Hey all! This is my first attempt at a challenge fic. This was actually written in the middle of January after Failure To Communicate, but I have modified it to fit this challenge better. After the next episode aired this story became an AU. Warning: spoilers for Failure To Communicate. I thought it was an interesting idea to write how House would react to hearing about Mark pushing Stacy out of his life. I wanted this to be House reacting to his guilt and not simply wallowing in it.


Mistakes and Regrets



The rain was cold. The middle January weather was very unforgiving for anyone out in Short Hills, much less for an intruder into a couple’s life at dusk. House peered into Mark and Stacy’s lit home from the street as he parked in his usual spot in front of their house. He sighed as he turned off his car and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He had to do this. He tightened his coat around himself and readied his cane as he opened his corvette door and lurched out of the car and made his way to the front door. He didn’t want to do this.

He's pushing me out of his life.

Maybe you're misinterpreting.

Did I misinterpret with you? At least this time I recognise it. That's the bitter bit of convincing the two men you ever loved they're better off without you.

Those words kept circling around House’s head ever since Stacy had contacted the airport and amended House’s actions to allow him to board a plane home nearly eight hours after he sat out his morning flight. The result was a feeling that he didn’t have the temerity to analyze, but he knew what he had to do to ameliorate it.

As he rang the doorbell, he wondered which one would answer and how he would begin this. He had to do this. He didn’t want to do this. The porch lights came on for the front door as Stacy opened the door a crack to see who it was.

“Greg? What are you doing here?” She seemed tense, and he could not blame her. “I don’t want a problem in here.”

He didn’t want to do this. “I don’t want to bother you. I came to speak to Mark for a moment.”

“And say what?” Now she sounded angry, “I don’t want you to start a problem in here.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Stacy? Who’s at the door?” This voice was from Mark. At least he didn’t sound angry yet. Stacy turned toward him and opened the door wider so that he could see from a chair he was sitting on in the living room.

With the wind howling at his back taken as encouragement to keep going, House took another step into the door. “Hi Mark,” he said as easy going as he could, “Could I speak to you for a moment?” He didn’t want to do this.

“About what?” He was already defensive. House knew this would happen before he opened his car door. Before he even left the airport. He used Mark’s reaction as an invitation to come the rest of the way into the house.

“Give me three minutes, and I will be out of here.”

“You’ll get out of here now. Stacy, why did you let him in here?” Now he was angry.

The tense silence threatened to span forever before another frosty breeze reminded House that the open door was letting cold air spill into their home. He glanced at Stacy and saw she was at a loss as to what was going on, so he shut the door. He then turned to Stacy and without looking at her asked, “Could you excuse us?”

Taking her cue, she tucked into another room and left the two to face each other. House walked to his next objective, the couch in the living room, before setting down across from Mark and meeting his eyes. Too late to turn back now, he had to do this. “I’m going to make this nice and fast, I’m not asking you for anything. I just want you to consider what you are doing before you make a mistake.”

“What is wrong with you?” He would have said the exact same thing in Mark’s position. “Do you think you she can just let you in and you can run my life-”

“Don’t push her away.” House snarled while he pointed toward where she left before Mark came to a boil, “Don’t make the same mistake as I did and regret it for the rest of your life. If you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. I let myself in, she didn’t. I’m the one that gave you that shot, she saved your life,” his voice softened, “Don’t drive her out of your life. She loves you. Don’t throw that away, like I did.”

He picked himself off the couch and he made his way to the door before letting off with his parting remark, “You two have a good night.” With that, he reopened the door and left before Mark could say something else.

As House made his way into the car and brought the motor and heater to life, he looked again to Stay’s and Mark’s home. He pulled the car into gear and started out into the night for a two-hour drive back home. He didn’t want to do that, but he had to…for Stacy.

Orright...


Author: Armchair Elvis.

Warnings: Some slight spoilers for Season Three, but nothing too explicit - it's all speculation. Also some drug use. PG.

I wrote this to Benj's challenge, and added a couple of points of my own to follow: No italics, no letting the story sit and languish on the computer.
So here it is. Enjoy. I know I did - it's just a quick little one-shot, but I'm exploring stuff to fit in with other fic projects, so a big thanks to Benj, Rtlemurs and others for being so on the ball.

(Wallowing in fic-challenge coolness).





