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Mar. 7th, 2007 11:23 amTo say that the last week had been a rollercoaster ride would be, at the very minimum, an extreme kindness. Even the most sadistic of rollercoaster engineers on his very worst day couldn't have formulated the kinds of stomach-wrenching turns and heart-palpitating loops that Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had had to endure in the CDC (and post-CDC) malarkey. House's eighth and ninth biopsies had come back with positive markers for ebola and Cuddy had received an abrupt e-mail a few hours later with a subject line that read
I was right
and a body message of Hold all my calls.
And then he had submerged beneath the hospital's amorphous surface and Cuddy had done what Cuddy did best -- in several nationally-televised press conferences and reports to government figureheads -- and the CDC had taken the boot to the gut (but not politely.) A majority hearing to assess the CDC's role in the crisis was scheduled to begin in the Fall. In the meantime, patients who were being treated for a rogue strand of bird flu were now being treated for a rogue strand of the ebola virus, which had subsequently been traced back to -- uncannily enough -- a Wall Street investor with a flying mammal fascination and a pet store that carried bats without proper vaccinations. Most of the damage to patients had been readily controlled, and Cuddy handled the transition of those patients to several neighboring hospitals. The under-the-radar biopsies were not mentioned. Neither was House's name, though his sudden non-presence in the hospital was enough to send the wiser heads wagging around her door after the press conference broke.
It had taken a few more days before Cuddy could see the top of her desk again, and she was settling into the middle of a Thursday afternoon by clearing her office of the remains of a governmental body. Her desk had been tossed about and there were smudge marks on the spines of her books. Her picture frames had been handled and then tossed back onto the credenza without regard. But, with minor adjustments, Cuddy had begun to tune the instrument of her office back to its proper chord and the hospital was falling in step to the beat.
Which left the matter of House's step -- specifically where it was -- in question. He had ducked all manner of radar since making his brash diagnosis and between dealing with the government, the press, and a worried phalanx of doctors and patients, she hadn't had time to seek him out. Her motivations were not entirely personal. There was a stack of paperwork about a foot and a half high parked on the seat of one of her chairs. Cameron usually ran point on House's mail and House's signature, but there were no cut corners for Cuddy, especially when it could have permanent echoes of impact on the way she did things. She liked how she did things. 'Wanted to avoid more government interaction if at all possible.
By two-thirty she'd had him paged on four separate occasions. She'd rung through to his personal pager. Called his cell phone. Left several messages on his office phone (only one of which she gave her voice to, the other ones recorded her fierce expression as readily as any speech she could make) and even sent a runner up to his lounge and Wilson's office to suss him out. The runner had come back, hedged around the doorframe, and had sullenly reported that House had not been in any of the predescribed locations. Cuddy, in the middle of a last-minute phone call with the CDC, had pushed a 'one minute' finger in the air, then waved him away. She ended the call with an abrupt "No" and hung up.
With a slab of paperwork slung across her hip, Cuddy set out on the trail of one of the most elusive men it had been in her reputation to know. She had encountered Wilson, who looked refreshed by the departure of the CDC but pale when he saw her approach, and he had been characteristically evasive before giving up that House was sitting in on a gall bladder surgery in OR 4.
"He told me to 'hold his calls'," Wilson had said.
Cuddy climbed the sort stairs to the suite above the OR and shouldered into the door, marked irritation in the high lines of her face and in her cheeks. She got a glimpse of a pair of sneakers stuffed up onto the window sill overlooking the surgical suite. A glossy gossip magazine was slung across his stomach. She crossed the distance in short, greedy strides. The chunk of files on her hip was readjusted.
"Gall bladder surgery, House?" she queried from under speculative brows "Did the cable in your office go out?"
I was right
and a body message of Hold all my calls.
And then he had submerged beneath the hospital's amorphous surface and Cuddy had done what Cuddy did best -- in several nationally-televised press conferences and reports to government figureheads -- and the CDC had taken the boot to the gut (but not politely.) A majority hearing to assess the CDC's role in the crisis was scheduled to begin in the Fall. In the meantime, patients who were being treated for a rogue strand of bird flu were now being treated for a rogue strand of the ebola virus, which had subsequently been traced back to -- uncannily enough -- a Wall Street investor with a flying mammal fascination and a pet store that carried bats without proper vaccinations. Most of the damage to patients had been readily controlled, and Cuddy handled the transition of those patients to several neighboring hospitals. The under-the-radar biopsies were not mentioned. Neither was House's name, though his sudden non-presence in the hospital was enough to send the wiser heads wagging around her door after the press conference broke.
It had taken a few more days before Cuddy could see the top of her desk again, and she was settling into the middle of a Thursday afternoon by clearing her office of the remains of a governmental body. Her desk had been tossed about and there were smudge marks on the spines of her books. Her picture frames had been handled and then tossed back onto the credenza without regard. But, with minor adjustments, Cuddy had begun to tune the instrument of her office back to its proper chord and the hospital was falling in step to the beat.
Which left the matter of House's step -- specifically where it was -- in question. He had ducked all manner of radar since making his brash diagnosis and between dealing with the government, the press, and a worried phalanx of doctors and patients, she hadn't had time to seek him out. Her motivations were not entirely personal. There was a stack of paperwork about a foot and a half high parked on the seat of one of her chairs. Cameron usually ran point on House's mail and House's signature, but there were no cut corners for Cuddy, especially when it could have permanent echoes of impact on the way she did things. She liked how she did things. 'Wanted to avoid more government interaction if at all possible.
By two-thirty she'd had him paged on four separate occasions. She'd rung through to his personal pager. Called his cell phone. Left several messages on his office phone (only one of which she gave her voice to, the other ones recorded her fierce expression as readily as any speech she could make) and even sent a runner up to his lounge and Wilson's office to suss him out. The runner had come back, hedged around the doorframe, and had sullenly reported that House had not been in any of the predescribed locations. Cuddy, in the middle of a last-minute phone call with the CDC, had pushed a 'one minute' finger in the air, then waved him away. She ended the call with an abrupt "No" and hung up.
With a slab of paperwork slung across her hip, Cuddy set out on the trail of one of the most elusive men it had been in her reputation to know. She had encountered Wilson, who looked refreshed by the departure of the CDC but pale when he saw her approach, and he had been characteristically evasive before giving up that House was sitting in on a gall bladder surgery in OR 4.
"He told me to 'hold his calls'," Wilson had said.
Cuddy climbed the sort stairs to the suite above the OR and shouldered into the door, marked irritation in the high lines of her face and in her cheeks. She got a glimpse of a pair of sneakers stuffed up onto the window sill overlooking the surgical suite. A glossy gossip magazine was slung across his stomach. She crossed the distance in short, greedy strides. The chunk of files on her hip was readjusted.
"Gall bladder surgery, House?" she queried from under speculative brows "Did the cable in your office go out?"
