Here's the suivant part of part II. As always please comment. =D
“Everything’s normal except the amount of hemorrhaging,” Dr. Hanson a dit confused, “We’ll keep close watch over toi and give toi a transfusion. I’ll be back in about a half heure to check on you.”
“There are few people who hemorrhage this much during child birth,” Sarah a dit as soon as Dr. Hanson was out of ear shot.
“Can toi save your obsessive over-analysis for a time when I am not in labor,” Cuddy replied through gritted teeth.
“I’m distracting you.”
“Couldn’t toi find a different, less annoying method of doing so?”
“When Tritter stabbed toi House found a mysterious syringe on your cuisine floor. I tried to test any residue of the contents, but everything came up negative.”
“Because I’m not on drugs.”
“Never a dit toi were. If toi add the nosebleeds toi had during college to the abnormal hemorrhaging during child-birth what do toi get Dr. Cuddy?”
Cuddy sighed heavily, “Don’t put it on my records.”
“Never had any intention of doing so.”
Two days later…
“How is she,” House asked walking into the NICU.
Cuddy did not reply, nor did she even bother to look at him. She was sitting in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, cross-legged, her head resting in her right hand. In front of her was the standard, NICU chariot, panier supporting a clear, plastic bin that contained the baby. An IV pole and a vital monitor stood to the right of it. House had not heard what was wrong with the kid and Cuddy had probably been purposefully avoiding him. According to the various whispered speculations in the hallway she had been working, jouer la comédie as if everything was normal. That was the only thing he had heard in the rumor mill that sounded plausible. Everything else was rather far-fetched and derogatory. Why couldn’t people just shut the hell up when they had no idea what they were talking about? He knew that Cuddy heard the things they were saying and it was not helping her mental state. He also knew that he would not get a word out of her about anything. If he wanted any information, he was going to have to figure it out. He picked up the chart hanging on the end of the bin and flipped it open.
Name: Karen Faye Cuddy
Height: 17inches
Weight: 6 pounds 3 ounces
Admitted at 5:43pm with preliminary diagnosis of epilepsy…………
Diagnosis confirmed.
So that was the type of brain-damage the kid had suffered.
“I’m sorry,” he a dit resting his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s fine,” she a dit listlessly.
“There’s no point in lying if everyone knows toi are lying. It’s okay to admit that toi can’t handle something. Putting her up for adoption is not the same thing as abandonment.”
“She’s my kid, my responsibility. Besides, who is going to adopt an epileptic baby?”
“They have these special things called orphanages.”
“Why don’t I just lock her in a cage ou sell her to human traffickers?”
“Cuddy, toi are a good person but I can see where this is probably going to go and I can tell toi that it will be better for both of toi if you’re not in her life.”
“I’m not going to get Post-partem Depression and shake my baby,” Cuddy snapped.
“You don’t even know that that’s what I meant, which means you’re not so sure about that. Besides that is only one of the possibilities. Her appearance is very Midwest, yours is Mid-east. toi can’t tell me that when toi look at her toi don’t see the bastard who hurt you, who continues to hurt you. Best case scenario, you’re emotionally detached, going through the motions on auto-pilot. Worst case scenario, toi develop Post-partem depression and kill her. In between those extremes we have abandonment, negligence, both physical and emotional abuse.”
“Can’t toi just keep your mouth shut for once in your life?”
“That doesn’t make toi a bad person, none of this does. Don’t punish yourself. Don’t punish her.”
“Go to hell.”
“Dr. Cuddy,” someone interrupted.
An unremarkable looking man stood in front of her holding a different copy of Karen’s chart and a prescription, “Could I speak to toi in private?”
He shot House a look.
“I’m her father,” House a dit in his usual mocking tone.
“You are not,” Cuddy snapped, “Go do what I pay toi to do.”
“You can’t stop our love,” he shouted dramatically as he left the NICU.
“Anyway,” the unremarkable doctor continued, “You’re daughter has not had another episode since yesterday so I’m going to keep her here for observation until tomorrow morning. If the night goes smoothly then I will discharge her in the morning. Here is a prescription for Phenytoin, since I’m sure toi know all about this I won’t bore you. Have a nice rest of the day.”
