Can't You See It, 5/?

[damigella]

Chapter 1 and warnings. Chapters 2, 3 and 4.

Technically speaking, I'm not blind. My left eye works perfectly, but my brain never learned to use it - the problem went unnoticed as a child, and later it was at most a nuisance. Which unfortunately doesn't change the fact that I now can see little more than the difference between light and darkness, and occasionally a feeling of movement. 

When something bad happens, it is human to try and find out a cause, or better, a culprit. Dr. Yu says I maybe damaged my retina already when I fell in front of Cuddy's house. It maybe became a bit loose, or maybe not. And then there was the crash with no safety belt. She said such retinal detachments were more common before safety belts became mandatory. 

In plain English, it's mostly my own damn fault I'm blind, with a contribution from my long-dead family doctor who didn't perform routine tests when I was a child - except that they weren't quite routine yet, and he was an old man practicing in a little town who knew nothing of recent protocols. And of course, a huge serving of bad luck - I could as easily have detached the retina of the non-seeing eye and I probably would barely have noticed.

I haven't seen House for more than two weeks. When I ask about him, I get only meaningful silences.

------

The psychotherapist is a nice woman. She makes me discuss all kinds of things, from my fear of the dark as a child to the latest technical devices for blind people. The only topic I declare off limits is any mention of House. She says that she cannot help me if I won't let her, but luckily doesn't insist. On the other hand, by patient confidentiality she also doesn't share my request with the rest of my medical team. 

Dr. Yu insists I should try the experimental protocol for the lazy eye that House has proposed: apparently he discussed it with her extensively. She finally agrees on delaying the decision since it appears the next opening is in a month. She says she's even surprised that it's so soon, since usually the waiting time is much longer. I don't bother mentioning that the head of the project is an old friend of House's from his student days.

My parents call once. I tell them I am currently hospitalized but it's nothing serious and they shouldn't come. My mother's voice sounds relieved; we spend the rest of the time discussing my father's bypass operation. I explain to her again that I'm not a cardiologist and the one who is following dad is one of the best in the country, trying not to call attention to the fact I'm footing the bill. She still insists I should come and take care of him, or them, personally as soon as I'm physically able to. I don't dare tell her, yet. I don't know how long my lies will keep making sense, but I can't face this discussion nor a meeting with her now.

I cry myself to sleep every night. I don't tell my therapist, who is quite satisfied with how well I'm adjusting to my handicap. 

I've now received the declaration that I am officially blind, and have started to learn Braille and how to walk with a cane. A cane. The irony is so thick I'm afraid to stumble upon it and fall, as I stumble over so many things on the first day I try to use it. I'm told one learns. One gets used to it. 

Today I went to the bathroom by myself for the first time. I wet myself a little bit, on a foot.

------

My cellphone rings. That's one of the things I learned first, answering the phone, and I got the nurse to add ringtones for selected numbers - namely, my parents, my elder brother, and House. Yet, the ringtone is a generic one.

"Dr. Wilson speaking."

"Hi, here Dr. Tucson from Blue Skies Clinic, Lambertville. May we talk now, and are we private?"

Blue Skies Clinic. The name seem known to me, but where from? If it's an hospice, it's one I use rarely. Maybe it's just a small hospital needing a consult.

"Yes to both. But before you tell me what this is about, I must inform you that I'm currently on medical leave. If you need a consult I can recommend very good oncologists at Princeton Plainsboro, though."

There's no surprised voice at the other end. "This is a personal call. I want to talk to you about Gregory House."

This is definitely not what I expected, although it juggles my memory and I remember where I heard the name. It was one of the alternatives to Mayfield I researched. A better one, in a sense, but much more monastic, almost prison-like. They took a very hard line in their rehab protocols.

"Was he a patient with you?" My answer should have been that I had no interest in talking about Gregory House, but it wasn't. A different part of my brain which didn't involve rationality got to control my mouth first.

"He is, now and for another forty-eight hours. He voluntarily checked himself in here over three months ago. He would have finished earlier but he left when you had your accident. He has since been readmitted. I am in the position to tell you that his tox screen is still clean, and has been so consistently since he detoxed here. I am authorized to disclose to you, or to any person you authorize, all his medical results since he checked in. He manages his pain with ibuprofen, gabapentin and physical therapy. No alcohol, smoke, or any recreational drugs."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't: I'll send proof in any way you want. We're court-licensed and have to keep our records open to state and federal inspection, but you have now access to Gregory House's because he gave permission. Again, you can also delegate someone to come here personally."

My heart is racing. I don't know why, since after all I want to have nothing to do with House. Not even this House who really detoxed. Because caring for him was never good for my health and happiness. And yet I still do. 

_____

Two days until discharge, two after the phone call from Lambertville. 

"Hi. It's me, officially drug-free now."

I knew, of course. I heard his pace the moment he stepped out of the lift. The best defense, as usual, is attack. Except I don't know exactly what I'm fighting against.

"Morning, House. I now know more than I ever wanted to about your health, and I'm not sure why."

"I wanted to convince you I really detoxed. The hard way. Now I'm clean, I want a new life." 

House sounds sincere. Concerned. I make an effort not to believe him, not to trust him. It takes me a while o find the composure needed to answer.

"You want it, and I'm definitely getting one, whether I want it or not. So why are you here?"

His hand reaches tentatively over my arm, rests lightly over the skin of my wrist. I can't help it, my hair stands on end all the way from the shoulder to the fingers.

"I want what I wanted last time we saw each other. You'll be going home soon: let me care for you. Please."

If it were anyone but House I would assume he's crying. But House? Just fooling with me. Playing some crazy little mind game of his own. 

"I don't need your pity or your help. Especially since I know neither would last - it's just a passing whim of yours. Until you feel like disappearing again. Maybe hurting me before." My hands are shaking and I feel close to tears. I'm scared. "Please go, House. I'm tired."

"Wow. Did you put the wrong foot on the floor first this morning? I just want to help." Is there just snark in his tone, or is there also pain? I wish I could look into his face and see for myself, although the face of a good poker player is no big help. I wish I could see his eyes, no matter why. I force myself to change line of thought, to rekindle my anger.

"You can't help. No one can. I'm blind, in case you forgot. I'll never diagnose a cancer or any other disease again. Excuse me if I'm bitter about it."

"It's no reason to be bitter with me, it's not my fault your doctor or doctors were too incompetent to notice your lazy eye and fix it when it would have been easy to do so."

There is truth in what House is saying, and that makes me even more angry. "I don't want to discuss how your behavior contributed to my blindness, but trust me, it did! Now just get out, goddammit, or I'm calling security! And don't bother coming back!"

A nurse rushes in, alerted by my screams.

"I never like to overstay my welcome."

I hear the well-known rhythm of limping steps, punctuated by the cane, fade away in the corridor. I cry and cry and cry until the nurse calls a doctor, who injects me with something and I soon fall asleep.