i> we.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, if you’re not going to share, then I’ll order something for myself when you get your refill on your Roy Rogers there.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The waitress brought the second beer.<span style=""> </span>Eileen smiled, pushed the mocktail across the table, and sent the new beer after it.<span style=""> </span>I pushed the mocktail back to Eileen, lifted my beer, drank, kept drinking, trying to put off the moment when I’d have to put down the beer and make with the small talk. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally I had to set down my glass.<span style=""> </span>Eileen leaned forward.<span style=""> </span>“So,” she asked, “how was your Christmas?<span style=""> </span>Was Santa Claus good to you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“A shiny new lump of coal for my collection.<span style=""> </span>How about you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I had a good break.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s not what I asked.<span style=""> </span>Did you get your car?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No.”<span style=""> </span>She looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the disappointment and frustration flashing across her face.<span style=""> </span>She quickly collected herself.<span style=""> </span>“No, I got something bigger.<span style=""> </span>Our whole family got big news for Christmas: my brother got engaged.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Oh. Well, congratulations, I guess.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You guess?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Or whatever I’m supposed to say. I don’t know; you’re not the one getting married.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I kicked myself as soon as I said it.<span style=""> </span>Eileen just chuckled wryly.<span style=""> </span>“No, I’m not.<span style=""> </span>But a sister-in-law’s better than a car, I suppose.<span style=""> </span>I’ve met her; she’s pretty nice.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen stared at her beer for a moment, while I stared at Eileen, trying to assess her expression.<span style=""> </span>I’d known her for about a year now, and I had a good sense of her type:<span style=""> </span>pretty, prissy, a little prudish, and almost certainly a daddy’s girl.<span style=""> </span>Was she a queen bee?<span style=""> </span>She didn’t seem vindictive enough -- she’d asked me to take it easy on Kopp only half an hour after dumping him.<span style=""> </span>Manipulative?<span style=""> </span>She certainly played at it.<span style=""> </span>But then, maybe she was doing just that – playing.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t picture any of the queen bees I’d known sending out bags of candy, for example.<span style=""> </span>Or <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/11/weaving-time-in-tapestry.html">carrying around chess magazines in their bookbags</a>, for that matter.<span style=""> </span>Or inviting me to their recitals.<span style=""> </span>Or sitting in a restaurant drinking beer with me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I could certainly picture them being upset at having their plans of engagement and marriage foiled --<span style=""> </span>Eileen had been sniveling about <i style="">that</i> all the way up to Christmas Eve -- especially plans of engagement to a future doctor.<span style=""> </span>Really, why in the world else would she have been dating that scut monkey?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked at her again.<span style=""> </span>Who was she really?<span style=""> </span>Part of me was urging me to shut up and just take in the view of her sitting there, her long hair glinting copper under the stained glass lamp.<span style=""> </span>Another part of me wanted to consider the possibility of taking her out again and mull over whether I wanted to expend the patient and careful effort it would almost certainly take to get to know her in the Biblical sense. <span style=""> </span>But the rest of me was eager to test my theory: that Little Miss Abney had been in love with the idea of being engaged – and wasn’t used to not getting what she wanted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally I just went ahead and asked.<span style=""> </span>“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She didn’t look up, and even as part of my brain yelled at me to shut up already, I pressed on:<span style=""> </span>“You are, aren’t you?<span style=""> </span>You thought you were going to bring a boyfriend or even a fiancé home, and instead…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It just wasn’t meant to be, was it?”<span style=""> </span>She leaned back, still looking bleakly at her beer.<span style=""> </span>“No, it’s better this way.<span style=""> </span>How long would it have lasted?<span style=""> </span>And besides, even if I had come home with a ring on, that wouldn’t have changed anything.<span style=""> </span>My brother would have still gotten engaged, and that would have been that: the rest of the holidays would have been devoted to getting their planning started, and I wouldn’t have been allowed to set a date until they had their own stuff squared away.”<span style=""> </span>She laughed a little.<span style=""> </span>“It’s just as well.<span style=""> </span>Dresses, planning… let his bride deal with all that stupid bride stuff.<span style=""> </span>I’ve got enough on my plate with school.”<span style=""> </span>She reached for her beer and took a drink; as she set the heavy glass down, I saw a glint of mischief coming back into her eyes. “As long as she doesn’t pick graduation weekend or my senior recital.<span style=""> </span>Those dates are <i style="">mine</i>.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And what if she does pick those dates?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen shrugged.<span style=""> </span>“She’ll just have to shell out and get someone else to sing at her wedding.”<span style=""> </span>She looked up.<span style=""> </span>“Can we talk about something else now?” <span style=""> </span>Her voice was getting an edge to it I’d never heard before, and I knew I was on the right track.<span style=""> </span>There was no way I was going to let her change the subject.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Why?”<span style=""> </span>I pressed her.<span style=""> </span>“This is interesting.” <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So call up Claire and talk about it with her.<span style=""> </span>I’m on the groom’s side anyway, so I’m just a spectator.” <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And <i style="">that</i> is what’s interesting.<span style=""> </span>Weddings are anthropology.<span style=""> </span>Bridesmaids, for example.<span style=""> </span>Those matching dresses?<span style=""> </span>In ancient times they were identical to the bride’s dress, to confuse the evil spirits—”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen snorted.<span style=""> </span>“That explains a lot.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I ignored her.<span style=""> </span>“So, if weddings are anthropology, talking to people about weddings shows how they see themselves in relation to their culture.<span style=""> </span>It’s psychology.<span style=""> </span>And in this case, what’s <i style="">interesting</i> – ” I leaned forward “-- is <i style="">your</i> psychology:<span style=""> </span>seeing how you react when you’re out of the spotlight.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She leaned back, arms folded.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Bingo</i>, I thought.<span style=""> </span>“You thought you were going to be the Christmas Queen, coming home triumphant with your doctor-to-be on your arm.… I’ll bet you had it all planned out in your head:<span style=""> </span>he’d give you the ring for Christmas, you’d get to show it to your mother and your sister and squeal, and you’d get to spend the rest of your break meeting his parents and gushing about dresses instead of--”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Instead of singing to dead people and practicing bowling,” interrupted Eileen.<span style=""> </span>She glared at me.<span style=""> </span>“Is that all you think it was about?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I lifted my eyebrows.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s all you thought I wanted?<span style=""> </span>All the trying to compromise, all the hoping and planning for a future with someone I – someone I loved, someone I thought loved me –” The disgust on my face at the thought of Eileen <i style="">loving</i> that scut monkey only made her angrier.<span style=""> </span>“—losing everything I’d been hoping for – and you think it was only about getting a ring?<span style=""> </span>Do you really think I’m that shallow? That I’m some kind of… some kind of….”<span style=""> </span>She paused, searching for a word;<span style=""> </span>I decided to help her out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Some kind of diva?”<span style=""> </span>I suggested.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I almost burst out laughing as I saw the blood drain from her face -- I’d never thought she was capable of such fury.<span style=""> </span>But my amusement faded quickly. This intriguing display of anger had nothing of her usual playfulness.<span style=""> </span>There was plenty of resentment, though, and I grew a little uneasy as I thought I recognized a growing hint of disdain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s…” she finally started. “That’s… I don’t know what to say.<span style=""> </span>I thought….”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I waited eagerly to hear what she thought, but instead she looked down at the table as she collected herself.<span style=""> </span>Finally she looked back up.<span style=""> </span>Her voice was quiet and hard.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You knew I was with Dave for over a year, and <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/while-i-looked-around-for-my.html">you know how upset I was when…. when things fell apart.<span style=""> </span>You were even nice to me</a>.<span style=""> </span>So for you to sit here and say this to me – either you know better and you’re just trying to make me mad, in which case it’s mean and not funny, or you really believe it.<span style=""> </span>You really believe that the only reason I would want to get engaged is wanting to be the center of attention.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked me straight in the eye.<span style=""> </span>“I wonder if it’s because <i style="">you</i> want to be the center of attention.<span style=""> </span>It’s what you want, so you think everyone else wants it too.<span style=""> </span>And you make fun of other people if you think they want it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I bet you’re used to it.<span style=""> </span>I bet you <i style="">love</i> it.<span style=""> </span>The way the med students hate you and fear you – I bet you eat that up, you love knowing that you’re the one they’re talking about at the end of the day.<span style=""> </span>I bet you’ve been the star of the show since the day you were born.<span style=""> </span>You know you’re smart, you made it through medical school – and from the looks of that old bumper sticker on your car, not just any medical school, either.”<span style=""> </span>My eyes narrowed -- I thought I’d gotten enough of that <st1:city><st1:place>Hopkins</st1:place></st1:city> garage sticker off.<span style=""> </span>“So you probably went to a good school before <i style="">that</i> and were at the top of your class there.<span style=""> </span>You’ve probably been at the top of your class all your life.<span style=""> </span>Were you the high school valedictorian?<span style=""> </span>Did you get a perfect score on your SAT?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And your parents – having a doctor for a son?<span style=""> </span>They must be so proud.”<span style=""> </span>She said it without a trace of sarcasm.<span style=""> </span>“It must be nice to be the center of attention so often that you get <i style="">used</i> to it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And you’re not.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No.<span style=""> </span>I’m not.”<span style=""> </span>She looked away for a moment.<span style=""> </span>“You don’t know what it’s like to always be second-best, do you?<span style=""> </span>In my family, my brothers are the stars.<span style=""> </span>They got good grades, they played sports, they got into good schools… I landed a solo in All-State in high school, but what’s singing?<span style=""> </span><i style="">Sean</i> got two varsity letters.<span style=""> </span>I was in the top twenty, but big deal – Tom was first in his class.<span style=""> </span>They both graduated with all kinds of honors.<span style=""> </span>Now Sean has an MBA and a fiancée. Tommy’s an engineer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’ll never be an international star, but at least at school I know that if I audition, I have a chance.<span style=""> </span>But at home, no matter what I do, I’ll never be Eileen – I’ll always be Sean and Tom’s sister. <span style=""> </span>I wish I could explain it better.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, I know what you mean,” I said.<span style=""> </span>Eileen’s talk of high school… for an instant I was back at the kitchen table in <st1:city><st1:place>Somerset</st1:place></st1:city>, drinking hot chocolate after practice while my mother started dinner… “I… Actually, you were right.<span style=""> </span>I did make a perfect score on the SAT…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hah!” Eileen crowed.<span style=""> </span>“Did you get your picture in the paper?