first fic--currently untitled

So, nervous. I came to the first stopping point with the fic I've been trying to write last night and decided to put it up. Now I'm worrying big time. I must apologize for the lack of title. I know I'm breaking a cardinal writing rule (You must name your children), but I'm used to getting to the end of things before I title them and seeing as I don't know how long this baby will stretch or when I'll finally be finished I'm going to do it piece by piece. But wow, I'm just a nervous about showing this to you as I am about showing my "real work" to someone. As I said, this is only the first part even though it may seem that I've covered everything. Well here goes. We'll call this part



Late Night Codes

"I was wrong" House said as he felt himself losing his fight for continued consciousness and breath.
Then his chest began to clamp down in earnest, and his vision faded first to pinpoints, then to complete darkness. In contrast, House heard the nurse's call for help and the alarms on his monitors, as if they were both inside his skull. Oh great, he began to think, but didn't get to finish the thought.
******
Suddenly House jerked awake, breathing, and sweating, as if he'd been doing wind sprints. The word "No" escapes his lips and trails off as he realized where he was: a lumpy single bed in the internal medicine call room. He still felt disoriented as if he were coming back to the scene from a long distance away. House shook it off. The decrepit mattress groaned and crinkled—House was not sure he wanted to know what would cause it to make that sort of noise and tried not to think about it further-- as he reached down to free his feet from the sheets in which he was tangled. It'd been a long time since House had a nightmare like that. The last he could recall--not that he wanted to-- was a few years ago, right after he'd lost his first official patient as a doctor. It could be summed up as a night of recurrent attempts to run to the location of the code through sludge, then finally reaching the room, if he was lucky, only to open his mouth to take charge and speaking only gibberish while everyone, including the coding patient, laughed. Chances were House wouldn't be getting back to sleep any time soon, sleep deprivation notwithstanding, but he got up to retrieve his pillow from the clutter of pizza boxes and dust bunnies under the bed (somebody ought to clean the dump up but it wasn't going to be him if he could help it; that's what med students were for) then settled in for a nice stare at the ceiling.

House had counted 150 holes in the ceiling tiles--and several stains of unknown, or at least unthinkable, origin--when the door to the call room creaked open to reveal Jennifer "Bang-Bang" Maxwell.

"Wakey-wakey", she called out.

"What?" House asked, hoping to sound sufficiently annoyed to make her reconsider waking him up. After all, time spent horizontal in bed, even if not asleep, is better than time spent dashing around the wards or dealing with a three-month old vague ache that has suddenly become urgent enough to require the emergency room at three a.m.

"We've got work to do, Ace".

"Couldn't you have gotten Wilson up instead?"

"He's not here tonight. We'll just have to muddle along without our favorite scut monkey for now. Come on, chop, chop, patients to do, things to see".

"Okay, okay.” House grumbled going to grab his coat and locate the stethoscope that has undoubtedly escaped from its pocket during the night, while jamming his feet into his loosely tied shoes.

As he pulled his coat on the rest of the way and followed her out the door he notices that "the Banger" is looking a little worse for the wear herself. A multitude of strands of hair were escaping the dark braid trailing down her back, and she had been absently rubbing her hand across the back of her neck while she waited for him. There was something he was supposed to remember. Was it about a patient? Days off? It'll come eventually, he decided.

As far as House knew Maxwell hadn’t been in the room at all so far that night and was thus even more sleep deprived than he was. She had probably been trying to finish dictating notes, which unlike some of the other upper levels she had the courtesy to do somewhere away from people who were trying to cram in some sleep. Granted, he might not have noticed. House had never needed much sleep and was generally a night person, but when he needed it he was out for the count no matter what was going on. Tonight, and for most of the past few years, he had needed it. Stifling a yawn, he asked, “Long night?”

“The usual: up to my eyeballs in notes, a page or two every hour to call back the nurses on this guy whose attending expects us to develop mental telepathy on top of everything else and left absolute squat for orders. He’s not the one they’re going to call all night, so why should he worry, right? Then the patient has to have a bad night on top of everything else.”

Maxwell ran her hand through her hair pulling more of it loose and they walked in silence for a while.

“So, what’ve we got?”

“”Chronic renal failure down in the ED. Apparently she’s been puking all over the place.”

“Great. Never can have enough puke in your life I say.”

“My feelings exactly, Ace. Nothing like a hint of Eau D’ Vomit to make you feel fresh.”

They’d reached the elevator then and rode down in silence, trying to convince themselves that they were really awake. The resident on the case gave them pretty much the same story. Female in her mid-fifties suffering chronic renal failure experiencing nausea, fatigue and frequent vomiting.

“I guess you’re going to want us to admit, right?”, House asked, “I mean it’s not as if you could give her some medication, tank her up on IV fluids and have her come in tomorrow.”

“She says she’s been at it since last night and her labs are looking pretty funky”.

“Funky labs, can’t have that, can we?”

At this, Maxwell gave House a none-too-subtle kick in ankle. He avoided yelping and shifted his weight a little. Great, now I’ll be limping all night he thought.

“Fine. Okay. I’ll go see her.”

They all trooped over to the patient’s cubicle and as advertised the patient was vomiting, all over the ER doc’s shoes and scrub pants as he’s introducing the newcomers. Bull’s eye House thought as the ER doctor made a speedy exit. It never ceased to amaze how someone who claimed to have been vomiting all day could still produce so much fluid. The rest of the admission went pretty well, all things considered, with one more vomiting incident which he and Maxwell both managed to dodge effectively, and they were about to part ways when a cacophony of pagers broke out.

“Well, that’ll probably be my friend downstairs,” Maxwell said and checked the code pager, then nodded. “You go ahead and I’ll be right behind you Ace”.