Last night my brother he got drunk and drove
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road
And he said: ‘Officer, Officer, you got the wrong man
No no I’m a student of medicine, a son of a banker
You don’t understand.’

Bright Eyes – Waste of Paint.




GUILTY AS


Wilson gets the call at around twenty past eight, just as the detective show he is watching over the rubble of his Thursday-night take-out moves past the climax of the arrest and into the courtroom denouement. The TV flickers blue on the glossy surface of the new white Ikea plate and the sturdy cutlery from that he salvaged from the divorce (because it was a wedding gift from his mother).
The ring is set loud so it wakes him up in the middle of the night, and he jumps, feels like swearing. He’s not on call, and so really there are a finite amount of things that this could be. He feels like he knows already, but he shouldn't. He shouldn't.

He tries not to be surprised. It was only a matter of time, he thinks. Just like the old days.

They don’t give details, and he assumes that this is policy. Or maybe they’re just afraid he won’t drive in, leaving them stuck with what he assumes is a very drunk and obnoxious House.
As it is, Wilson jumps off the couch, puts a coat on, has a drink of water and jumps in the car. That’s what friends are for, Wilson thinks. He knows that House would do this for him and not even bat an eyelid, but only if he thought it was right, only if what Wilson had done didn't go against the right, the truth, that he saw, he comprehended. Somehow Wilson finds this comforting.



There are two other cars in the parking lot, and neither of them belong to House. His motorcycle is also conspicuous in its absence. Wilson thinks that he will be absolutely unbearable if the stupid crotchrocket is damaged.

God, he shudders to think. (He just drove straight out in front of me, officer, I never saw a thing. He was in my blind spot, I never saw. He was wearing dark clothes, going so fast, I never saw a blessed thing, honest.).


He pulls the door open, and it clatters to behind him as he crosses to a utilitarian reception desk. (Smoking Causes Lung Cancer. They don’t call it DOPE for nothing.) He is directed down a hall with a worn lino floor, strangely similar to the hospital, but less sterile, gritty, dirty. The whole place smells like sweat and cheap air freshener and rubber.
An officer who he assumes to be the Night Manager sits behind a desk opposite a small cell, the drunk tank. It’s a little bit more modern than he expected – a simple room with benches lining the wall, toughened glass.
Now the smell is of Duck toilet blocks.
In the dank gloom of the feeble fluorescent bar illuminating the cell Wilson can see House sitting hunched over, both feet flat on the gritty concrete floor, his face shadowed, cast towards the floor. His hair and his clothes are messy, buttons and cuffs awry.

As Wilson gets closer he looks up, gives an odd little smile that only serves to put him on edge.

Wilson talks to the police officer, who gives a ‘no riddance’ face as he presses a button beneath the desk. There is a metallic click, and they enter the cell.
House is the only guy in there. As Wilson walks in he sits up straighter. He looks as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Wilson.”
Wilson doesn’t know what to make of his voice. He isn’t proud, he isn’t strident. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. He does seem slightly ashamed, but this only surfaces periodically on the open, altered plane of his face, his eyes hooded, his mouth slightly open.
“House. What are you-“
The officer speaks.
“Drunk. He was pulled off the road. That’s why you were called. Breathalysed him. Told us to call you.”
House bobs his head in agreement, his face blank, his eyes glassy. The smile again, this time like he finds something vaguely funny. Wilson doesn't, but maybe there is something in the pitted paint on the ceiling or the foot-polished concrete floor that complements intoxication. Maybe Wilson should be sitting there too, and they could chuckle softly and be dragged home to sleep and a hangover and five years from now it'd just be an amusing anecdote, you know, when Jimmy and Greg got smashed. Maybe he's just an asshole. Wilson wants to get out of here.

The officer says that he wants to talk to Wilson, beckoning, and he turns away, wondering what on earth is going on. This isn’t just House drunk. He would have slept it off, called him up and shouted obnoxiously. Not this. Not this.

The night manager says, “We need you to verify this”.
He holds out a roughly quarter-folded sheet of paper. It looks familiar. It should. It has his name on it. James Wilson, MD, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Gregory House, Hydrocodone and Acetaminophen, 5 mg/500 mg.
Vicodin. Three repeats, everything scratched boldly into the appropriate space.

His name is signed, but the signature is slanted slightly in the opposite direction.