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sort of.<span style=""> </span>It was underneath my older brother’s: ‘Local Teen Repeats Brother’s Feat.’<span style=""> </span>He’s two years older than me; he’d gotten a perfect score too.<span style=""> </span>He’d also submitted corrections to some of the questions – the College Board had to go back and regrade all the tests taken that day.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hm.”<span style=""> </span>I waited for her to say something more, but instead she reached for her beer.<span style=""> </span>She tilted the glass towards herself, gently swirling the heavy foam, but instead of lifting the glass to drink she looked up at me.<span style=""> </span>“What’s his name?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked down at my beer.<span style=""> </span>“Mark.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So at school were you always ‘Mark’s brother’?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Never for more than a day.<span style=""> </span>I’m very different from Mark.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh really?”<span style=""> </span>Eileen leaned forward.<span style=""> </span>“Is he as…”<span style=""> </span>Her voice trailed off.<span style=""> </span>I took another drink of beer and waited for her to continue, but she was still thinking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“As <i style="">mean</i> as I am?”<span style=""> </span>I finally suggested.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What?<span style=""> </span>No, that’s not what I was going to say.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You had quite a bit to say about that just a few minutes ago, so don’t try to spare my feelings now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But that’s not what I was going to say!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“So what were you going to say?<span style=""> </span>You’ve already forgotten, which just goes to show you:<span style=""> </span>tact is just a waste of time.”<span style=""> </span>Eileen opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off.<span style=""> </span>“Think about it.<span style=""> </span>You could have told the truth and said the first thing that came to mind, but instead you thought you’d make it sound nicer.<span style=""> </span>So you stop while you try to think up some euphemism.<span style=""> </span>Meanwhile, the clock’s ticking and your silence is telling the person you’re talking to exactly what you’re doing, which is trying to say something you think they won’t like in a way that won’t hurt their feelings, and when you finally say something they’ll already know that it’s a lie.<span style=""> </span>So all that musing was a complete waste of time.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, it all depends,”<span style=""> </span>Eileen retorted.<span style=""> </span>“If it takes you <i style="">that</i> long to think of a graceful way to say something, maybe you just need some more practice. Of course, a <i style="">really</i> good way to move a conversation along is to quit trying to be psychic and telling other people what they’re thinking.<span style=""> </span>Because first you spend all that time thinking up what you think they’re going to say, and then you spend all that time telling them what they’re thinking, and then they have to spend all that time saying, no, that’s not what I was going to say and you go off onto some ridiculous tangent to justify yourself.<span style=""> </span>You could save all kinds of time and just ask them – or better yet, stop interrupting and let them tell you.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her voice was still cold, and I was really starting to miss her old playful hauteur.<span style=""> </span>“So tell me, Abney.<span style=""> </span>What were you going to say?” I asked her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know.<span style=""> </span>You interrupted me.<span style=""> </span>I –”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Here ya go!”<span style=""> </span>Eileen looked up, distracted, as the waitress slid a plate in front of her.<span style=""> </span>I sat back as my own plate appeared, followed by the platter.<span style=""> </span>“Anything else I can get for you?<span style=""> </span>Another Guinness?”<span style=""> </span>the waitress asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” I grunted, and reached for the food.<span style=""> </span>Eileen had already spooned some sour cream on her plate and was daintily dabbing it onto the end of a potato skin.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Tell me the truth, Abney, and no trying to sugar coat anything.<span style=""> </span>What were you going to say back there?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The unsweetened truth is… at that moment I was still trying to decide what I thought.<span style=""> </span>I knew it wasn’t <i style="">mean</i> but I hadn’t settled on what exactly it was.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And have you decided yet?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes.”<span style=""> </span>She looked me straight in the eye.<span style=""> </span>“Is your brother as contentious as you are?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She lifted her eyebrows.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, my brother is not as contentious as I am.<span style=""> </span>He… is not contentious at all, he’s downright placid.<span style=""> </span>Immoveable, even.<span style=""> </span>We take turns poking him with a stick to watch him blink.”<span style=""> </span>Eileen snickered.<span style=""> </span>“He’s like those guards at <st1:place><st1:placename>Buckingham</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>, it’s impossible to get him to raise his voice, much less pick a fight with him.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Of course, that means he’s got some wicked inertia -- once he gets rolling, it’s impossible to stop him. He doesn’t look to the right or to the left, he just does what he’s going to do.<span style=""> </span>He doesn’t care about how it looks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I wonder sometimes if anyone really knows how smart my brother really is.<span style=""> </span>It’s hard to tell, because he doesn’t care much about credentials.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Credentials?”<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Why was I saying all this?<span style=""> </span>I never talked about Mark.<span style=""> </span>At least it seemed to distract Eileen, but why would she care about any of this?<span style=""> </span>Even as I pondered, I heard myself keep talking.<span style=""> </span>“What makes smart people smart?<span style=""> </span>They do the things smart people do.<span style=""> </span>They take tests, they go to big name schools, they get lots of degrees in the right subjects.”<span style=""> </span>I nodded toward the swinging doors.<span style=""> </span>“You could have a guy with an IQ of 170 frying cheese back there in the kitchen, and you’d never know it because he didn’t have the right credentials.<span style=""> </span>And some credentials are cooler than others.<span style=""> </span>Who’s smarter – a PhD in folklore or a PhD in nuclear physics?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“My brother got a scholarship to MIT and majored in math.<span style=""> </span>But instead of double-majoring in physics and becoming the absent-minded rocket scientist he was born to be, he got into geopolitical economics or something like that, and now he’s slogging away in some eternal post-doc program.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Where?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Someplace in <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state>.”<span style=""> </span>I stabbed my cheese stick into the marinara sauce.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<st1:city><st1:place>Georgetown</st1:place></st1:city>?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I shrugged and leaned back a little as the waitress brought my beer.<span style=""> </span>“Who knows?<span style=""> </span>Wherever it is, he’s always doing something somewhere else – taking a class here, teaching there… I’m amazed he can keep track of it all.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I thought you said he was smart.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“He is, but only about one thing at a time and only in a certain order.<span style=""> </span>It’s like he runs on tracks, he can only go in one direction and he only makes scheduled stops.<span style=""> </span>He’s got his routine, and all you have to do to throw off his whole day is move the raisin bran from the right side of the shelf to the left.<span style=""> </span>Take his favorite mug out and hide it in the dishwasher?<span style=""> </span>I think he’d have to wash it in the sink, put it away, go back to bed, and start the whole morning over again.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen smirked.<span style=""> </span>“Why do I get the feeling that you did some very, very bad things on April Fool’s Day?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Probably because you’re projecting your unconscious wish to torment your older brothers on to me.<span style=""> </span>You wanted to prank them, but you were too good a girl to do that, so you tell yourself that I played mean tricks on my older brother.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So in other words, you <span style="font-style: italic;">did </span>do some very, very bad things on April Fool’s Day.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, maybe not very bad, but…”<span style=""> </span>Eileen listened appreciatively as I reminisced about sugar swaps,<span style=""> </span>hidden shoes, ooky surprises in jacket pockets, and a mirror-image rearrangement of Mark’s bedroom.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t mention that all of these pranks were ultimately failures, as even the most ingenious ones failed to get as much as a lifted eyebrow from impervious Mark.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen, in turn, confessed to doing her best to keep her own older brothers on their toes, mostly through small acts of sabotage and often with the help of her younger sister.<span style=""> </span>“Tom took it all as good fun, but Sean….”<span style=""> </span>She grinned at the memory of her past victories.<span style=""> </span>“We never went too far.<span style=""> </span>Just enough to annoy him, but only little things, so he’d be too embarrassed to complain.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From there it was easy to get Eileen talking about her family, about high school, about long bus rides to the state capital for concerts and baby-sitting to earn money for a summer program at a conservatory.<span style=""> </span>Eileen played along, carrying the conversation as we ate, until I realized that by some weird conversational judo she had me talking about high school in Somerset: lacrosse in the winter, track in the spring; calculus, chemistry, French, the science fair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Were you in the chess club?” she suddenly asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No,” I replied brusquely.<span style=""> </span>I’d already talked quite enough about myself and more than enough about Mark, and didn’t feel like telling her about how I joined the chess club only after Mark graduated because he was the club president, and where exactly the hell did that question come from anyway?<span style=""> </span>“Were you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I went when I could,” she said, and too late I remembered that stupid magazine she’d been reading at Christmas – and how she’d asked me the same question then, too.<span style=""> </span>What did she think she was after?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’ll bet you just went to meet boys,” I teased.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, that was it.”<span style=""> </span>She helped herself to the second-to-last potato.<span style=""> </span>Something caught my attention, and as she went after the sour cream I realized what it was.<span style=""> </span>In that brief action, as I’d watched her, there’d been something about the way she’d pressed her lips together just for a second or two, her fork hovering over the platter, a quick glint of concentration in her eyes --<span style=""> </span>maybe considering the chicken wings and rejecting them as too messy, maybe doing some fast arithmetic involving Guinness, potato skins, calories expended in bowling, and the fit of her jeans – and then, as she made her decision and harpooned her potato, that little twitch at the corner of her mouth as if she were laughing at herself…. She might have been thinking about her potato or maybe her dress size but she wasn’t thinking about me at all, and in that fleeting, unguarded moment I thought I caught a glimpse of the little diva again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So what had just happened here?<span style=""> </span>I’d thought I’d gotten a good look at the real Eileen tonight, but had I really?<span style=""> </span>What if I’d been seeing her true face all along?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked up, as if she’d realized I was watching her, but before I could say anything the waitress appeared wanting to know if we were “still workin’ on that” and if either of us wanted another beer?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m fine, thanks,” said Eileen.<span style=""> </span>I glanced at her Guinness – it was almost half full – and shook my head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As soon as the waitress left, Eileen wrapped her hands protectively around her beer.<span style=""> </span>“No.