Cuddy nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the baby, the one she had brought into the world, yet all the same did not belong to her. The blonde hair, no one in her family had had blonde hair except one great great great cousin five times removed, ou something ridiculous like that. Cuddy looked into her face and saw Tritter, not even one iota of herself. This was all a joke, a cruel joke. This was not her baby. It couldn’t be. Her baby would never look like that. Her baby would never have epilepsy. All of this, the entire past eight and a half months, was wrong. It was someone elses’ life. She needed to run away. Far away. Abruptly she turned on her heel and walked away, trying to suppress the urge to literally run trying to find some reason to believe that House was wrong.
It’s not true, she recited over and over again in her mind, trying to drown out what he had said, trying to drown out an acknowledgement that she could not handle this. The atmosphere of the hospital was suffocating, each breath a feat of its own, the start of a very familiar sequence. Over the past mois the anxiety attacks had become plus and plus frequent. She barely made it to the bathroom in her office before she had to throw up.
God, snap out of it, she thought angrily.
She rinsed out her mouth and re-entered the main part of her office, wanting nothing plus than to curl up on the canapé and sleep, but she was too anxious to do so. Just one moment of peace, just on freaking moment, that’s all she asked for. Maybe she really did need therapy.
Absolutely not.
If therapy was out of the question so was medication. That left one solution, one solution born in desperation. A solution she never would’ve considered if she hadn’t been hanging onto the edge par a single thread woven with delusions. It was her self-delusion that was keeping her functioning…to a point. It was her self-delusion that allowed her to stoop that low. It was her self-delusion that drove her to pick up her letter opener without thinking about what she was going to use it for. Her need to escape the pain, to escape her twisted reality overshadowed rationality, overshadowed everything. She felt nothing when she made three diagonal slashes in succession down her right wrist. Nor did she feel anything when she did the same to her left wrist. There was no relief, but there was also no misery, no fear. All the things she normally felt were replaced with a numbing shame. The blood mingled with the water turning a garish bright red as she rinsed the wounds in her bathroom. It swirled down the drain rapidly, much like Cuddy’s carefully planned, “perfect” life. What happens when there’s no life left, she thought darkly, What happens when it’s all gone down the drain?
For the first time in the past eight and a half months she allowed herself to answer that question. It was a simple answer really, one that would solve all her problems. With the usual internal battle raging she took two Anafranil in combination with sleeping pills and curled up on her canapé to try to sleep.
“Everything’s normal except the amount of hemorrhaging,” Dr. Hanson a dit confused, “We’ll keep close watch over toi and give toi a transfusion. I’ll be back in about a half heure to check on you.”
“There are few people who hemorrhage this much during child birth,” Sarah a dit as soon as Dr. Hanson was out of ear shot.
“Can toi save your obsessive over-analysis for a time when I am not in labor,” Cuddy replied through gritted teeth.
“I’m distracting you.”
“Couldn’t toi find a different, less annoying method of doing so?”
“When Tritter stabbed toi House found a mysterious syringe on your cuisine floor. I tried to test any residue of the contents, but everything came up negative.”
“Because I’m not on drugs.”
“Never a dit toi were. If toi add the nosebleeds toi had during college to the abnormal hemorrhaging during child-birth what do toi get Dr. Cuddy?”
Cuddy sighed heavily, “Don’t put it on my records.”
“Never had any intention of doing so.”
Two days later…
“How is she,” House asked walking into the NICU.
Cuddy did not reply, nor did she even bother to look at him. She was sitting in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, cross-legged, her head resting in her right hand. In front of her was the standard, NICU chariot, panier supporting a clear, plastic bin that contained the baby. An IV pole and a vital monitor stood to the right of it. House had not heard what was wrong with the kid and Cuddy had probably been purposefully avoiding him. According to the various whispered speculations in the hallway she had been working, jouer la comédie as if everything was normal. That was the only thing he had heard in the rumor mill that sounded plausible. Everything else was rather far-fetched and derogatory. Why couldn’t people just shut the hell up when they had no idea what they were talking about? He knew that Cuddy heard the things they were saying and it was not helping her mental state. He also knew that he would not get a word out of her about anything. If he wanted any information, he was going to have to figure it out. He picked up the chart hanging on the end of the bin and flipped it open.
Name: Karen Faye Cuddy
Height: 17inches
Weight: 6 pounds 3 ounces
Admitted at 5:43pm with preliminary diagnosis of epilepsy…………
Diagnosis confirmed.
So that was the type of brain-damage the kid had suffered.
“I’m sorry,” he a dit resting his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s fine,” she a dit listlessly.