House is good, but he isn’t left-handed. Wilson lets out a slow breath, very quietly.
The officer asks him something.
“Did you prescribe this medication, Doctor Wilson?”
He can feel his cheeks redden, and then his throat dries as he says “Yes.”
He hesitates, and then says that he is Dr House’s prescribing physician, and that Doctor House is prescribed this medication to treat pain.
There is a nod. That’s all they wanted to check, you know, it’s good to follow up on these things. Wilson puts on his stern, responsible doctor’s face and nods as something angry starts to burn in his stomach.


The officer bangs a small plastic tub from somewhere onto the counter. In it are the things House had on him when he was brought in. Wallet. iPod. $3.76 in spare change. One bottle Vicodin, 23 tablets remaining.

The room recedes a little, and Wilson tightens one sweaty hand around the paperwork and smiles tightly at the policeman. Thank you, he says, I’ll get this sorted out straight away.

House, you asshole, he thinks. Wilson feels like an asshole, too.

Now House is sitting on the hard chair in the corner. Wilson stalks in, slams down the paper and a pen, tells House “Sign this now.”
“Jeez, Jimmy-boy’s got a bug up his ass, huh?”
The S sound grates, and Wilson sees for the first time that his breathing is slow, his eyes slow, slightly foggy. Are his pupils smaller?
He isn’t just drunk. He’s stoned.
Oh, God. That realisation grips hard at his stomach, but House doesn’t notice as he scrawls his name laboriously. He’s so gone, Wilson is surprised he can hold a pen.

Old habits die hard.

House starts to say something, but Wilson silences him. Quiet, quiet, he thinks. Just shut up until we’re out of here. That isn’t just for House, either. When they get out of here...

“We’re going now.”
He starts walking out, and thankfully House follows him, his gait even more unsteady. Wilson wonders if he could run now.


House stops at the desk to get his stuff, to be released, and Wilson smoothly pockets the Vicodin. House doesn't notice, but he will, and Wilson is prepared for that.

He thanks the manager behind the desk. House is standing there like the drunken obnoxious prick that he is, and Wilson pulls his forearm.
“We’re leaving now.”
House looks surprised. Wilson puts a hand in the centre of his back, says “Let’s go, House.” That doesn't invite debate.

Then they’re outside. Wilson sees how fucked up he is, he stumbles and almost falls as he navigates the stairs, and the shocked feeling rears up again around his shoulders.
How was he when they brought him in? I cannot believe this, Wilson thinks. Talk about a slap in the face.
“How many did you take, House?”
“What?”
Oh, Jesus, he’s going to feign innocence.
“The Vicodin, House! How many did you take? What, you went to a bar and threw a couple down with a gin and tonic?”
“I have no, idea what you’re talking about.”
“House, I know, Ok? Stop pretending.”
He sees that he’s drowsy, so he guides him towards the hood of the car.
Of course Wilson doesn’t have a torch or anything, so he lifts up his eyelids. House squirms giddily under his touch.
“Three.”
Three. Three. Wilson walks away. He can’t believe this. This is absolutely unbelievable.
“In how long?”
“Don’t know – too stoned to tell. Hard to keep track.” He guffaws pityingly at his own joke.
House will tell, but only so much. Jeez, he probably sat at a bar and threw them down all at once.

It takes a lot to make Wilson angry but this is a lot, and he's angry. All of a sudden he’s pushing House hard in the chest, and he’s sprawling back over the hood.
“Jesus, House! Vicodin! Vicodin!”
House bounces back up, puzzled, a brief flash of pain, anger, showing on his face. Be careful, Wilson thinks.
“Well, it’s legally prescribed to me.”
“Oh, this is absolutely ridiculous!”

House looks affronted, rubs one hand against his face, starts to stand up properly. Wilson wonders of he’s going to try it on, but he doesn’t. Perhaps he is a lot more lucid than he seems. Well, he's going to feel this in the morning.

They stand there regarding each other for a moment. Wilson stands straight and fingers the bottle in his pocket. House has to lean back slightly against the car, rumpled.

Wilson says, “So now what? Do you want me to take you to the hospital, get your stomach pumped?”
House shakes his head. The faint smile is back again.
“No, you’re not going to do that. You’re not going to run to Mommy and tell her, either.”




Time must be working in fragments for House.