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, you’re not going to finish that or no, I can’t have my beer back?”<span style=""> </span>I turned to <span style=""> </span>the platter and captured the last potato skin.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, please, help yourself, I’m getting full.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There was still a bit of an edge to her voice – was she still angry at me? – but then she laughed a little.<span style=""> </span>“No, I mean it, go ahead.”<span style=""> </span>She picked up her fork again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Time to test her good humor.<span style=""> </span>“Thanks.”<span style=""> </span>I reached across the table and took her beer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Not fair!” <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Perfectly fair.<span style=""> </span>There was no way you were going to finish that, and it was mine to begin with.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You didn’t have your name on it.”<span style=""> </span>Her indignation was all in her voice, nothing in her expression.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I felt encouraged.<span style=""> </span>“I thought your name was written clearly enough on your own drink.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked at the Shirley Temple, which was now looking pretty watery, and drew it over.<span style=""> </span>“You could have just asked me what I wanted.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The waitress appeared again.<span style=""> </span>“Anything else tonight?”<span style=""> </span>I silently cursed the waitress, and cursed her again as Eileen gave her one of those bland looks that clearly signaled <i style="">we’re done no matter what he says, </i><span style=""> </span>and then I cursed myself for wasting so much time trying to discover the Real Eileen when I should have been making sure that I would be seeing Eileen, whether Real or Fake, another night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The waitress left, and I turned my attention to Eileen, who was contemplating the maraschino cherry from the soggy mocktail.<span style=""> </span>She looked up.<span style=""> </span>“Seriously, why did you order this?<span style=""> </span>I’m sure you didn’t care if I was legal or not.<span style=""> </span>Did you think that I was too prissy to drink?<span style=""> </span>Or were you just trying to be funny?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I kept my voice as even as I could.<span style=""> </span>“I wanted to see what you would do with the cherry.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For a moment I wasn’t sure she got it; she did not look flattered or amused or even disgusted.<span style=""> </span>She regarded the cherry for a moment, bit off the fruit, and put the stem down beside the glass.<span style=""> </span>A tiny grenadine-pink stain started to appear on the napkin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The waitress appeared again, and for once I was glad to see her.<span style=""> </span>I took the check and ignored her as she chirped her instructions for paying her and thanks for coming to A.J. O’Whatchamacallit’s have-a-great-evening-bye.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I read the check and reached for my wallet, and looked up to find Eileen leaning across the table and craning her neck, trying to read the check.<span style=""> </span>She was holding money.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sit down,” I commanded her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You paid for the bowling,” she protested.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So it wasn’t a date.<span style=""> </span>My heart sank as I realized it; the sensation surprised me, and not in a good way.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I gradually became aware that Eileen was still squawking, so I made her work for it a little bit longer and finally let her leave the tip.<span style=""> </span>She was a little too generous, I thought, so while her back was turned I pocketed the surplus.<span style=""> </span>I’d get it back to her somehow, I told myself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But when?<span style=""> </span>There she was with her coat on already – that girl moved way too quickly sometimes – I grabbed my jacket and got her out of there before she could notice the amended tip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We stopped in the entry to button up.<span style=""> </span>The outside door flew open and a gaggle of college kids straggled in, one at a time, bringing the frigid wind in with them.<span style=""> </span>Eileen shivered and reached for her hat; I glared at them and remembered that while I’d certainly managed to provoke her and keep her off balance, I hadn’t asked her a thing about her classes or any of the other obvious but reliable possibilities.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The last one hurried in and stopped as he saw Eileen.<span style=""> </span>“Hey,” he said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She stopped putting on her mittens and looked up.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, hi!”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Great – <i style="">more</i> information I had failed to collect.<span style=""> </span>I watched them as they chatted about a meeting.<span style=""> </span>Eileen kept the conversation brief and, with a “see you then!”, got the kid moving again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I watched the door close behind him as he went into the restaurant.<span style=""> </span>They’d stood a good arm’s length away from each other and that casual <i style="">Oh, hi,</i> didn’t suggest anything more than classmate, but still....</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But still nothing.<span style=""> </span>No, it did <i style="">not</i> bother me, I reminded myself, but I still had to know.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“One of your admirers?” I said lightly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Oh, please</i>, her look said.<span style=""> </span>“Just a group project.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stopped, my hand on the door.<span style=""> </span>“So you’ve found yourself another med student then?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen rolled her eyes.<span style=""> </span>“I’m not dating a <i style="">med student</i>.”<span style=""> </span>She pushed on the door and stepped out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I understood her perfectly:<span style=""> </span><i style="">But I am dating someone.</i><span style=""> </span>I flinched as a gust of wind caught me in the face, and I followed her out into the cold.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We picked our way across the sidewalk.<span style=""> </span>The temperature had dropped significantly while we’d been in the restaurant and the wind had picked up, stronger and with a damp, bitter edge, and it occurred to me that it would have been a chivalrous touch to have left her in the restaurant while I warmed up the car.<span style=""> </span>Oh well; too late for that.<span style=""> </span>Too late for a lot of stuff.<span style=""> </span>I felt the stupid irrational feeling that was not jealousy, that was not disappointment or resentment or anger, welling up again.<span style=""> </span>I ignored it until it went away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen stopped and turned as a gust of wind flung a spray of blowing snow in her face.<span style=""> </span>She’d pulled her coat tightly around herself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I caught up to her.<span style=""> </span>“Good Lord.<span style=""> </span>We’re going to need coffee and brandy just to make it across the parking lot.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“And a dollop of whipped cream for me,” she said earnestly.<span style=""> </span>“Oh that sounds so good.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Just whipped cream?<span style=""> </span>No coffee or brandy for you?<span style=""> </span>That St Bernard’s going to be so disappointed.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I won’t turn down brandy.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“But you will turn down coffee.”<span style=""> </span>My clinical brain perked up, welcoming this change of topic.<span style=""> </span>“What’s up with you and that decaf, anyway?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I told you, it doesn’t agree with me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, what does that mean?<span style=""> </span>Does it make you jumpy?<span style=""> </span>Give you headaches?<span style=""> </span>Make your stage fright worse?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, it makes my stomach hurt.<span style=""> </span>A <i style="">lot</i>,” she added, cutting me off.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She sounded a little defensive.<span style=""> </span>Had she ever been accused of malingering?<span style=""> </span>I noticed her right hand resting briefly on the right lower quadrant of her abdomen.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So one cup of coffee’s enough<span style=""> </span>to cause severe abdominal pain.”<span style=""> </span>We reached the car, and<span style=""> </span>I opened the passenger door.<span style=""> </span>“Here, get in.<span style=""> </span>What about Coke, does that set you off too?”<span style=""> </span>She nodded.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sure this sounds like a crazy idea, but did you ever seek medical attention for this?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I did, a few years ago.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t find anything; he said I was probably just really sensitive to caffeine.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I closed the door.<span style=""> </span>“Really sensitive to caffeine”: now that was a real masterpiece of diagnostics.<span style=""> </span>As I walked around the car, I wondered who she’d seen.<span style=""> </span>Someone at the student health center?<span style=""> </span>That didn’t make sense; even those quacks would have sent a culture to the hospital lab, and all she had on file at the hospital was a throat culture.<span style=""> </span>A doctor in Briony?<span style=""> </span>Maybe some old family practitioner who accepted chickens in payment? Whoever it was, why didn’t he find anything?<span style=""> </span>Probably because he didn’t look very hard.<span style=""> </span>And why hadn’t Kopp at least gotten her to get a second opinion?<span style=""> </span>Her damn pride, probably:<span style=""> </span>Oh, it’s nothing, really, I’m fine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I opened the driver’s side door, turned on the engine, and cranked up the heat.<span style=""> </span>Eileen looked over.<span style=""> </span>“It’s not that bad,” she said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I ignored her and thought for a minute as I reached for the ice scraper.<span style=""> </span>“Is it worse when you’re having your period?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She didn’t answer right away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t be a prude, Abney,” I admonished her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not a prude, it’s just… personal.<span style=""> </span>And yes,” she added sulkily.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I got back out, leaving her to stew while I scraped the windows and pondered.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t have much data: no labs and, to my regret, no physical exam.<span style=""> </span>Not even a decent history or review of symptoms: if Eileen got all embarrassed about Aunt Flo, there was no way I was going to be able to get her into a chat about her bowel habits.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And since we were now personally acquainted, there was no I could – or should, technically – be her doctor.<span style=""> </span>It was a shame – it was an interesting case, and I didn’t want somebody stupid mucking it up, particularly one of the other residents.<span style=""> </span>And then there was that stupid Kopp in the picture.... So no clinic.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I could get her in to see Doyle….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I finished scraping the windows and got in the car.<span style=""> </span>Eileen was still looking abashed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Thanks for warming up the car.<span style=""> </span>And really, it’s not that bad.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“’It’s not that bad.’<span style=""> </span>You get horrible stomach pain from drinking a Coke and you’re telling me it’s really ‘not that bad.’ ” I looked up at the mirror and started backing the car out of the parking spot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, it isn’t.<span style=""> </span>I can live without Coke, you know.<span style=""> </span>And it’s gotten better,” she insisted.<span style=""> </span>“It was really bad last year; I couldn’t even eat chocolate.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t know females could live without chocolate.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“They can if they have to.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I glanced over.<span style=""> </span>We were still in the parking lot, and the lights gave me a good view of her face.<span style=""> </span>From her expression,<span style=""> </span>I could tell she wasn’t kidding around.<span style=""> </span>Suddenly I thought of how miserable she’d looked <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-dont-care-if-i-ever-get-back.html">at the softball game last spring</a>, sitting in the stands with David Kopp, and felt another surge of the feeling that was not jealousy.