Title: Sleeping Man
Author:Maineac
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, with some appearances by the rest of the Scooby Gang
Rating: Gen; PG-13
Summary: House takes a vacation…from everything.
:A/N: Set in the early fall of last year, after events of Cane and Able, Informed Consent.
Earlier parts here:http://maineac.livejournal.com/
8
He surveyed the clinic waiting room with a jaundiced eye. There were a couple of college kids from Fancy U down the street, doubtless hoping that by avoiding student health, their STD results might not get reported to their parents—or the public health authorities. Probably using fake names. There was an unmarried teenage mom with a toddler, and another unmarried pregnant teenager, both of whom reeked of cigarette smoke and all three of whom had coughs to match. An obese middle-aged man in a hooded sweatshirt and running pants he had bought not to run in but because the stretchy waistband wouldn’t remind him of how overweight he was every time he downed another Krispy Kreme chocolate-covered myocardial infarction. Plus a homeless guy sitting in a corner in the classic tripod position, struggling to breathe, keeping watch over a plastic bag which doubtless contained all his worldly goods.
If only House were here, thought Wilson, as he sorted through the patient files until he found the one he wanted. He would doubtless have something choice to say to this lot, most of whom were slowly but surely destroying their bodies through their own stupidity. But House wasn’t here, and in fact it was House’s absence that had caused Wilson to draw extra clinic shifts for the rest of the week. Fate seemed to have landed him with a particularly choice selection of patients this week, but it was a small price to pay, he felt.
“Mr. Petrocelli,” he called out, and Homeless Guy stood and followed him into Exam Room 2.
“Now then,” said Wilson, as he opened the folder, “what seems to be the problem?” He switched the air conditioning to high, noting the sheen of perspiration that covered his patient, but he did it not so much to cool down the stuffy exam room as to disperse the dense fug that rose from the patient’s clothes and body.
“I can’t seem,” said the patient pausing for a second, “to take a deep…breath.”
Judging from the condition of the man’s fingernails, hair, and the color of his neck, the patient had probably not bathed in several months, Wilson guessed as he gestured for him to remove his shirt. While the patient was peeling off his top layers Wilson took the opportunity to rub a smear of Vicks Vapo Rub on his own upper lip. It helped disguise the strongest smells, and allowed him to concentrate on the patient. He placed the bell of his stethoscope on the man’s thin back.
“Deep breath,” he said softly, listening for the tell-tale rales and crackles of pneumonia. “How long have you had this cough?”
“Oh, a coupla days. Week maybe.” Or more, thought Wilson. But you were too stubborn to come ask for help. Why? Because it’s free? A handout? He sighed and removed the stethoscope.
“I’d like to admit you, run some tests. I’m fairly sure you have pneumonia.”
“No, no,” said the man. “Can’t you just give me a prescription, some pills? I’m okay. I’m fine. I don’t need to be in the hospital. Just give me some pills.”
Wilson knew it was hopeless to argue, but he did his best. In the end he had to let the man leave with just a sputum sample, a chest x-ray and a prescription for pills he knew he could never afford to fill. Wilson made him wait while he managed to scrounge up antibiotics, all the time cursing a health care system that magnanimously provided free diagnostic services for patients who had no way to treat the diseases they diagnosed. Free mammograms for low-income women? Not a problem. Hey, probably generate a little business for the hospital. But free mastectomies? Free chemo? No way. What the hell was the bloody point? At last he cornered enough Vancomycin samples to cover a full course of treatment. He thrust the packets into the man’s cold hands. “Take them all, every last one,” he said. “Promise me.”
He knew House would have mocked him for trying to save the world one hopeless person at a time, but, he thought as he watched Mr. Petrocelli leave , if he didn’t do it, who would?.
9
This time the dog, the same dog, had him by the leg and was gnawing away at it, calmly, patiently, enjoying his meal. The pain was intense, the sight disgusting, but he was helpless to move. Then the dog began shaking him, trying to drag him into the bushes.
“Mr. Daniels?”
He’d been dreaming again, dead asleep in the hard plastic chair of the clinic waiting room. Difficult to believe he could have nodded off when the pain in his leg was like a jackhammer. Calling his name had not woken him, since the name was meaningless to him, so the woman behind the glass window had had to walk out of her safe den and shake him by the shoulder. She’d put on her blue latex gloves before touching him, he noticed as he came back to consciousness. Seeing he was awake, she backed away from him.