Wilson ascertains from the best of House’s memory and his befuddled explanation that his motorcycle is parked twelve blocks away from a bar in Princeton, closer to House’s apartment than the hospital.

Wilson tells him that he will sleep this off and that they will pick up the bike in the morning. Maybe if you were worried about it being stolen, House, you should have thought about that before you got drunk (and drove like a maniac, no doubt)!

Wilson’s tone is forceful, angry, and House doesn’t waste time contesting it. He doesn't say anything.

“How much longer do you think this can keep going on?’
There is a little snorting noise, and he realises that House has chuckled. Chuckled. The uneasy feeling settles itself back into his shoulders.
House turns away, towards the window, and Wilson starts the car with House’s unspoken You don’t know shit hanging in the space between them, the silence suffocating.

So they drive, and it doesn’t work out exactly they way that Wilson thought it would, because the car is still silent and they don’t talk anything over and House slumps shamefaced there, moody, unpredictable.

Wilson thinks that the least they could do would be talk about this. But it doesn't work out that way. It doesn't work out at all.

He stops the car at a corner, waiting for a flow of people across the busy intersection so he can turn.

The click of the seatbelt doesn’t register, but he turns his head as soon as he hears the door, the first hesitant steps on the ground, the creak of the leather.
Then the car door slams in Wilson’s face, and for the moment he sits in the sudden silence of the car, the only sound the plastic tick of the blinker.



.- .

Sorry, I know it's against the guidelines but I just have to! (Hey, I made up the guidelines, I can bend them if I want to! :P ;) :lol: )

WOOHOOO!!! Our first fic challenge responses!!! Congratulations Cakemixo and AE!!!

Now back to the fics!

I really enjoyed these two fic challenges..both were great!! Very indepth, powertful, forceful even! :)

God and peace
Vanessa :)

Okay, in comparison to those who have gone before this is crud and a complete cheat but it was great practice. Got me back in a writing mood and got me to complete something short.

Thanks Benj for the push!

Rating: Good for all ages, some swearing so maybe T

Spoilers: It's just a deeper look at a scene in Babies & Bathwater.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A Momentary Lapse


“I got sacked,” Wilson said, too angry to stop.

House stood still, his purpose for coming briefly forgotten. Sacked?

He watched in silence as Wilson continued to pack. His ears may have betrayed him but his eyes didn’t lie. This wasn’t his fault. The fact that this thought even crossed his mind spoke volumes. He pushed it away. Nervousness set him in motion.

He picked a book out of the box. “The Journey Through Cancer. An Oncologist’s Seven-Level Program for Healing and Transforming the Whole Person”. None of this felt right. When was Wilson planning on telling him?

Placing the book back in the box he lifted one of the trophies far enough to read the inscription. “Dr. James Wilson, Winner, Ronald McDonald House Invitational. Sleepy Hills Country Club, 1998.” Wilson wasn’t going to tell him because he hadn’t been sacked, he was bluffing. Trying to scare him, make him behave, make him regret giving that speech. This was a setup.

Wilson knew the case and knew he would need an Oncologist. Where else would he go? He picked up another book, turning the spine so he could read the title. “Golf by Design. How to Lower Your Score by Reading the Features of a Course”.

“Did ya make a pass at Cuddy? Told ya she only has thighs for me,” he joked, letting Wilson know he wasn’t fooled. Wilson continued to remove items from the shelves. Grabbing the book from his hand, Wilson stuffed it back into the box, pausing only long enough to clarify.

“I voted to keep you.”

He was wrong, Vogler had made his move and this wasn’t a scare tactic, it was a guilt trip. Wilson should know better. Guilt wasn’t something he bothered with. It served no purpose. It didn’t help and only interfered with finding a solution. Guilt was born of bad choices and only lead to worse.

“So he’s getting rid of every board member who votes to keep me around,” he stated matter-of-factly but wouldn’t look at Wilson. This wasn’t his fault. He had done what he had to. Picking up a trinket from the desk he peeked up.

Wilson laughed. Not his usual snort of frustration but a bitter, cynical bleat that made House flinch. Their eyes met and he saw a look he had never seen before, at least not from Wilson. Damn it, this isn’t my fault. Someone had to stand up to Vogler.

“Yeah, every one of us.” Wilson let that sink in before returning to the shelves.