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen was still looking off into last year. “That was awful,” she reflected.<span style=""> </span>“Sometimes it even hurt to walk.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stopped the car.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“ ‘It hurt to walk,’” I repeated.<span style=""> </span>“You live in the same town as the largest research hospital in the state, and all you have to do to get there is get on the damn bus.<span style=""> </span>And you didn’t.”<span style=""> </span>Probably because she didn’t want to find out what was wrong.<span style=""> </span>“Okay, when it hurt to walk, was it your legs that hurt or your stomach?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Why are you asking me this?<span style=""> </span>It’s better now.” <span style=""> </span>She was starting to look frightened, and I couldn’t tell if it was from my anger or from her just not wanting to know.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Maybe it was both.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t care.<span style=""> </span>“Just answer me,” I commanded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“My stomach.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And did you have to walk funny sometimes to keep it from hurting?<span style=""> </span>Kind of hunched over?”<span style=""> </span>She nodded.<span style=""> </span>“Show me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked back at me, stunned.<span style=""> </span>I put the car in park and got out.<span style=""> </span>When she saw I was serious, she opened her own door.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I met her on the other side.<span style=""> </span>“Okay, show me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She was too bewildered to protest.<span style=""> </span>A couple of shuffling steps, her stance a little wide and her hand pressed to her belly, and I’d seen enough -- what I’d known I would see.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“All right, Abney, back in the car.<span style=""> </span>It’s cold out.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I went back around to the driver’s side I felt a blaze of brutal victory.<span style=""> </span>I’d figured out several little mysteries – the decaf, the ex, the reality that Eileen had been too cowardly to face.<span style=""> </span>Which meant that I’d figured out a little more of the reality of Eileen.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wondered, with idle cruelty, how the little diva would take what I was about to tell her.<span style=""> </span>My anticipation felt dirty and ugly -- almost sadistic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t care.<span style=""> </span>I opened the car door and got in.<span style=""> </span>Eileen just looked at me.<span style=""> </span>I put the car in gear and started to drive.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So…?” she finally said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We pulled out of the parking lot.<span style=""> </span>“I think you know.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I thought I did, but you seem to think it’s something different, so would you please just tell me?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we passed a streetlight, I took a quick glance at her face: agitated, frightened…. and I waited another beat or two, just to draw out the tension a little longer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You have a venereal disease,” I finally announced.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And oh, the look on her face – her jaw dropping in shock and denial, her face blushing cherry-pink…. And even as some small part of my brain screamed at me in vain to stop already, I savored my triumph.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Chlamydia, probably; there’s been a lot of that going around lately.<span style=""> </span>It’s not that big a deal.<span style=""> </span>College town like this?<span style=""> </span>It’s more common than the common cold.<span style=""> </span>We see it all the time in the clinic, and those are just the morons who were too embarrassed to show themselves at the student health center.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Of course, the real morons are the ones who don’t show up at any clinic.<span style=""> </span>For God’s sake, Abney, even if you didn’t want to admit to yourself that you might have cooties, did it ever cross your mind that with that kind of abdominal pain you might have had something seriously wrong with you?<span style=""> </span>What if you had appendicitis?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I knew it wasn’t my appendix,” she muttered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh really?<span style=""> </span>Did you think you could catch diagnostic ability from your med student, too?”<span style=""> </span>My conscience was starting to get a little shrill; I distracted myself by paying careful attention to the road.<span style=""> </span>We were getting close to the university.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Well, what makes you think you can tell something like that just… just from looking at me?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked over my shoulder and finished changing lanes before I answered her.<span style=""> </span>“That little walk you were doing is a classic sign of pelvic inflammatory disease.<span style=""> </span>It’s even got a cute name: the ‘PID shuffle.’<span style=""> </span>When you didn’t get the initial infection treated, it spread to the rest of your reproductive system and caused so much inflammation that even the ordinary little bounce it takes from walking was painful.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She stared out the window for a couple of blocks before she spoke up again.<span style=""> </span>“If I really do have this… disease, what do I do?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You need to get an exam.<span style=""> </span>You should be getting that done every year anyway.<span style=""> </span>Since the worst of the pain’s gone, your body’s probably fought off the infection on its own, but you probably have some scarring.<span style=""> </span>That’s what’s causing your stomach pain.<span style=""> </span>If you still have an active infection, they’ll give you antibiotics.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I gripped the wheel a little tighter.<span style=""> </span>“You should also tell… whoever it is you’re dating.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She didn’t say anything.<span style=""> </span>At the next stoplight, I looked over to try to get a read on her.<span style=""> </span>She was staring straight ahead, her arms folded and her lips pressed tightly together.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We reached the main drag and started getting into the main campus, passing the newer classroom buildings.<span style=""> </span>It was late, but there were still plenty of windows lit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m going to need some directions here,” I said.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sorry.<span style=""> </span>Take a right here and then a quick left.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I made the turn.<span style=""> </span>“But that’s the campus center.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes.<span style=""> </span>That next left is a driveway.<span style=""> </span>If you could leave me off there that would be good.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s late and it’s cold.<span style=""> </span>Which way’s your dorm?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It’s not really convenient to drive.<span style=""> </span>If you could leave me off here…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Where’s your dorm?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“<i style="">Please</i>.<span style=""> </span>Just leave me off here.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then it hit me: she didn’t want me to know where she lived.<span style=""> </span>I took a deep breath and grudgingly made the turn into the brightly-lit driveway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She had already unbuckled her seat belt.<span style=""> </span>I pulled the car over and grabbed her coat sleeve before she could open the door.<span style=""> </span>“Abney.<span style=""> </span>It’s late.<span style=""> </span>Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She turned to face me.<span style=""> </span>Her eyes were rimmed with red and filled with humiliation and hatred.<span style=""> </span>“I’ll be fine.<span style=""> </span>Really.”<span style=""> </span>She pulled her arm free and opened the door.<span style=""> </span>When she was out, she turned back around, one hand still on the door handle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Thank you,” she said coldly.<span style=""> </span>“Bowling was fun.”<span style=""> </span>I braced myself, expecting her to slam the door shut, but she was content with a fierce push.<span style=""> </span>I watched her as she walked quickly up to the entrance, fighting the wind all the way, pulling off her right mitten as she approached the door – so she could get at her key card, I supposed.<span style=""> </span>She paused at the doors – yes, there was the key card – and then I saw the doors open.<span style=""> </span>I drove off, not waiting to see whether or not she looked back before she closed the door behind her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I seethed all the way back to my apartment – at Eileen, at that punk she’d met at the restaurant door, at David Kopp, and especially at myself.<span style=""> </span>Once I was inside, I threw my jacket on the kitchen table and went straight to the microwave to heat a mug of water.<span style=""> </span>When it was done, I added a tea bag and a slosh of whisky and sprawled on the couch, half listening to <st1:city><st1:place>Carson</st1:place></st1:city> and then to Letterman as I swirled the toddy, watched my cigarette burn, and mentally reviewed the evening.<span style=""> </span>It had started off so well.<span style=""> </span>When had I blown it?<span style=""> </span>At the bowling alley?<span style=""> </span>At the restaurant?<span style=""> </span>Sure, I’d pushed her buttons and gotten to see an Eileen I’d never seen before, but for what?<span style=""> </span>Now I was never going to see her again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Oh well.<span style=""> </span>The prissy little diva had gotten her introduction to reality; a course of erythromycin, and she’d be no worse off than most of her classmates.<span style=""> </span>And it was fine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I finally shut off the TV and headed off to brush my teeth and go to bed.<span style=""> </span>As I pulled up the covers, I heard the wind whistling outside and I suddenly thought of Eileen again, shuffling in the parking lot.<span style=""> </span>How long had she lived with that, shuffling from class to class?<span style=""> </span>How on earth had she managed to sing?<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And why hadn’t she seen a doctor?<span style=""> </span>It didn’t make sense.<span style=""> </span>And then it hit me:<span style=""> </span>she didn’t see a doctor because she hadn’t thought anything was wrong – because she was used to it.<span style=""> </span>She <i style="">had</i> seen a doctor – a few years ago.<span style=""> </span>That was before she’d gotten the PID.<span style=""> </span>And she’d said she’d known it wasn’t her appendix….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I turned on my back and stared at the ceiling.<span style=""> </span>I was going to have to see Eileen again, whether she wanted to see me or not.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t able to get back over to the campus until Friday evening.<span style=""> </span>I hadn’t bothered trying to call her – I knew it would just be a waste of time.<span style=""> </span>Instead I headed to the practice rooms.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Room by room, I read the schedules posted outside the doors, looking for the ABNEY that would tell me when she’d be there.<span style=""> </span>As I worked my way down the hall, I heard a faint brittle jangle: a harpsichord.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I shook my head.<span style=""> </span>Scarlatti on a Friday night was kind of pathetic. Not as pathetic as what I was doing, of course, but still….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">No luck on the odd-numbered rooms, so I moved on to the evens.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I found her name – for <st1:time minute="0" hour="9">nine to nine-thirty a.m.</st1:time> on Mondays.<span style=""> </span>I wrote it down – it was better than nothing – but it would be weeks before I’d see a Monday morning off, and decades before I’d be up at <st1:time minute="0" hour="9">nine to nine-thirty</st1:time> on a Monday morning off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I worked my way down the hall, the harpsichord music changed to bursts of annoying, random-sounding chords with the occasional wandering run here and there. <span style=""> </span>I tuned it out and kept going.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found her name for another slot:<span style=""> </span>Thursday, <st1:time minute="0" hour="16">four to five-thirty</st1:time>.<span style=""> </span>That could work, I thought, and then I saw the other names under hers: it was for an ensemble.<span style=""> </span>Great.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two more rooms, and then it was on to the next hallway.<span style=""> </span>I heard footsteps from somewhere and stopped to listen; they grew fainter and then I heard the crash bar as whoever it was left. <span style=""> </span>Must have been the harpsichordist.