“The doctor will see you now.”
Damn. He’d fully intended to spend the hours in the waiting room collecting his thoughts, trying to tackle the mystery of what he was doing here, what had happened to him. He’d planned to lock himself in the bathroom, get a good look at himself in a mirror. But as soon as he’d sunk into the chair, he’d been overcome with exhaustion. And now it was too late. He followed the receptionist into a tiny exam room, where a doctor was finishing writing some notes in a file.
“Be right with you,” said the doctor without looking up. He checked his watch and kept writing. “Take a seat on the exam table.”
The man parked his crutches against the wall and boosted himself onto the table with a twist, using his arms. He was glad to note that while his leg pain had only gotten worse in the last hour, the nap he’d taken had left him feeling more focused, less disoriented. He seemed at last able to marshal his thoughts in some logical order. He sized up the doctor while he waited. Young, black, with a soul patch and shaved head. Probably a few years out of med school. Intern, second year resident. Not happy to be here, judging from the body language. At last he put down the file he was writing in and slid another file across the counter. Glanced at it briefly before looking up.
“Okay, then, Mr. Daniels. What seems to be the problem?”
“Just need a clean bill of health. And maybe something for pain. Like it says in the chart.” The last comment was a bit more pointed than it needed to be. But what was the point of filling out those forms if no one read them?
“I see. Looks like you’ve been having some nausea.”
Right. He’d meant to try to clean up in the bathroom. Hadn’t had a chance. “It’s from the leg pain. Plus I’m a little hung over. I really just need you to sign off on a clean bill of health.” He held out the crumpled sheet of paper from the homeless shelter. “And give me something for the pain.”
“Uh huh,” murmured the doctor, ignoring the health form. “You want to lie down on the table for me?” The man complied, lifting his right leg up in order to lie flat. “How bad is the pain?”
“Pretty bad. A seven, I’d say. Maybe eight.”
“Really? Want to unbuckle your pants for me?” The man complied, with a sinking heart. He had a sudden realization where this might be going. “I see you’re familiar with the pain scale. So, what’s the cause of this leg pain?”
Shit. He hadn’t had a chance to get a look at his leg. Had no idea what the injury was. The situation was patently ludicrous. If he admitted he didn’t know how he’d hurt his leg, or what his name was, the doctor would page the men with the strait jackets in a flash. He paused in removing his jeans, trying to buy time, but the doctor simply tugged them down the rest of the way to his knees. The man propped himself on his elbows and tried to get a look at his thigh. The bloody doctor, however, was in the way.
“It’s a—“ he tried to remember the feel of the leg, the shape of the pain. It felt like he’d been mauled by a bear, in fact, but that would never pass the straight face test here—“it’s from a car accident. Broke my femur.”
“How long ago?”
The doctor moved and he caught a sudden glimpse of the thigh. “Christ!” he gasped before he could stop himself. The leg was a mess:, deeply pitted with surgically straight scars running the length of it. It did actually look like he’d been mauled by a bear. What the hell?
“Mr. Daniels? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just a, just a cramp.”
“When did you say this happened?”
He’d only gotten a quick look, but the scars hadn’t seemed pink or red, like a new wound. “A few years ago.” A wild guess.
“I see. And it’s still causing you pain? Severe pain?”
“Yes.”
“Un hunh. Would you sit up, please.” The doctor stuck a thermometer in his ear. “Now hold out your hands for me.” He did so, and was dismayed to see that his hands were shaking. He busied himself with pulling his jeans back on again while the doctor made some notes in his chart. “You can do up your pants, and get down,” the doctor finished. Then he sat down and watched, an expression on his face that did not bode well.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said when the man was fully dressed again. “Give this to the receptionist on your way out.” He held out the chart.
“You’re not going to fill out that health form? Or give me any kind of painkillers?” the man asked, stunned by the doctor's dismissal of him.
“Mr. Daniels,” the doctor commenced. “You come in here looking for painkillers for an injury that is at least a three or four years old—“
“Have you never heard of chronic pain?” the man interrupted, unable to believe where the idiot doctor was going with this.