Just Wilson? No one else, not even Cuddy? Why did this shock him? He had never bothered to make friends here, or anywhere else for that matter. But Cuddy knew him, knew what this was about. Maybe he had misunderstood. Maybe Vogler just hadn’t gotten around to her.

“Just you?”

“Yep”

Wilson’s reply prodded the guilt he told himself he didn’t have. It’s not my fault. Vogler was the bad guy. It was Vogler’s fault that he had been put in this situation. Had been forced to give that speech and set this all in motion. And that wasn’t a bad decision. It had to be done.

“But you’re only off the board right? They couldn’t have gotten unanimous approval for you.” Wilson stopped moving.

“Brown from oncology voted no, so did Cuddy, Taylor and… Peavy.”

Wilson was smart, flexible, he’d hit the ground running. This was no big deal, he was just being melodramatic. It wasn’t his fault.

“Eh so you’re off the board, big deal, frees up Wednesday night for bowling. You’re still a doctor…” But he was packing. There was more, enough to bring it back to him.

“Yeah, getting dumped looks great in Who’s who! Vogler gave me the option of resigning, and I took it.”

He wanted to grab that, hold onto it as proof that it wasn’t his fault. That it was Wilson’s choice.

“Big of him.” Son of a bitch, it’s not my fault! Yes, yes it is. Wilson got sacked because he stood up for you, as you had assumed he would. It had been part of the plan. Wilson hadn’t known, never suspected, but you had counted on it. Needed it to happen to make this work. You needed Cuddy too and that was where the plan failed. But Wilson had done it anyway, knowing the consequences.

“I’ve got no kids, my marriage sucks, I only have two things that worked for me, this job and this stupid, screwed up friendship and neither mattered enough to you to give one lousy speech.” Wilson’s voice breaking as he threw a handful of pens into the box.

He had made a bad choice and it had cost Wilson. Wilson had known it too. Stood his ground, knowing it would cost him everything. Somehow, in this light, the ‘right’ of what he had done, the purpose for which he had sacrificed this friendship, just didn’t seem worth it.

“They mattered.”

He didn’t care about himself and what Vogler might do to him. Had figured Wilson and Cuddy could look out for themselves and in doing so protect him. Then, in turn, in his own way, he could protect them. But he had miscalculated. It was his fault, and there was no way to take it back.

“If I could do it all again…” and he meant it.

“You’d do the same thing” The grace and forgiveness of that statement was not lost on him. Guilt was not the answer. He needed to continue, make that sacrifice worth something. Wilson may not approve of his tactics but he believed in the cause.

He nodded, Wilson was right. Wilson knew him better than he knew himself. He was too involved in pushing forward, embracing the problem, working the puzzle, finding a solution, that he didn’t consider the effects on the world around him. But that was the only way he could operate. The only way to achieve the results he did. There was no room for guilt.

“Well, you’ll be gone soon too.” Yes, he would, and all the more reason to take care of business now. Wilson had turned back to the shelves.

There was one more thing he needed to take care of, his purpose for coming in here.

“Those clinical trials?” he ventured. Flinching once again as Wilson turned, hoping he hadn’t misread.

“I’ll make some calls.” Wilson sighed. He took strength and comfort in the faith that Wilson had in him. This was all he was capable of doing. Moving on, taking care of business. And part of that business, right now, was to let Wilson know that this meant a great deal to him.

“Thanks”

Okay folks, here's what's been rattling around in my head lately. I fear that it's a bit rough, as usual, and probably more talk than anything else. I'm hoping that you'll recognize the two narrators.

RTLemurs, yours was great, mine however. . . Still, at least it got me to write something.

Guilt: Two Stories, Two Patients

I know that I'm a screw-up. I always have been and I learned a long time ago I pretty much always will be. I mean, what kind of person meets her spouse in rehab? To top that off, it didn't really take for either of us that time. We hoped we'd support each other in our new found sobriety, but instead we ended up providing one another with built-in drinking and partying buddies. It started getting old for me quite awhile ago, and like they always tell you, it's one day at a time, but honestly, I don't know that I'll ever be anything other than a drunk and not an especially attractive one either.