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were only a few rooms on this corridor.<span style=""> </span>I found her Wednesday morning practice room, noted it, and turned the corner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I hadn’t been down this hall before.<span style=""> </span>The rooms looked larger.<span style=""> </span>One of them had the door open and the lights on.<span style=""> </span>It looked like it had finished walls instead of painted cinderblock.<span style=""> </span>Curious, I walked over to check it out.<span style=""> </span>It was the harpsichord room.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The instrument’s lid was up.<span style=""> </span>Curious, I walked in to get a closer look at its action.<span style=""> </span>As I entered the room,<span style=""> </span>I noticed a music stand next to the bench.<span style=""> </span>There was a score on it, a long one, annotated in pencil, its ends flapping off the sides of the desk.<span style=""> </span>As I looked around, I noticed a backpack neatly stowed on a chair against the wall.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The harpsichordist was probably coming back.<span style=""> </span>I snooped at the workings of the instrument and looked longingly at the keyboard.<span style=""> </span>Did I have time to try it out?<span style=""> </span>I –</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A startled gasp came from the door.<span style=""> </span>I wheeled around.<span style=""> </span>Damn my luck – it was Eileen, standing there in her coat, looking aghast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What are you doing here?”<span style=""> </span>she demanded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A dozen smart answers came to mind; I discarded them all.<span style=""> </span>I only had a few minutes before she ran out or called the cops.<span style=""> </span>“Looking for you,” I replied simply</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Did you <i style="">know</i> I was here?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No.<span style=""> </span>I was looking for your practice rooms to see if I could catch you next week.”<span style=""> </span>I looked around the room.<span style=""> </span>“What are you doing, anyway?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Working.”<span style=""> </span>She came in, warily, and started to take her coat off.<span style=""> </span>“So why –”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I cut her off.<span style=""> </span>“Listen, about the other night—”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t.<span style=""> </span>You did me a favor, actually.”<span style=""> </span>She walked over, closed the door, and turned to face me. “I did what you told me to do.<span style=""> </span>And you were right, they said everything you did.”<span style=""> </span>She chuckled sadly.<span style=""> </span>“Including the part about how I should have gone to the doctor instead of eating Advil and waiting for it to go away.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That’s why I’m here.<span style=""> </span>There was something else.<span style=""> </span>Are there any organs I have that you don’t?<span style=""> </span>Besides the obvious, of course.<span style=""> </span>What about your appendix?<span style=""> </span>Do you still have one?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No.<span style=""> </span>No, I had it out when I was thirteen.<span style=""> </span>How did you – “</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You told me, of course.<span style=""> </span>I bet it ruptured.”<span style=""> </span>She nodded.<span style=""> </span>“You recovered, you went back to school, you forgot about it, a couple of years went by, you got into high school or maybe college, tried to live on coffee and Diet Coke, and found out that they made you sick.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She stared at me and finally nodded again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked at my shoes and then back up at her.<span style=""> </span>“You probably are sensitive to caffeine, but that’s not the real problem.<span style=""> </span>I think you have adhesions.<span style=""> </span>Your appendix ruptured, you had peritonitis and developed bands of scar tissue around your intestines and maybe even your girly parts.”<span style=""> </span>She winced.<span style=""> </span>“It must not be too bad, if you can usually drink decaf and eat chocolate.<span style=""> </span>Caffeine stimulates the gut, and even decaf has a little caffeine in it.<span style=""> </span>But it’s bad enough that when you have a strong cup of coffee… I bet there’s other symptoms that you didn’t tell me about.<span style=""> </span>Does it make you throw up?<span style=""> </span>Do you get the runs a lot?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked away, and I figured it was time to shut up and not push it.<span style=""> </span>“You need to get a laparoscopy, get someone to look inside and see what’s going on.<span style=""> </span>You could get it done over at the hospital.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The doctor at the health center said the same thing – that I should get that…. that test.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You should listen to him.<span style=""> </span>That stuff you got last year could have gummed you up with even more scar tissue.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen stared off into the corner of the room.<span style=""> </span>I started to walk to the door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Wait,” she said.<span style=""> </span>“Please.”<span style=""> </span>She draped her coat over the back of the chair and stood there for a minute.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“This helps me a lot,” she finally said.<span style=""> </span>“It makes sense.<span style=""> </span>And it’s going to be a lot easier to break this to my parents when I tell them I should have this thing done.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Why did you come back?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You needed to know.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked away again.<span style=""> </span>“I should apologize to you.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t want to believe it and I took it out on you.<span style=""> </span>You were right.<span style=""> </span>You didn’t have to be so <i style="">mean</i> about it, but you were right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I should also apologize for something else.”<span style=""> </span>She lifted her backpack up onto the chair, rummaged through the front pocket, and pulled out a small, thin book – a magazine.<span style=""> </span>I caught a glimpse of the cover.<span style=""> </span>It was <i style="">Chess Nerd News</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen flipped through the magazine.<span style=""> </span>“I thought I was being clever, trying to catch you about the chess thing.<span style=""> </span>You’d recognized the magazine, so I figured you must have been a serious player at some point.<span style=""> </span>It seemed like such a silly thing to hide, and I just thought it might have been fun to play a game or two.”<span style=""> </span>She found what she was looking for and folded back the pages.<span style=""> </span>The binding was still stiff.<span style=""> </span>“This came today.”<span style=""> </span>She handed me the magazine.<span style=""> </span>“I think I understand now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked at the article -- something about rooks.<span style=""> </span>It was the byline that caught my attention, as it had hers:<span style=""> </span><i style="">M. House, Contributing Editor</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“The M stands for Mark, doesn’t it?” she said.<span style=""> </span>“There’s a blurb at the end that says M. House lives in <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state>.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d already started to skim the article.<span style=""> </span>The dull, precise style was pure Mark.<span style=""> </span>I hadn’t known he was writing.<span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I handed the magazine back to Eileen.<span style=""> </span>“Even if it seemed silly to me,<span style=""> </span>it obviously wasn’t silly to you.<span style=""> </span>I should have left you alone,” she said.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She put the magazine away, walked to the music desk, and picked up her pencil.<span style=""> </span>I was about to be dismissed.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I thought furiously.<span style=""> </span>No date: that ship had sailed, and I’d probably been banned for life from that cruise line anyway.<span style=""> </span>But I’d grown used to knowing that Eileen was out there and that she’d even tolerate me a little.<span style=""> </span>It had been something different, something to look forward to, and I didn’t want to lose it.<span style=""> </span>At this moment, she seemed pretty calm and hadn’t called security on me; it wasn’t much of a chance, but it was still a chance.<span style=""> </span>And if I didn’t take it, I’d never get another.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I never said I didn’t play.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked up at her.<span style=""> </span>No triumph, no anger; just waiting to hear what I’d say next.<span style=""> </span>“Maybe we could break out a board sometime,” I continued.<span style=""> </span>“If that’s why you were asking.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not that good a player.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Somehow I doubted that; she’d skewered me pretty well on this chess thing and she hadn’t even been trying that hard.<span style=""> </span>“You must be that good a student; you’re the one carrying the book around.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She looked down at her score, considering.<span style=""> </span>“Maybe we could sometime.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know when; I don’t have my calendar with me,” she hastily added.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m waiting on some stuff myself.<span style=""> </span>I could call you.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That would be okay.”<span style=""> </span>She took a deep breath.<span style=""> </span>Only her right hand, frantically twiddling her pencil, betrayed her agitation.<span style=""> </span>“I should get back to work now.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I nodded and walked to the door.<span style=""> </span>I turned, my hand on the knob.<span style=""> </span>Eileen was still standing next to the desk.<span style=""> </span>“Good night, Abney,” I said.<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Good night.”<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I turned back the way I’d come, I heard her shut the door to her practice room.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t stop to look back.<span style=""> </span>The only sound was the squeak of my shoes as I headed back to the exit.<span style=""> </span>I pushed open the stairwell door, went up the short flight of stairs, and headed back out into the night.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1156080416414091182006-08-20T09:26:00.000-04:002006-08-20T09:26:56.510-04:00Ketamine and Depression<a href="http://www.fumento.com/disease/depression.html">Ketamine as a treatment for depression?</a><br /><br /><blockquote>...a treatment conducted by the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH). ...ketamine has been used as a general anesthetic for both humans and animals. Given in doses too low to cause anesthesia, it relieved depression in as little as two hours.<br /><br />The study, appearing in the August Archives of General Psychiatry, comprised 17 depressed patients randomly assigned to receive either an injection of ketamine or a placebo. For 71% of those receiving the real deal, depression improved within a single day. Indeed, 29% became nearly free symptom free. Thirty-five percent of patients who received ketamine were still feeling better a week later. Patients receiving the placebo reported no improvement. No patients had serious side effects.<br /><br />A week later, in a cross-over study, participants were given the opposite treatment unless they were still benefiting from the ketamine. Those with no benefit from the placebo were now helped while those who had received the real thing the first time but the fake stuff this time had no improvement.<br /><br />More spectacularly, these were all treatment-resistant patients. They had tried an average of six medicines each without relief.</blockquote><br /><br />Interesting. Not for me personally, of course.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1156033956512924372006-08-19T19:51:00.000-04:002006-08-19T20:36:47.840-04:00the ultimate one-stop shopping: groceries from Amazon.com<a href="http://www.amazon.com/b/ref=amb_link_1964502_2/002-6992372-8572846?ie=UTF8&node=194105011">This is great!</a> I can order my DVDs <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>the popcorn to go with them. But why do anchovies have their own section?<br /><br />They seem to sell everything by the gross, but I am going to make this work for me somehow. Like <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Betty-Crocker-Warm/dp/B000EMK4GO/sr=1-5/qid=1156033209/ref=sr_1_5/002-6992372-8572846?ie=UTF8&m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&s=grocery">these microwave brownies in a bowl</a> -- I bet I could find something to do with eight of those.<br /><br />All they need now is delivery Scotch. That and Peeps, year-round.