“If the pain was chronic, you’d have a prescription for painkillers, wouldn’t you? And you wouldn’t need me. Now, as I was saying, you want pain pills for an old, well-healed injury.” He actually began ticking symptoms off on his fingers. “You’ve been vomiting—“
“Like I said, I’m hung over. Pain would also explain the nausea. Hello. “
“--You’re sweating, but you have no fever.”
“Hot flashes. Male menopause.” This was going nowhere fast, but little alarm bells kept going off in his head, and they weren’t just because the doctor was a cretin.
“You’ve got chills”—unfortunately this was true, he’d started trembling with cold a few minutes ago, damn the doctor for being astute enough to notice—“and you have a bad case of the shakes. Classic symptoms of drug withdrawal. I see a lot of that in here, and a lot of drug seeking. So please don’t ask me for a clean bill of health. And if you keep insisting on pain pills, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the clinic. By force if necessary. “
“I’m not here under false pretenses.”
“Really, Mr. ‘Daniels’?” said the doctor, opening his file once again, and the man had to give him credit for keeping his cool. “Jack Daniels. Cute. How many more aliases do you have? And let’s see if you can remember your social security number?”
Shit. What had he written down? He couldn’t remember.
“Date of birth?”
“I, I have memory lapses.”
“Uh hunh. Would you like a neurology consult? Or a psych consult? No, I didn’t think so. Here”—another sheet of flimsy paper—“Cambridge City Hospital has a rehab center. The receptionist can make an appointment for you. Now if you don’t mind, I have other patients—“
“Just a goddam minute, you sanctimonious moron. I’m not an addict. I just need some—“
But the doctor had already pressed a button on the wall. The man reached for his crutches and for a moment entertained a fantasy of braining the idiot in front of him with them. Instead, he turned and stumped for the door. But before he could open it, a uniformed security guard did so for him.
“Come with me please, sir,” said the guard, gripping the man firmly by the upper arm. And then there was the humiliation of being escorted--dragged--out through the over-crowded waiting room, humiliated in front of the great unwashed, America’s uninsured masses, and thrust out the front door. Told not to come back again or they would call the real police. They had his name and description, the self-important cop told him, and they would circulate it to other clinics in the area.
They had his name, thought the man bitterly, as the door whirred shut behind him. Lucky them. He still had no idea what it was.
Author:Maineac
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, with some appearances by the rest of the Scooby Gang
Rating: Gen; PG-13
Summary: House takes a vacation…from everything.
:A/N: Set in the early fall of last year, after events of Cane and Able, Informed Consent.
Earlier parts here:http://maineac.livejournal.com/
8
He surveyed the clinic waiting room with a jaundiced eye. There were a couple of college kids from Fancy U down the street, doubtless hoping that by avoiding student health, their STD results might not get reported to their parents—or the public health authorities. Probably using fake names. There was an unmarried teenage mom with a toddler, and another unmarried pregnant teenager, both of whom reeked of cigarette smoke and all three of whom had coughs to match. An obese middle-aged man in a hooded sweatshirt and running pants he had bought not to run in but because the stretchy waistband wouldn’t remind him of how overweight he was every time he downed another Krispy Kreme chocolate-covered myocardial infarction. Plus a homeless guy sitting in a corner in the classic tripod position, struggling to breathe, keeping watch over a plastic bag which doubtless contained all his worldly goods.
If only House were here, thought Wilson, as he sorted through the patient files until he found the one he wanted. He would doubtless have something choice to say to this lot, most of whom were slowly but surely destroying their bodies through their own stupidity. But House wasn’t here, and in fact it was House’s absence that had caused Wilson to draw extra clinic shifts for the rest of the week. Fate seemed to have landed him with a particularly choice selection of patients this week, but it was a small price to pay, he felt.
“Mr. Petrocelli,” he called out, and Homeless Guy stood and followed him into Exam Room 2.
“Now then,” said Wilson, as he opened the folder, “what seems to be the problem?” He switched the air conditioning to high, noting the sheen of perspiration that covered his patient, but he did it not so much to cool down the stuffy exam room as to disperse the dense fug that rose from the patient’s clothes and body.
“I can’t seem,” said the patient pausing for a second, “to take a deep…breath.”
Judging from the condition of the man’s fingernails, hair, and the color of his neck, the patient had probably not bathed in several months, Wilson guessed as he gestured for him to remove his shirt. While the patient was peeling off his top layers Wilson took the opportunity to rub a smear of Vicks Vapo Rub on his own upper lip. It helped disguise the strongest smells, and allowed him to concentrate on the patient. He placed the bell of his stethoscope on the man’s thin back.