Okay, so like I said, I'm not exactly going to change the world. But Mikey was my chance, both to save the world and maybe my marriage. Because, see I said before that my husband and I had provided one another with an automatic drinking buddy, but that was only in the beginning. The last few years or so, we just get drunk next to each other, do things we regret, then come home and fight about everything: who drank more, who was flirting with whom, or who was enabling whom. That was when I wasn't trying, unsuccessfully most of the time, to be on the wagon. You see I am so mightily sick of that life, but my husband wasn't. And it seemed like we didn't have anything in common besides a vice, even though I knew there had to be something there once. I hoped maybe we could get it back, as much as neither of us deserved it, if we just worked, but we couldn't find the inspiration. That was where I was hoping Mikey would come in. What man doesn't want a son?

I should go back a bit because neither of us wanted him at first. I feel so guilty about it now. Since I didn't want him, I didn't get to keep him. I guess it would have been better for everyone if I had just gotten an abortion instead of bringing him into the disaster that I did. But I remember someone once said that when God wants to change the world he sends a baby and I ran with that idea. Maybe I could never make anything of myself, but maybe if I tried hard enough, if I sacrificed enough, Mikey could become someone and that would be my contribution to the world: that I was Mikey's mother. So, I decided to keep him and eventually argued my husband around to it.

The pregnancy wasn't that bad. It was nothing at all like the horror stories of nine months of violent barfing and 40-hour labors that everyone feels compelled to share with you, even strangers in the line at the grocrey store, the minute they hear the news. Things did get a little hairy right at the end when he went into distress and they had to break out the forceps. But then there he was and he was so perfect, so beautiful. I always thought all that stuff about not loving anything as much in your life was a load of B.S. but it's true. My husband, who was pretty much on board with it all by then anyway, even felt it. He just looked at Mikey and kept saying "That's my boy" over and over again.

I knew Mikey was special the second they handed him to me after they had gotten him weighed and cleaned up. He was crying, then he stopped and just laid there on my chest looking at me. I knew this boy was going to change everything. Little did I know that would be one of the few times in his life when he wasn't crying. I mean I knew babies cried, who doesn't, but crying wasn't even the word for it. Mikey screamed, at the top of his lungs most of the time. If you didn't know, you'd think someone was torturing him. I was the only one who could get him quiet, and even then not all the time.

Mikey screamed when I gave him to his dad, he screamed when I put him in his bed, he screamed when I put him in his bouncy seat, he screamed when he had a bath, he screamed for both sets of grandparents. He even screamed for the lady down the hall who'd had ten kids herself and claimed that she could get any baby to sleep. So I'd walk the floor at night rubbing his little back and humming while he shrieked in my ear like a car alarm siren. Of course he'd quit screaming to nurse, but a lot of times the second he'd be done it'd start up again, then he'd spit most of the milk back up.

I figured it was my punishment for my misspent life. I could redeem myself through Mikey, my beautiful, beautiful boy, but I'd have to prove I really wanted it. So I did what I had to do. If the only way he'd sleep would be if I sat up with him in the rocking chair and rocked in a specific rhythm then I'd do it. It was only fair I'd do wahtever it too to keep my sweet boy happy. I'd figure out a way to do everything around the house with Mikey in my arms. I'd sleep when he finally wore himself out and fell asleep. Oh, but I'd get so tired. My husband would come home and I'd tell him about how Mikey had cried all day again but he didn't really get it. Once he said, "Well you're the one who wanted a baby, aren't you? Now you've got one". I guess he was right.

I'd already been sober for a little while when I found out about Mikey and of course I didn't drink while I was pregnant. My husband tried it too, to keep me company, but it didn't last for him. There were always clients for him to entertain at work and now that we had Mikey we needed more money, so I could understand when he had to stay late and I tried not to be too angry when he came home drunk or even when he told me to "shut the kid up".

As time stretched on I wondered, what kind of mother was I that I couldn't make Mikey feel better. I was his mom, it was what I was supposed to do. I couldn't tell why he suddenly hated me. I told his pediatrician about it, but he just said it was colic and it would go away. So did everyone else. When it still didn't go away after a month or two, I changed my diet: nothing spicey, no dairy, no legumes. I swear it came down to about three foods I could eat and still it didn't help. They told me some babies just had sensitive digestion.

Of course it turns out that I did that to him too. I gave it to him. I was the one who was hurting all along when I thought I was doing the best I could. My poor, poor boy.