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1154897664345071982006-08-06T21:33:00.000-04:002006-08-07T07:44:41.783-04:00worst summer vacation everStretched out on the couch. How long have I been here? When's sunset these days? It's dark out, so it's been a few hours, but finding the exact time isn't worth the effort of lifting my arm to look at my watch. I'm comfortable. I want to enjoy it.<br /><br />It was around five when I couldn't take it any longer and made the climb up the stepstool to get the box. Five milligrams, snap off the tourniquet, put the syringe aside, and lean back, knowing that rest is on its way at last. I was so tired from the pain that I fell asleep shortly after the morphine kicked in. That must have been around five-thirty.<br /><br />This summer has been hell. The heat, the pain -- it's literally been hell, with the smell of hot asphalt standing in for brimstone. The heat makes me tired and the humidity makes my joints hurt and everything makes my leg hurt. Everything. I get on the bike and and I have to brace myself as the heat from the metal sets off the shooting pain in my thigh. I wait for a minute or two, or three, until I'm finally able to get going again. I get to work, pull into my parking spot, and have to give myself an extra bounce to get the momentum to lift my leg over the bike. The effort kicks up the neuralgia again, and I start getting a pins-and-needles sensation that overwhelms every other signal coming in from my leg. I have to glance down to my foot as I cross the parking lot so I don't step on it the wrong way and stumble.<br /><br />When I get to the front door, I go straight to the vending machine, supporting myself with my left hand as I wait for my drink to drop. I balance myself on my left leg as I pop the top and take the first sip. Then it's off to the elevator, one step at a time through the crowded lobby. Four floors up, and finally I can relax in my office chair, preparing myself for morning rounds. I haven't made them drag the whiteboard into my office. I won't. I don't need that.<br /><br />All day long, I manage the pain in my leg: fidgeting, pacing, staying away from the plastic chairs that cut into the back of my thigh the wrong way, rolling my chair away from the air conditioning, bouncing my super ball. Vicodin. Foreman ignores me and Cameron and Chase take less and less notice every day. When I need a refill, Wilson gives me a look that's a question and I give him a look that means <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm fine</span>. Every so often Cuddy gives me the look and I just turn away. I'm not interested in her platitudes and saline.<br /><br />And finally I'm home again. Most evenings I'm able to keep things under control, put up my leg and titrate the beer and Vicodin until I can get some rest. But some evenings, some nights....<br /><br />It hasn't been that often. Just a couple of times. There was the first time, when that sucker Crandall was here. And then there was that time last month. But it's only when I need it. And when I finally give in and go for the box and undo the combination with my thumbs, breathing easier even through the pain because I know real relief is coming soon.... I always put the box back, always, stowing it back on the highest shelf and piling the books on top.<br /><br />It's what works. It's what I need.<br /><br />So how much longer am I going to need this?<br /><br />And how much longer will it be enough?<br /><br /><br />I shove the thoughts away and reach for the remote. Out of the corner of my eye I see the phone blinking; someone must have called while I was asleep. I'll deal with it later.<br /><br />I turn my attention back to the TV.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1151010940616026452006-06-22T17:15:00.000-04:002006-06-22T17:15:40.753-04:00tolerate mornings<a href="http://disputations.blogspot.com/2006_06_18_disputations_archive.html#115099092128185714"><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GQI2KlAurOg"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GQI2KlAurOg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1147900956665408782006-05-17T17:19:00.000-04:002006-05-18T16:41:32.716-04:00Rec: Eight Days, Eight Months<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Namaste has finished her new magnum opus "Eight Days, Eight Months." House/Stacy breakup; suitable for all. <br /><br />Go, read! </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">The whole thing's </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.squidge.org/housefanfiction/archive/8/eightdays.html">here</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1145624518618754892006-05-02T01:40:00.000-04:002006-05-03T00:08:29.100-04:00botheredSome moron from the Food Network is getting ready to take me on a journey into the Secret Life of Chili Peppers, and I really am not interested because it's just going to get me thinking about Stacey and her vindaloo curry or, at best, my current famotidine dosage, and I just do not feel like going there tonight. So I click off the TV.<br /><br />I don't get up right away. No reason to; I can stay up as late as I like, since I don't have to worry about Wilson waking me up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning polishing his teeth to be ready for early rounds. But even though things are getting back to normal it's weird not having him around. Even my mom was getting used to his being here. When I talked her earlier tonight, she sounded disappointed to hear that he's gone for good. Of course, she had her own reasons for hoping he'd stay; I think she figured that with Wilson around she could be sure I was eating well and keeping my feet dry and what not.<br /><br />She also had someone else to talk to about that stupid show she watches. A few weeks ago she got her wish <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/04/americans-riled.html">and they had standards night</a>. That was the night Wilson insisted on watching it. Rod Stewart singing the classics? Did the 60's and 70's not happen? They might as well fire up the bubble pumper and the reanimated corpse of Lawrence Welk.<br /><br />So there was Wilson eating popcorn and drinking beer and making cracks about how at first he thought Simon and I were separated at birth but that theory can't be true because Simon has more hair. I was sitting there trying to ignore him and silently fuming at the lack of visual interest in that show -- Paris was hardly dressed to seduce that night (though if she had been it would have been more "disturbing" than "hot"; it hadn't been that long since we'd discharged our teenage supermodel). Wilson tried to get me into a differential diagnosis of Paula; "She's an idiot," I snapped, and went back to reading the paper.<br /><br />And then I looked up at the TV again as some girl who looked like an extra from the "Hee Haw" cornfield began her attempt at "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered." Wilson snorted and said something about "one out of three, anyway"; I sat there, staring, remembering another April when I'd sat in a college auditorium <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/working-late.html">listening to a green-eyed girl perform the very same song</a>.<br /><br />I watched until I sensed Wilson looking at me. I gave the paper a snap, said something about that girl needing to just find herself a nonagenarian millionaire and settle down, and pretended to go back to reading the paper.<br /><br />That was a couple of weeks ago. Since then, Daisy Mae has been kicked off the island, and I'm beginning to understand the savage pleasure that my mother takes in seeing contestants get voted off.<br /><br /><br />Now if I could just get the song completely scrubbed out of my head....<br /><br />I sigh and get ready to push myself out of the chair. After all that, I'm going to need some famotidine anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1144766430409859352006-04-10T22:10:00.000-04:002006-04-11T10:44:49.403-04:00Americans, riledSimon, Simon, Simon, why must you persecute me like this? I had to endure a thirty-minute rant from my mother last night. She and her little friends at the retirement community <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/03/jury-girls.html">are back to watching American Idol</a>. Their list of favorites this year is very short, even shorter than last year (I think Ace is on the Bad List just for being named Ace) and, unfortunately, Mandisa was on their short list. So these old ladies are already furious over Mandisa's getting the return ticket, and then they found out that tomorrow night is dedicated to the music of... Queen.<br /><br />Good Lord, it was awful. "Now, Gregory, dear, who is this <span style="font-style: italic;">Queen</span>? It's not Queen Latifah? It's who? And they've sung what? But isn't that that song that they play in stadiums all the time? And their last hit was when? But I thought the point of this show was to find people who would be popular <span style="font-style: italic;">today</span>. This show's aimed at young people and not people like us? Now what exactly do you mean by "people like us"? Oh, I know you're teasing. And I'm sure you're right, but we have cell phones and buy records too, so why can't they find someone who appeals to people like us as well? And if they're going to have 'Queen Night' why can't they have another Motown night? Or a Broadway night or standards night? And another thing, Gregory, why do they keep <span style="font-style: italic;">pointing </span>at us all the time when they sing? Especially that Kellie? It's... off-putting, that's what it is. If they had Lerner and Lowe night, that would be a good stretch for the contestants, and I'm sure we'd see a lot less of that <span style="font-style: italic;">pointing</span>...."<br /><br />And on and on and on, Wilson snickering the whole time while he pretended to read. I think he's going to insist on watching it tomorrow night. Weren't the first ten plagues bad enough?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1143068312865273632006-03-24T09:54:00.000-05:002006-03-22T18:04:43.260-05:00link: guy juggling to Beatles song (work-safe)Damn! <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4776181634656145640">Look at this guy!</a><br /><br />I am... in awe. Just think of all the time I could "waste" working up something like this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1140710041919891852006-03-23T23:36:00.000-05:002006-03-08T07:41:09.920-05:00memory lanes<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">A note from your author:<br /><br />OK, I fibbed. Here's a little something I've had on deck and finally got a chance to post.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br />House has been reminiscing here and there about Eileen, a woman who came unexpectedly </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/01/last-time-i-saw-eileen.html">to visit him in the hospital after the infarction</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">. (There's a complete list of Eileen chapters in the right sidebar.) He'd </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/01/i-was-playing-piano-when-i-met-her.html">met Eileen during his residency</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> and found himself interested in her. Things were complicated, though, for House was... well, House, and the life of a resident is not easy. Eileen was significantly younger and -- worst of all -- was dating <a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/02/blackmail-is-sweetest-crime.html">a medical student whom House was supervising at the time</a>.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">They </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/codes-coffees-crayons.html">bumped into each other</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> a </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/04/working-late.html">few times</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/05/i-dont-care-if-i-ever-get-back.html">that spring</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">, but House didn't see Eileen again until a November afternoon when </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/while-i-looked-around-for-my.html"> their paths crossed again</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">. Eileen had just broken up with her med student and had found herself without a way out of town for Christmas. House </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/07/funny-how-my-memory-slips.html">offered her a lift</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">. He </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2005/08/better-ride-than-what-youve-got.html">had his own issues at the time</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> and wasn't looking forward to his own visit home, so he was pleased when Eileen ended up accepting the ride, and even more pleased when Eileen </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" html="">promised to get back in touch after the holidays.</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/01/threats-and-promises.html">Eileen kept her promise</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> -- and House found himself wondering what he'd gotten himself into....</span><br /><br /><hr /><br /><br /><br /><br />I can't sleep.<br /><br /><br />I can't sleep. Again.<br /><br />I rub my right leg again as if it's going to help. It does, a little; kind of like rounding your tax bill up to the nearest dollar helps reduce the national debt a little. Maybe I could practice intentional breathing and picture tiny pink clouds of healing. Maybe that would help. A little.<br /><br />I prop myself up on my elbow, turn my pillow over, and lie down again. The logical thing to do would be to take another Vicodin; it's right on the nightstand. But every time I think about turning over and reaching for the bottle, I think about Cuddy looking at me, her big green eyes dripping regret: "It was saline. I gave you a <span style="font-style: italic;">placebo</span>."<br /><br />Dammit, Cuddy -- why? Why did you do that? All you did was just take something else away from me. And my leg still hurts. It still hurts.