“Deep breath,” he said softly, listening for the tell-tale rales and crackles of pneumonia. “How long have you had this cough?”
“Oh, a coupla days. Week maybe.” Or more, thought Wilson. But you were too stubborn to come ask for help. Why? Because it’s free? A handout? He sighed and removed the stethoscope.
“I’d like to admit you, run some tests. I’m fairly sure you have pneumonia.”
“No, no,” said the man. “Can’t you just give me a prescription, some pills? I’m okay. I’m fine. I don’t need to be in the hospital. Just give me some pills.”
Wilson knew it was hopeless to argue, but he did his best. In the end he had to let the man leave with just a sputum sample, a chest x-ray and a prescription for pills he knew he could never afford to fill. Wilson made him wait while he managed to scrounge up antibiotics, all the time cursing a health care system that magnanimously provided free diagnostic services for patients who had no way to treat the diseases they diagnosed. Free mammograms for low-income women? Not a problem. Hey, probably generate a little business for the hospital. But free mastectomies? Free chemo? No way. What the hell was the bloody point? At last he cornered enough Vancomycin samples to cover a full course of treatment. He thrust the packets into the man’s cold hands. “Take them all, every last one,” he said. “Promise me.”
He knew House would have mocked him for trying to save the world one hopeless person at a time, but, he thought as he watched Mr. Petrocelli leave , if he didn’t do it, who would?.
9
This time the dog, the same dog, had him by the leg and was gnawing away at it, calmly, patiently, enjoying his meal. The pain was intense, the sight disgusting, but he was helpless to move. Then the dog began shaking him, trying to drag him into the bushes.
“Mr. Daniels?”
He’d been dreaming again, dead asleep in the hard plastic chair of the clinic waiting room. Difficult to believe he could have nodded off when the pain in his leg was like a jackhammer. Calling his name had not woken him, since the name was meaningless to him, so the woman behind the glass window had had to walk out of her safe den and shake him by the shoulder. She’d put on her blue latex gloves before touching him, he noticed as he came back to consciousness. Seeing he was awake, she backed away from him.
“The doctor will see you now.”
Damn. He’d fully intended to spend the hours in the waiting room collecting his thoughts, trying to tackle the mystery of what he was doing here, what had happened to him. He’d planned to lock himself in the bathroom, get a good look at himself in a mirror. But as soon as he’d sunk into the chair, he’d been overcome with exhaustion. And now it was too late. He followed the receptionist into a tiny exam room, where a doctor was finishing writing some notes in a file.
“Be right with you,” said the doctor without looking up. He checked his watch and kept writing. “Take a seat on the exam table.”
The man parked his crutches against the wall and boosted himself onto the table with a twist, using his arms. He was glad to note that while his leg pain had only gotten worse in the last hour, the nap he’d taken had left him feeling more focused, less disoriented. He seemed at last able to marshal his thoughts in some logical order. He sized up the doctor while he waited. Young, black, with a soul patch and shaved head. Probably a few years out of med school. Intern, second year resident. Not happy to be here, judging from the body language. At last he put down the file he was writing in and slid another file across the counter. Glanced at it briefly before looking up.
“Okay, then, Mr. Daniels. What seems to be the problem?”
“Just need a clean bill of health. And maybe something for pain. Like it says in the chart.” The last comment was a bit more pointed than it needed to be. But what was the point of filling out those forms if no one read them?
“I see. Looks like you’ve been having some nausea.”
Right. He’d meant to try to clean up in the bathroom. Hadn’t had a chance. “It’s from the leg pain. Plus I’m a little hung over. I really just need you to sign off on a clean bill of health.” He held out the crumpled sheet of paper from the homeless shelter. “And give me something for the pain.”
“Uh huh,” murmured the doctor, ignoring the health form. “You want to lie down on the table for me?” The man complied, lifting his right leg up in order to lie flat. “How bad is the pain?”
“Pretty bad. A seven, I’d say. Maybe eight.”
“Really? Want to unbuckle your pants for me?” The man complied, with a sinking heart. He had a sudden realization where this might be going. “I see you’re familiar with the pain scale. So, what’s the cause of this leg pain?”