I remember the day it happened. Mikey and I had been up all night again, but that wasn't anything new. I was so tired and I just wanted my husband to stay for a little while, to help me, since Mikey was his too, for us to be a family for a while. But he couldn't stay, clients again. So we got in the tub, Mikey and I. Sometimes, but not always, a warm bath would make him feel better, and I was hoping it would this time because I hadn't been feeling well myself. I kept putting it down to lack of sleep, but by then I was pretty sure that I caught the flu from my husband. I started feeling dizzy, so, so dizzy and I held on to Mikey as tight as I could, then close my eyes in hopes that my head would stop spinning.

The next thing I knew I was lying in a hospital room, my husband was there holding my hand and crying. He didn't have Mikey with him.

"What happened? Where's Mikey?" I asked.

"You had a seizure. You dropped him in the tub when it happened. I found you."

"But. . . I can't. . . I mean I don't have epilepsy."

"Sh, honey," he said, "they don't know what happened yet, but they'll find out. They'll take care of both of you. It'll be all right".

And you know, that was the most attention he'd paid to me in months. I'm not saying I didn't deserve it. I just focused so much on Mikey, but he was my chance, my last chance.

Anyway, once he said that I broke down. I just loved my boy so much and I tried so hard for him, I really did. Oh, my poor, poor boy. My poor sweet Mikey, you didn't deserve to have an awful mother like me.

I don't really remember what happened when they brought him to me again. I just remember that I somehow had the idea that he wasn't mine. That somehow someone had taken my beautiful, sweet boy away, and replaced him with some kind of screaming devil-child. Somehow, I thought, I think the voices told me all this, that if I killed this thing they, whoever they were, had left with me, then they'd give me my real baby back and we'd be happy again. My husband would love me and spend time with me again. I'd have a normal child who would sleep through the night. Somehow it would all be all right. Like I said, I don't really remember. I may have dreamed half of this, I may have made this memory up to fill in what they tell me happened. The thing is, I should have know better. I knew Mikey was mine. And I loved him, I love him so much. Even being the screw up that I am, I should have not listened to the voices. Other people have difficult babies and unhappy marriages, and they don't kill anyone.

Now they tell me I'm going to die too unless they treat me. It only fits. Even my husband says it's okay, we can have another baby. I don't want another baby, I want Mikey. Can't they understand that. If only I'd been a better mother he'd still be here. Why can't they understand? Mikey was my chance to save the world and I killed him. No matter how awful or painful my death is I deserve it. He was my only chance and I killed him. What else is there?

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The strange doctor may be the first one who asked me the question outloud, but he's not the only who's asked it. All the people who tell me what a saint I am for taking care of my husband, the ones who ask me if it wouldn't be better for us both if I put him somewhere, they're asking me the same thing, they just don't have the courage to ask it straight out why I keep taking care of my husband when for all intents and purposes there's nothing for me to get out of it.

Some days it makes me angry that they would even wonder, other days it makes me sad to think that they know so little about love. See, as cliche as it sounds, when I said the words "for better or worse, in sickness and health" I believed them and I meant them. I never dreamed it would come down to something like this, or at least not until we were both older, at least eighty, and our son had moved away to start a family of his own, but if you really love someone you realize you signed on for the whole deal, not just the easy parts.

Does it make me happy to take care of Richard? Well, not exactly, definitely not as happy as if this had never happened, or as I would be if he got up out of his wheelchair one morning, hugged me, hugged our son, and made us his famous pancakes, if he, in essence, picked up where it all left off six years ago. But it's not really about the guilt either. I mean I knew as soon as I checked out those places right after it happened that I could never leave Richard in one. Not that the people in those homes don't work hard. Not that most of them don't try to take care of their charges, but they wouldn't know Richard; they couldn't take care of him the way I can. I'll never forget the sight I saw in the halls of one place I visited when I was walking around on my own after the official tour. The place was clean, almost completely spotless. It did have that smell that all hospitals and medical places have, but I couldn't say by any stretch of the word that it stank. As I walked down the hall I saw three people propped up in their wheelchairs lined up in a row. The people were clean too: their pajamas or nightgowns were clean, and their hair was more or less maintained. But they all just sat there staring at the wall. I went further down the hall, looked around a little more, and then came back. Those three were still there, just staring, lost in whatever places their minds, or what was left of them, had taken them. Like I said they were clean, taken care of, not abused by any means, but there were just too many other people who needed care in that place for someone to touch these people, or talk to them, or even look at them. I couldn't consign Richard to that. But no, it's not simply to avoid feeling bad myself, there's more to it than that, but it's hard for me to articulate what my heart knows to be true. Still, I'll try the best that I can.