<br /><br />Why doesn't anyone believe me? It <span style="font-style: italic;">still hurts</span>.<br /><br />And if this is what it's like now, it would have been ten thousand times worse in a few months, a few years -- whenever Stacey finally got fed up with me and "got lonely" again.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Get a hooker. Anything."</span> I tried it Wilson's way. God, how utterly pathetic. Paula came and went and here I am, alone again. I can lie here and admit it -- yeah, I miss Stacey -- and my leg's still going to hurt.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I hear... </span>bowling <span style="font-style: italic;">is more fun than stalking.</span>" I smile a little to myself. Wilson was pulling my chain, of course; bowling's out until they come up with some kind of crip league. And as for being more fun than stalking, I doubt it. The stakes are higher in stalking so the satisfaction's proportionately higher. But for short-term satisfaction, Wilson's right -- bowling's the way to go. Nothing like flinging a weight down an alley at a pile of pins and knocking them all kaplooey.<br /><br />I think about how I went bowling in med school, especially those first couple of years before clinicals really got going. Duckpins, mostly, at that really ancient place not too far away from school.<br /><br />I managed to make it a few times when I was a resident, too. My first year, one of the Chief Residents tried to get us all to go together once a month -- so we could "bond", I suppose. After he left, a few people kept it up in second year and I came along, but I was there for the beer and the bowling, not for any bonding. By third year, I wasn't bowling very often, and the few nights I went I was bowling alone.<br /><br />Until that January.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://housemd.blogspot.com/2006/01/threats-and-promises.html">Before I knew it, the plan was set.<span style=""> </span>“See you next Wednesday!” she chirped.<span style=""> </span>And that was it.</a></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">I hung up the phone, wandered back into the living room, and picked up the game again.<span style=""> </span>I’d just the fourth level when it hit me:<span style=""> </span>I was taking Eileen Abney out.<span style=""> </span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Was I going on a date with her?</p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Did I think it was a date?</p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">Did Eileen think it was a date?</p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">What had I gotten myself into?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I<span style=""> </span>brooded over the question for the next week: mulling it over as I drove back and forth to work, fretting as I watched a popcorn bag pirouette and swell in the microwave, struggling to find a way to diagram the problem as I sat in Friday Grand Rounds, ignoring the presenter…. I tried to devise a model of the problem and came up with something like a Punnett square, but had to stop myself from crumpling the paper and flinging it to the floor when I calculated a 50 percent chance that the evening would end in disaster.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Sunday afternoon I found myself drinking beer, trying to watch hockey, and finding myself thinking about Wednesday instead.<span style=""> </span>A 50 percent chance of disaster – bad odds, but then what did I want to have happen?<span style=""> </span>What would success look like?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From my past dating experience, I figured getting through the evening without being slapped would be a good start.<span style=""> </span>And beyond that….<span style=""> </span>I looked down at my beer bottle and the label I’d been peeling off, and dragged my attention back to the game.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was a long three days, and I almost didn’t make it; my pen-tapping, finger-drumming, and increased general irritability that week had made me more unpopular than ever. Even Hirsch had been sending dirty looks in my direction. <span style=""> </span>Barras finally snapped on Tuesday evening as we toiled away in our carrels.<span style=""> </span>He stopped his dictation, flung down his papers, and wheeled around in the office chair.<span style=""> </span>“<i style="">House</i>,” he snarled. “It’s great that you’re quitting, but you know, there are samples of the nicotine gum down in the clinic.<span style=""> </span>Go down there and get yourself some.<span style=""> </span>Or let me write you a scrip, or go out and get yourself a smoke.<span style=""> </span>Just do something, or I swear to God, you will not live long enough to enjoy not getting cancer.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I made it to Wednesday afternoon without getting shoved down the stairs and managed to escape shortly after report.<span style=""> </span>Back home, I had enough time to get a shower and cook dinner before heading back out the door and into the cold to go get Eileen.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She was ready and waiting, peeking out a window by the front door of the campus center.<span style=""> </span>Her long coat flapped in the wind as she ran down the steps and across the walk.<span style=""> </span>I frowned as she skidded a little on a patch of ice. <span style=""> </span>She caught herself and hurried up to the car.<span style=""> </span>I reached across the seat to open the latch.<span style=""> </span>She shivered as she dropped into her seat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It is <i style="">so cold!</i>” she exclaimed, and then gave me a sheepish look.<span style=""> </span>“I suppose you’re going to make fun of me now for saying something so obvious.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, especially since you haven’t seemed to learn something equally obvious about the strong correlation between cold and ice.<span style=""> </span>Seriously, if you don’t want to go bowling, we can do something else, you don’t have to resort to giving yourself a concussion.<span style=""> </span>Of course, if you <i style="">want</i> a tour of the emergency room….”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, that’s quite all right.<span style=""> </span>Why do you keep thinking I don’t want to go bowling?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took a deep breath. I simply didn’t know how to answer her question, and thinking about it made me uncomfortable, so I just drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.<span style=""> </span>I was already on edge, and there was something different about Eileen that I couldn’t quite place.<span style=""> </span>I looked over at her again: hat, hair, coat, that knowing little smile that meant she knew I was looking at her….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Where’s your backpack?”<span style=""> </span>I asked abruptly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t bring it.<span style=""> </span>What, did you think it was surgically attached or something?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Seemed to be,” I grunted.<span style=""> </span>“Or at least sewn to your coat.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I could see why you’d think that, but I thought I’d leave it at home tonight.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t planning on studying between frames or anything like that.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You would have been disappointed if you had.<span style=""> </span>My turns don’t drag on too long.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I didn’t think they would.<span style=""> </span>Those gutter balls don’t need too much in the way of math, do they?”<span style=""> </span>She snickered as I scowled at her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Just for that, I’m not going to go easy on you, Abney.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She smiled smugly, her nose in the air.<span style=""> </span>“I appreciate the warning.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The college town’s cultural amenities included not one but two bowling alleys. <span style=""> </span>I’d been to both, and had decided on the one on the edge of town, out towards the mall.<span style=""> </span>It was a newer place, self-consciously retro – sparkly turquoise plastic and all that -- so it was a little bit cleaner, not as smoky;<span style=""> </span>that would probably please the little diva.<span style=""> </span>And it was farther away from the hospital, which pleased me.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know if any of the other residents bowled, and I wasn’t in the mood to find out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was a slow night, so we were able to get a lane right away.<span style=""> </span>Eileen got her shoes on first and came over to wait while I laced mine up.<span style=""> </span>She chuckled a little to herself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What’s so funny?”<span style=""> </span>I asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Nothing.<span style=""> </span>Your feet just look so <i style="">big </i>in those shoes<i style="">.</i>”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I stood up.<span style=""> </span>“You know, it’s a good thing you’re so easily amused.<span style=""> </span>You’ll still have fun and won’t cry when the scores get posted.”<span style=""> </span>We walked over to the ball racks.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, look, there’s a pink one, just for you!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Hm?” To my disappointment, she didn’t even look up.<span style=""> </span>She’d walked straight to a rack and was eyeing her choices.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I knew where this place kept the balls I liked, so I found one pretty quickly.<span style=""> </span>I turned around.<span style=""> </span>Eileen had chosen a ball and was testing the grip.<span style=""> </span>Satisfied, she looked up.<span style=""> </span>“Ready?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We headed over to our lane and put our stuff down.<span style=""> </span>“You first, Abney.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Thank you.”<span style=""> </span>She nodded regally and walked to the end of the lane.<span style=""> </span>As she waited for the pins to set, I found myself turning to the same question that had been vexing me all week:<span style=""> </span>was this a date?<span style=""> </span>Did I want it to be a date?<span style=""> </span>If not, then why did I had I been so upset when she hadn’t called?<span style=""> </span>Why had I pressed so hard for this date/outing/whatever-it-was?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were so many good reasons for this not to be a date.<span style=""> </span>She was young, she was probably still on the rebound, she was only going to be around for a few more months, and she didn’t seem interested in me.<span style=""> </span>And she definitely wasn’t my type – I tended to be more interested in tall and sexy than short and cute.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But as she paced back from the foul line and stood for a moment, getting ready, I had a good view.<span style=""> </span>Her jeans and sweater weren’t tight, but I could still get a nice sense of the curves of her waist and ass, especially as she took the first step, the second, faster, the ball swinging back, and three four five…. the ball swinging forward, leaving her hand; <span style=""> </span>Eileen standing up straight, watching the ball rumble down the lane. <span style=""> </span>The clatter of the falling pins -- all ten of them.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She turned, grinning, and came back to the settee as her score appeared overhead.<span style=""> </span>“Your turn!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“That was beginner’s luck, wasn’t it?” I asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“It would be if I were a beginner.<span style=""> </span>But I practiced over break, so that just makes it a strike.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took my first throw and cursed under my breath as the ten-pin and its two obstinate neighbors stayed upright.<span style=""> </span>To my relief, I made the spare, but Eileen had the high ground just from of that strike.<span style=""> </span>I came back over to the settee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You <i style="">practiced</i> for this?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, yeah.”<span style=""> </span>She hoisted her ball.<span style=""> </span>“I figured it’d be more fun if I were actually ready.”<span style=""> </span>She concentrated, stepped off …. and threw another strike. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The look on her face was a little too calm.<span style=""> </span>I stared at her as she walked back.<span style=""> </span>“You <i style="">brat</i>!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She shrugged.<span style=""> </span>“Okay, so I practiced a lot.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I grabbed my ball from the return.<span style=""> </span>“What, slow funeral season?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Not at all!<span style=""> </span>I actually did very well this winter.<span style=""> </span>But a funeral in the morning, a shift at the grocery store in the evening… that left me all afternoon to go bowling.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I shook my head, sent my ball down the lane, and seethed as the seven-pin teetered and recovered its footing to form an ugly split.<span style=""> </span>Eileen choked back laughter when she saw my face as I stalked back to the settee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I pulled my ball off the return.