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House was always "House", even before he had two consonants - 'em' and 'dee' - to tack on the end of it, separated by a comma.
He was "House" to the professors at U of M. "House" to the other TAs, whose own first names were subsequently dropped from the placards of their basement offices in an attempt to look cool. "House" to the cafeteria staff who sometimes wondered if he smuggled donuts and bagels out of the commissary in the big, droopy pockets of his jeans (but who never said anything about it because he was "skin and bones anyway"). He was "House" to the undergraduates, myself included, who kind of moved off to one side of the hallway whenever he passed by - post-Modern slacker Moses, parting a sea of four-point-oh hopefuls.
He had a "G" moored behind the "House" when I received my sophomore Fall schedule in the mail:
Introduction to Organic Chemistry
MWF, 8:00 AM
Professor: Larsen, O.
TA: House, G.
Larsen was a bore and House was a cut-up and the two of them went to the mat with each other at least twice every class session: O. Larsen's reedy, tweed-clad frame and horn-rimmed glasses versus G. House slumped-behind-the-desk, 'Stones t-shirt and black lenses. Once, when O. Larsen came down with a virulent strain of something and couldn't make it to class for a week, G. House took over the lecture and used the Kama Sutra to explain enatiomers and R and S nomenclature. I wanted to try R-CH=CH2 with a guy I was seeing at the time (casually, always casually and on my terms) but there are limitations to the romance of chemistry and I knew that Nice Guys Like That didn't do ethylene substituents with girls like me.
After college it was easier to live by a surname. G. House went on to become "G. House, MD" and I heard from someone via medical-school-grapevine that even that had been a miracle, given his expulsion from Johns Hopkins on the grounds of academic dishonesty. I became "Cuddy" instead of "Lisa" and it was kind of freeing to be rid of the feminine part of my name and settle on the patrilineal core of who I was. "Lisa" was "Consecrated to God" and giving and upturned faces; whereas "Cuddy" cut and kicked off the lips of the doctors that I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with during my residency. Cuddy, run a blood panel. Cuddy, what do you think about transplant ethics? Cuddy, we want you to author a paper on microbial genomics.
House was still "G. House" when his resume passed across my desk nine-and-some-change years ago. I was "Dr. Cuddy" when we shook hands before the interview (and had a madness memory flash of R-CH2CH3 written on the chalkboard in his lazy, loopy handwriting, one long finger tucked against the spine of the Kama Sutra to illustrate the example). He was "House" when I yelled and "House" when I growled and "House" when I scolded and "House" when I laughed (which was, and still is, rare).
He was "House" when his thigh cramped during a golf outing with Stacy and "House" with a sigh attached when he demanded something more for the pain, even though his attending told him that it was nothing more than a pulled muscle. He was "house" before and after the surgery - softened and lowercase when I would come into his room to chart him and prescribe him another dose of morphine because he asked for it. He was "HousE" to Wilson, who'd just begun to get used to the bracketing barriers on either side of the name, but whose fraternal bond with the man couldn't be explained or rationalized. So it just was.
He was always "Greg" to Stacy, and that threw me.
It was "Greg" when she sat on the couch in my office because the beeping of the heart monitors had given her a headache that only a stowaway bottle of rum in a bottom desk drawer could placate, her dark head falling toward her chest and his name falling toward the floor. It was "Greg" when she apologized for the smoke trail that she left behind wherever she went, even if there wasn't a lit cigarette pressed between her fingers. It was "Greg" when we waited on the balcony outside his to-be office (which, back then, was still some extension of opthamology) during his surgery, passing the same never-ending cigarette back and forth while she brooded about what he'd say when he woke up and I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to tell him that I still knew how to assign nomenclature to molecules because he'd taught me how.
Now, "Wilson" is "James" and I'm "Lisa," but "House" is still "House" and there are other names I'd gladly give him but they aren't worth repeating.
He was "House" to the professors at U of M. "House" to the other TAs, whose own first names were subsequently dropped from the placards of their basement offices in an attempt to look cool. "House" to the cafeteria staff who sometimes wondered if he smuggled donuts and bagels out of the commissary in the big, droopy pockets of his jeans (but who never said anything about it because he was "skin and bones anyway"). He was "House" to the undergraduates, myself included, who kind of moved off to one side of the hallway whenever he passed by - post-Modern slacker Moses, parting a sea of four-point-oh hopefuls.
He had a "G" moored behind the "House" when I received my sophomore Fall schedule in the mail:
Introduction to Organic Chemistry
MWF, 8:00 AM
Professor: Larsen, O.
TA: House, G.
Larsen was a bore and House was a cut-up and the two of them went to the mat with each other at least twice every class session: O. Larsen's reedy, tweed-clad frame and horn-rimmed glasses versus G. House slumped-behind-the-desk, 'Stones t-shirt and black lenses. Once, when O. Larsen came down with a virulent strain of something and couldn't make it to class for a week, G. House took over the lecture and used the Kama Sutra to explain enatiomers and R and S nomenclature. I wanted to try R-CH=CH2 with a guy I was seeing at the time (casually, always casually and on my terms) but there are limitations to the romance of chemistry and I knew that Nice Guys Like That didn't do ethylene substituents with girls like me.
After college it was easier to live by a surname. G. House went on to become "G. House, MD" and I heard from someone via medical-school-grapevine that even that had been a miracle, given his expulsion from Johns Hopkins on the grounds of academic dishonesty. I became "Cuddy" instead of "Lisa" and it was kind of freeing to be rid of the feminine part of my name and settle on the patrilineal core of who I was. "Lisa" was "Consecrated to God" and giving and upturned faces; whereas "Cuddy" cut and kicked off the lips of the doctors that I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with during my residency. Cuddy, run a blood panel. Cuddy, what do you think about transplant ethics? Cuddy, we want you to author a paper on microbial genomics.
House was still "G. House" when his resume passed across my desk nine-and-some-change years ago. I was "Dr. Cuddy" when we shook hands before the interview (and had a madness memory flash of R-CH2CH3 written on the chalkboard in his lazy, loopy handwriting, one long finger tucked against the spine of the Kama Sutra to illustrate the example). He was "House" when I yelled and "House" when I growled and "House" when I scolded and "House" when I laughed (which was, and still is, rare).
He was "House" when his thigh cramped during a golf outing with Stacy and "House" with a sigh attached when he demanded something more for the pain, even though his attending told him that it was nothing more than a pulled muscle. He was "house" before and after the surgery - softened and lowercase when I would come into his room to chart him and prescribe him another dose of morphine because he asked for it. He was "HousE" to Wilson, who'd just begun to get used to the bracketing barriers on either side of the name, but whose fraternal bond with the man couldn't be explained or rationalized. So it just was.
He was always "Greg" to Stacy, and that threw me.
It was "Greg" when she sat on the couch in my office because the beeping of the heart monitors had given her a headache that only a stowaway bottle of rum in a bottom desk drawer could placate, her dark head falling toward her chest and his name falling toward the floor. It was "Greg" when she apologized for the smoke trail that she left behind wherever she went, even if there wasn't a lit cigarette pressed between her fingers. It was "Greg" when we waited on the balcony outside his to-be office (which, back then, was still some extension of opthamology) during his surgery, passing the same never-ending cigarette back and forth while she brooded about what he'd say when he woke up and I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to tell him that I still knew how to assign nomenclature to molecules because he'd taught me how.
Now, "Wilson" is "James" and I'm "Lisa," but "House" is still "House" and there are other names I'd gladly give him but they aren't worth repeating.