You see they say there's no one in there anymore, least of all anyone who was my husband once, but I'm not so sure. I've read those articles about people who talk about being in a coma and knowing what was going on around them, or at least being aware of the presence of the people they loved. They say that the presences they sense were part of what brought them back. I guess you could say that if Richard were coming back, he would have done it by now, but then I heard recently of some man who was in a coma for 15 years and then, suddenly, he woke up. So, I say you can never really know. I talk to Richard just in case and sometimes I'll tell him about something we did and I can tell by the look in his eyes, or the way his breathing changes that he remembers too. Anyway, I like to think somewhere in there, even if it's buried deeper than I could imagine, is a tiny bit, at least, of the man I married. They say I'm fooling myself, that even people with virtually no activity above the brainstem sometime grimace, or move their eyes and it doesn't mean anything, but they aren't there with him the way I am.

Even if it's not really Richard in there, there's still someone in there. A physical entity who feels comfort and pain, happiness and sadness. I can tell, anyone could, that he feels better after he's had a bath, or when I turn him in bed. There are subtle changes in his face and breathing, like I was saying before. The timbre of the noises he makes change too. Sometimes when I've just bathed him, put him in clean pajamas, and then settle him in bed, I swear he looks at me, really focuses his eyes on me, then lets out this feathery sort of sigh. Then there are the times when he's hungry or his catheter is bothering, more than usual as I understand that being catheterized is uncomfortable regardless,apparently worse for men than for women, Richard starts to fidget a little and the noises he makes become downright angry. Anyway, I know it still makes a difference to him that someone is meeting his needs. Yes, the nurses and aides in whatever home I put him in would do that too, but what I've learned about what he likes and what makes him happy comes from long observation. No matter how good a nurse is, he or she just can't spend that kind of one-on-one time with a patient. And I don't even want to think about what would happen with a bad nurse.

It's a little like taking care of a small baby. They really can't tell you much about what they need either. They don't really know what's going on in the world. They just know that they need a clean diaper, or they're hungry, or cold, or lonely, although not in so many words; it's more like they know something isn't right and someone needs to fix it. At least initially, there's not much they can do to reward us beyond the little things they do to express that things are feeling better now. Granted most babies grow up and that rewards us, whereas Richard may be this way forever, even though I hold out hope that between time and medicine something will change, somehow Richard, in some form or another, will come back to me, but still I get enough reward out of at least knowing that I'm removing some of the pain in the world if nothing else.

I know I"m making it hard on myself. That's another way that it's like having a small child. I can't go anywhere unless I can either bring Richard with me, or I can find someone to stay with Richard. When I'm not there I'm always worrying about if he's okay and if he needs anything, even if he's wondering whether I'm going to come back at all. I wake up during the night and check to see if Richard is still breathing just like I used to do with my son when he was a baby. And it will be worst of all when Richard finally dies and he's still the same. Then I'll end up losing him twice.

I already lost Richard once after the surgery. I lost so much of what was the essence of Richard-- his sense of humor, his support in my life, the man who was my companion and lover-- then. The next time I lose his body and possibilities. Once he's dead, then there's no chance he's going to be back. Well of course unless you believe in an afterlife, and I'm not sure I do.

Heaven knows my son thinks I'm crazy too. I know it embarasses him that not only is his dad in this shape when his friends' fathers are coming to games and helping them with their science projects or practice their fastball, but that when his friends come over they can see Richard sitting in his wheelchair seemingly disconnected from the world. It might be more comfortable for him if we did put Richard in a home. But the thing is I don't want him to think that we don't do things because they're hard or unpleasant, or that we stop loving someone we're committed to when they become less lovable. I need him to know that if something were to happen to him, or he made a chioce I didn't agree with that I would do any less for him that I do for Richard. Deep down, I think he needs to know that his dad may still be in there too and that if he is, he's being taken care of.

So as complex and vague as all that was I guess that's it. That's the rationale behind the whole thing: I still love Richard and I will give up on him. It's not guilt, it's love, even if the two go together.