<span style=""> </span>“<i style="">Some</i> of us didn’t have three weeks off to do nothing but practice bowling in the afternoons.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You know, you’re right.<span style=""> </span>Do you want me to take it easy on you?<span style=""> </span>No?<span style=""> </span>I didn’t think so.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There was no way I was going to pick up the spare.<span style=""> </span>I tried to pick off the ten-pin and failed. Back at the table, I frowned as I watched the scores tally.<span style=""> </span>That open frame hadn’t helped me at all, especially when Eileen’s two strikes had given her such a big advantage.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I can’t believe you <i style="">practiced</i>,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“No wonder you were so hot to play.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Bowling was your idea.<span style=""> </span>I just wanted to be ready.”<span style=""> </span>She picked up her ball and headed to the foul line.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her streak didn’t last – she finished her next turn with an open frame – but any moping over the is-this-a-date question was forgotten as I struggled to catch up.<span style=""> </span>A couple of splits for Eileen, a strike for me, and by the eighth frame I was getting close.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But not close enough.<span style=""> </span>I slouched against the ball return and watched my chances shrink as she threw another strike.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I hoisted my ball, headed over to the lane, and concentrated.<span style=""> </span>I <i style="">really</i> needed a strike.<span style=""> </span>I stepped forward and threw… and made it.<span style=""> </span>I was still in the game.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I swaggered back over to the settee.<span style=""> </span>“Don’t start gloating yet, Abney.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said with a smirk.<span style=""> </span>She lifted her ball, headed off to the lane, and threw a strike.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I grabbed my ball off the return as she got back and got ready to throw.<span style=""> </span>If I got a strike, I could pull ahead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I didn’t make it.<span style=""> </span>I left four pins.<span style=""> </span>As Eileen watched from the settee, I picked up the rest of the pins on the spare.<span style=""> </span>But it wasn’t enough, especially when Eileen took another strike on the next frame.<span style=""> </span>She finished me off with her bonus throw.<span style=""> </span>I stared as the final scores went up -- it hadn’t occurred to me that she might win.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I turned and looked down at her.<span style=""> </span>She had her lips pressed together, trying to keep from bursting out laughing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Best two out of three?” she finally asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The scores were really tight on the next game.<span style=""> </span>I was warmed up and throwing more accurately, but Eileen was still having those annoying little runs of strikes plumping up her score.<span style=""> </span>I sighed as I watched her start the eighth frame, stepping forward, making her throw… <span style=""> </span>The ball rolled down the lane and six pins clattered to the floor.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Something wasn’t right.<span style=""> </span>Her throw was accurate, and she should have made that strike, but she didn’t.<span style=""> </span>She picked up her ball and headed back to the lane.<span style=""> </span>I watched her carefully as she made her second throw.<span style=""> </span>Four pins teetered, but only three fell.<span style=""> </span>She was getting tired.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I thought about it as I squinted down the lane.<span style=""> </span>I had at least seven inches of height on Eileen, was throwing a much heavier ball, and had a set of free weights in the corner of my bedroom.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was going to pull this off.<span style=""> </span>I sent the ball down the lane and was rewarded with a strike.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen made her next spare, but it wasn’t enough – I made my spare as well, and finished her off on the last frame.<span style=""> </span>We watched the scores tally.<span style=""> </span>I’d just made it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eileen was a good sport and played the third game, but I took that one handily to win our little tourney. <span style=""> </span>I took her ball in my left hand and we headed back over to the ball racks.<span style=""> </span>“Too bad, Abney.<span style=""> </span>All that practice for nothing, unless you <i style="">were</i> just taking it easy on me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She sat down on the bench and started untying her bowling shoes as I stepped out of mine.<span style=""> </span>“Oh, it wasn’t for nothing.<span style=""> </span>I had fun, and I think I made you sweat, or at least work a little.<span style=""> </span>But don’t worry, you came by it honestly.<span style=""> </span>I always play to win.”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We traded in our bowling shoes.<span style=""> </span>Back at the bench,<span style=""> </span>Eileen sat down and started putting on her own shoes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I wonder…” she said.<span style=""> </span>“What would you have done if I <i style="">had</i> won that second game?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I yanked on my shoelaces. “What do you mean, what would I have done?”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Just that.<span style=""> </span>Would you have shaken my hand and said ‘Great game, Abney,’ or would you have demanded three out of five, and then five out of seven, and made me play again and again until you finally won, even if my arm was falling out of the socket?”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Nobody cares what the loser does.<span style=""> </span>What would <i style="">you</i> have done?”<span style=""> </span>I stood up.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Oh, I don’t know… maybe taken an ad in the paper?<span style=""> </span>Not really. But I would have thought about it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So do you expect me to hire a skywriter?<span style=""> </span>I’m too cheap for that, but maybe…”<span style=""> </span>I looked around the counter to the snack bar.<span style=""> </span>The lanes were full now, so the snack bar was only going to get more crowded and smoky, and I wanted something a bit more substantial than pretzels and watery Cokes and cold plastic chairs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I turned back to Eileen.<span style=""> </span>“…Maybe I’ll ask if you want to go get something to eat.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She smiled.<span style=""> </span>“That sounds great.”</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">to be continued</span><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1140494972301450582006-02-20T15:51:00.000-05:002006-02-21T19:39:21.556-05:00dulce domumI'm at home. I skipped out of work early today. Our crispy critter is stable, and the clinic is closed for President's Day, so it's not like PPTH would grind to a halt if I weren't there.<br /><br />Besides, today was a red-letter day on GH: Holly's back, and I wanted to be able to devote my full attention to this very important event. If I tried to watch in my office, someone would have been rapping on the glass, bothering me. My coma guy's room is out -- Cuddy's on to me there.<br /><br />I was thinking about the digs over in Oncology -- they do have that sweet flat-screen with the TiVo -- but then I'd end up watching my show in the company of a certain gossipy boy wonder. I'd have to explain everything and everybody to him <span style="font-style: italic;">again</span>, and he wouldn't pay attention and spend the whole time turning everything, down to the last Huggies ad, to the topic of Stacey. It's getting old. And my leg's been bad today. So between my wanting to watch Holly in peace and wanting to put my leg up in comfort, home was the place to be.<br /><br />I got home a little before three. As I put my key in the lock, I heard something in my apartment and stopped to listen. It was a vacuum cleaner. Of course -- it was Monday, the cleaning lady was there. I grimaced, turned the doorknob, and stepped into the apartment.<br /><br />Mrs Brudzik's been coming for a couple of years now. Our relationship is mostly epistolary: every Monday she leaves me a note, and on the first Monday of the month I leave my response in the form of a check. It's been a while since I've actually seen her.<br /><br />I think she's getting deaf. She was vacuuming the living room and had her back turned to the door as I entered. She didn't hear me come in, even as I rattled my keys (intentionally) and sent the chair skidding into the desk as I tossed down my bag (unintentionally.) She shut off the vacuum, turned to unplug it, and jumped a little when she saw me.<br /><br />"Oh! Dr House! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you -- I can leave the rest, if you need me to go --"<br /><br />"Don't worry about it." I waved my hand as I crossed the living room.<br /><br />"Are you off today?"<br /><br />"Just early. Good day today: we cured all the patients and sent 'em all home."<br /><br />She smiled nervously. She doesn't know what to make of me, and I could tell that she was trying to not stare at my cane. I went on to the kitchen. As I fixed my snack, I could hear the vacuum's wheels squeaking as she rolled it back to the closet, and then the clang of the dryer door. I went back out into the living room. Plate on the side table, leg on the ottoman, remote in the right hand, and off to Port Charles.<br /><br />And soon, there she was. Holly! How many years has it been since I've seen her? She looked so different without all that big '80's hair.<br /><br />I caught a whiff of orange thirty or forty minutes into the show, and realized that Mrs B had come out from the bedroom. I turned to look at her and she quickly turned her head, pretending that she wasn't watching TV over my shoulder as she dusted the bookshelves. She'd left a bag of trash and a bag of newspapers by the door, and I realized that this room was her last stop -- that she saved the dusting for last so she could watch her show while she worked. For an instant I felt like I was the intruder, and then I just felt annoyed: annoyed with myself, and then annoyed with her, and then annoyed that I pay a woman with grandchildren to take out my paper to the recycling bin because it's easier than trying to handle it myself. Annoyed that I was at home instead of in my office because the people at work annoy me so much. Annoyed because I was annoyed instead of enjoying being at home.<br /><br />My reverie was interrupted by a surge of pain coming from where my vastus lateralis used to be, boring through my leg like an electrified corkscrew. I caught my breath and reached for my Vicodin, rattling the bottle a little before I shook the pill out into my palm. Behind me, Mrs Brudzik went on with the dusting, but I could feel her anxiety. I gave my full attention to the commercials.<br /><br />The show came back on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs Brudzik pushing a dustmop back and forth and then returning it to the closet. She came back out and started putting her coat on. "Well, I can just tell you -- I deep-cleaned the kitchen today, washed out the icebox and cleaned the coils." she said.<br /><br />For a nanosecond or two, I thought about getting up to let her out. But I was still annoyed with her, and I was comfortable on the sofa. "Okay," I grunted. She finished buttoning her coat,walked over to the door, grabbed the trash, and left.<br /><br />It was just as well. In the time it took her to do all that, I would have still been getting myself up off of the couch. The thought of dinner and how I would prepare it flitted through my mind. I shoved the thought away -- I'd deal with it later. Dinner, Wilson, Cuddy... later, I'll deal with all of it later. Right now I just want to be left alone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10128584.post-1139611379771417182006-02-09T00:39:00.000-05:002006-02-10T17:42:59.793-05:00percolatin'Overhead, the moon is beaming,<br />White as blossoms on the bough.<br />Nothing is heard but the song of a bird<br />filling all the air with dreaming;<br />Would my heart but still it's beating,<br />Only you can tell it how, beloved;<br />From your window give me greeting,<br />Hear my eternal vow.<br /><br />Soft in the trees lies the echo of my longing,<br />while all around you my dreams of rapture throng.<br />My soul, my joy, my hope, my fear,<br />Your heart must tell you that I am near.<br />List from above while I pour out my love<br />For you know through my life you are love'd.<br />Oh, hear my longing cry, oh, love me or I die!<br /><br />Overhead, the moon is beaming,<br />White as blossoms on the bough.<br />Nothing is heard but the song of a bird<br />filling all the air with dreaming;<br />Would my heart but still it's beating,<br />Only you can tell it how, beloved;<br />From your window give me greeting,<br />I swear my eternal love.<br /><br />"Serenade" from Romberg and Donelly's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Student Prince<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);font-size:85%;" >thanks to <a href="http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.php?showtopic=3127751&st=120#">TWoP poster MsJ</a> for the reference</span><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4