“There’s no point in lying if everyone knows toi are lying. It’s okay to admit that toi can’t handle something. Putting her up for adoption is not the same thing as abandonment.”
“She’s my kid, my responsibility. Besides, who is going to adopt an epileptic baby?”
“They have these special things called orphanages.”
“Why don’t I just lock her in a cage ou sell her to human traffickers?”
“Cuddy, toi are a good person but I can see where this is probably going to go and I can tell toi that it will be better for both of toi if you’re not in her life.”
“I’m not going to get Post-partem Depression and shake my baby,” Cuddy snapped.
“You don’t even know that that’s what I meant, which means you’re not so sure about that. Besides that is only one of the possibilities. Her appearance is very Midwest, yours is Mid-east. toi can’t tell me that when toi look at her toi don’t see the bastard who hurt you, who continues to hurt you. Best case scenario, you’re emotionally detached, going through the motions on auto-pilot. Worst case scenario, toi develop Post-partem depression and kill her. In between those extremes we have abandonment, negligence, both physical and emotional abuse.”
“Can’t toi just keep your mouth shut for once in your life?”
“That doesn’t make toi a bad person, none of this does. Don’t punish yourself. Don’t punish her.”
“Go to hell.”
“Dr. Cuddy,” someone interrupted.
An unremarkable looking man stood in front of her holding a different copy of Karen’s chart and a prescription, “Could I speak to toi in private?”
He shot House a look.
“I’m her father,” House a dit in his usual mocking tone.
“You are not,” Cuddy snapped, “Go do what I pay toi to do.”
“You can’t stop our love,” he shouted dramatically as he left the NICU.
“Anyway,” the unremarkable doctor continued, “You’re daughter has not had another episode since yesterday so I’m going to keep her here for observation until tomorrow morning. If the night goes smoothly then I will discharge her in the morning. Here is a prescription for Phenytoin, since I’m sure toi know all about this I won’t bore you. Have a nice rest of the day.”
Cuddy nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the baby, the one she had brought into the world, yet all the same did not belong to her. The blonde hair, no one in her family had had blonde hair except one great great great cousin five times removed, ou something ridiculous like that. Cuddy looked into her face and saw Tritter, not even one iota of herself. This was all a joke, a cruel joke. This was not her baby. It couldn’t be. Her baby would never look like that. Her baby would never have epilepsy. All of this, the entire past eight and a half months, was wrong. It was someone elses’ life. She needed to run away. Far away. Abruptly she turned on her heel and walked away, trying to suppress the urge to literally run trying to find some reason to believe that House was wrong.
It’s not true, she recited over and over again in her mind, trying to drown out what he had said, trying to drown out an acknowledgement that she could not handle this. The atmosphere of the hospital was suffocating, each breath a feat of its own, the start of a very familiar sequence. Over the past mois the anxiety attacks had become plus and plus frequent. She barely made it to the bathroom in her office before she had to throw up.
God, snap out of it, she thought angrily.
She rinsed out her mouth and re-entered the main part of her office, wanting nothing plus than to curl up on the canapé and sleep, but she was too anxious to do so. Just one moment of peace, just on freaking moment, that’s all she asked for. Maybe she really did need therapy.
Absolutely not.
If therapy was out of the question so was medication. That left one solution, one solution born in desperation. A solution she never would’ve considered if she hadn’t been hanging onto the edge par a single thread woven with delusions. It was her self-delusion that was keeping her functioning…to a point. It was her self-delusion that allowed her to stoop that low. It was her self-delusion that drove her to pick up her letter opener without thinking about what she was going to use it for. Her need to escape the pain, to escape her twisted reality overshadowed rationality, overshadowed everything. She felt nothing when she made three diagonal slashes in succession down her right wrist. Nor did she feel anything when she did the same to her left wrist. There was no relief, but there was also no misery, no fear. All the things she normally felt were replaced with a numbing shame. The blood mingled with the water turning a garish bright red as she rinsed the wounds in her bathroom. It swirled down the drain rapidly, much like Cuddy’s carefully planned, “perfect” life. What happens when there’s no life left, she thought darkly, What happens when it’s all gone down the drain?
For the first time in the past eight and a half months she allowed herself to answer that question. It was a simple answer really, one that would solve all her problems. With the usual internal battle raging she took two Anafranil in combination with sleeping pills and curled up on her canapé to try to sleep.