Shit. He hadn’t had a chance to get a look at his leg. Had no idea what the injury was. The situation was patently ludicrous. If he admitted he didn’t know how he’d hurt his leg, or what his name was, the doctor would page the men with the strait jackets in a flash. He paused in removing his jeans, trying to buy time, but the doctor simply tugged them down the rest of the way to his knees. The man propped himself on his elbows and tried to get a look at his thigh. The bloody doctor, however, was in the way.
“It’s a—“ he tried to remember the feel of the leg, the shape of the pain. It felt like he’d been mauled by a bear, in fact, but that would never pass the straight face test here—“it’s from a car accident. Broke my femur.”
“How long ago?”
The doctor moved and he caught a sudden glimpse of the thigh. “Christ!” he gasped before he could stop himself. The leg was a mess:, deeply pitted with surgically straight scars running the length of it. It did actually look like he’d been mauled by a bear. What the hell?
“Mr. Daniels? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just a, just a cramp.”
“When did you say this happened?”
He’d only gotten a quick look, but the scars hadn’t seemed pink or red, like a new wound. “A few years ago.” A wild guess.
“I see. And it’s still causing you pain? Severe pain?”
“Yes.”
“Un hunh. Would you sit up, please.” The doctor stuck a thermometer in his ear. “Now hold out your hands for me.” He did so, and was dismayed to see that his hands were shaking. He busied himself with pulling his jeans back on again while the doctor made some notes in his chart. “You can do up your pants, and get down,” the doctor finished. Then he sat down and watched, an expression on his face that did not bode well.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said when the man was fully dressed again. “Give this to the receptionist on your way out.” He held out the chart.
“You’re not going to fill out that health form? Or give me any kind of painkillers?” the man asked, stunned by the doctor's dismissal of him.
“Mr. Daniels,” the doctor commenced. “You come in here looking for painkillers for an injury that is at least a three or four years old—“
“Have you never heard of chronic pain?” the man interrupted, unable to believe where the idiot doctor was going with this.
“If the pain was chronic, you’d have a prescription for painkillers, wouldn’t you? And you wouldn’t need me. Now, as I was saying, you want pain pills for an old, well-healed injury.” He actually began ticking symptoms off on his fingers. “You’ve been vomiting—“
“Like I said, I’m hung over. Pain would also explain the nausea. Hello. “
“--You’re sweating, but you have no fever.”
“Hot flashes. Male menopause.” This was going nowhere fast, but little alarm bells kept going off in his head, and they weren’t just because the doctor was a cretin.
“You’ve got chills”—unfortunately this was true, he’d started trembling with cold a few minutes ago, damn the doctor for being astute enough to notice—“and you have a bad case of the shakes. Classic symptoms of drug withdrawal. I see a lot of that in here, and a lot of drug seeking. So please don’t ask me for a clean bill of health. And if you keep insisting on pain pills, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the clinic. By force if necessary. “
“I’m not here under false pretenses.”
“Really, Mr. ‘Daniels’?” said the doctor, opening his file once again, and the man had to give him credit for keeping his cool. “Jack Daniels. Cute. How many more aliases do you have? And let’s see if you can remember your social security number?”
Shit. What had he written down? He couldn’t remember.
“Date of birth?”
“I, I have memory lapses.”
“Uh hunh. Would you like a neurology consult? Or a psych consult? No, I didn’t think so. Here”—another sheet of flimsy paper—“Cambridge City Hospital has a rehab center. The receptionist can make an appointment for you. Now if you don’t mind, I have other patients—“
“Just a goddam minute, you sanctimonious moron. I’m not an addict. I just need some—“
But the doctor had already pressed a button on the wall. The man reached for his crutches and for a moment entertained a fantasy of braining the idiot in front of him with them. Instead, he turned and stumped for the door. But before he could open it, a uniformed security guard did so for him.
“Come with me please, sir,” said the guard, gripping the man firmly by the upper arm. And then there was the humiliation of being escorted--dragged--out through the over-crowded waiting room, humiliated in front of the great unwashed, America’s uninsured masses, and thrust out the front door. Told not to come back again or they would call the real police. They had his name and description, the self-important cop told him, and they would circulate it to other clinics in the area.
They had his name, thought the man bitterly, as the door whirred shut behind him. Lucky them. He still had no idea what it was.
House has swallowed 5 Vicodin | Take a Vicodin
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