House took off down the hall. He decided to take the stairs. Somehow, the elevators were especially sluggish at times like these. To think that I used to like running, he scoffs in his mind. Of course, that was under less emergent circumstances and when he’d actually slept more than eight hours over the course of the past three nights.

By the time he got to the right room House decided he really needed to take better care of himself. His chest and lungs were burning way more than they ought to. He walked into the room and heard someone say, “Hit him again”. That’s odd, he thinks, he’s the one who should be running this code. House was glad though, because he was really not feeling that great at the moment. His vision was swimming a bit so he didn’t see who’s in charge. The voice he heard before says, “Clear”.
****
House’s chest constricted, he gasped, and he was in bed again. His vision was still swimming, there were people standing all around him and was pretty sure that the attending on his case, C. something or another, was standing over him. “Good work people,” she said. As his eyes closed again, it dawned on him what he was supposed to remember to ask Maxwell. Then he felt himself drift off again.





That's all folks. Feel free to return the favor and ignore me. Please, just don't laugh too hard at my aspirations to one day be a "real writer"
Peace.

Yay new fic- Nice one Catlady! Love your description-

That's really vivid and the 'nightmare' worked well - I like your style and you write House well here- dialogue is smart. I'm much intrigued and look forward to seeing where you take it.

Cheers


Benj

Okay, Catlady, you've done it ... pulled me in just like a "real writer" does with his publisher when sending a few pages of a new manuscript. Nasty you! I hate WIPs, but you got me to read it. And it's good. Needs lots of proofreading though, since it shifts between first-person-third-person way too much. But I want to see where you're going with this. I like Maxwell already, and love how she calls him "Ace". Now, what you need to do is stroke my fur a little by writing more here, and make me purr a little. Be kind to yourself and let things flow. What you've given us is good. Just not enough of it! Meow! I'm waiting for Fancy Feast! Bets

Catlady thank you. Unlike Betz I enjoy works in progress. I think this is a terrific start I have often thought about those missing minutes and I am very glad you are addressing them After creating two lousy titles in the haste of the moment, I wish I had been as careful as you going with "CURRENTLY UNTITLED" - I look foreward to you naming this much as I look forward to reading more of his forced awakening.

Don't be modest Catlady - I love it!
Don't worry about the lack of title - I wrote a play to perform at school, and we ended up selling tickets and performing under my casual working title, which was exactly that.
I'd much rather see you writing a story and producing an alluring title after it was written than writing a story to fit a title, but that can sometimes work. Anyway, don't worry about any lack of title.
I agree with benj that the dialogue is very snappy - bright and shiny, sharp like carpet nails.

I love the way this story weaves in and around House's consciousness. Very interesting.
If I could nitpick one thing (feeling like a bit of a pedantic meany), I'd pick on your punctuation, but this is a work in progress, and the story isn't at all hard to read, so I won't, other than saying mind it.
encore! encore!

You like me, you really like me!!! Too bad we don't have an icon for big stupid grin.

I apologize to all for the shifts in tense. I started writing this in present tense against my better judgement and finished this section this way, then looked it over, and decided that while it does lend immediacy it feels a bit awkward to read. I went through and changed tenses, but looks like I missed a few.

I also apologize for bad punctuation, despite the degree in English and the editing class I took a few years ago commas drive me up the wall and back down again. Maybe some day, before I die, but probably not much before, I will finally get it all sorted. Until then, everyone will be forced to endure my somewhat grudging relationship to grammar and usage.

Magdala, all your titles are awesome, as are the stories they accompany--may I be you when/if I grow up. I'll probably just wind up doing what I have termed "the smallest concrete detail" trick anyway (this amounts to reading through the work, picking out a word that describes the smallest concrete detail you can find and using it as the title; as the person who taught it to me said "You may not know what it means, but someone else will".), but I remain reluctant to do so until all the concrete details are in place.

If you remember I was the one who asked for stories about House's near-death experience so it was only fair I contribute one. This may or may not be the only one I write on that topic as it's currently looking more like a frame to tell about House (and Wilson's) past and a person from that past. As you, and others who write know, there are times when the story decides to go in an entirely different direction than you planned so. . .

Betz (stroke, stroke, skritch, skritch), I will try to get the next part up soon. I do have "a little left in the bowl" as Hemingway would say, or at least I think he said, so I'm hoping to get a start on the next part soon. I just have to decide how much of what we saw on the show will get covered in the story (in my mind we're covering, or will soon cover the discussion leading up to the medically induced coma) and I'm trying to decide if I can just touch on it lightly and move on in my own direction or discuss it more. It all depends on what the muses say.

Dear Catlady,

I was hoping you would reply to my posting in "House near death experience" and you have replied beautifully with this story.

I am not bothered by punctuation and am not interested in nitpicking. I look for plot, characterisation and structure. The ability believe in the characters and their experiences that is the key to my acceptance.

My view is that writers write and editors punctuate, while with generosity and kindness, they guide and get the best from the writer. Having earnt my living by doing both at different times I can tell you that holds true in the real world. I know many award winning writers whose first drafts would make your hair stand on end.

At the moment I cannot put out clean work because my printer is stuffed and for some reason I cannot see faults unless they are in hard copy. Also no one can edit their own work.

Do not wish for that Catlady. While still wondering what I wanted to do when I grew up disablilty and old age seemed to drop on me like a pre-emptive and unexpected avalanche.

Catlady all you need is yourself. Grow up proudly, be yourself, your talent will not let you down.

George Axelrod, an American screenwriter I knew in England, used to sit down at his desk everday and the first thing he typed was "Where am I now that I need me?"

George died about a year ago but that line still lives in my heart.

Magdala

Man, Magdala, you have a way with words. Chink, Chink, Bang, sparks flying. You're a wordsmith.

Catlady, I know what you mean about the big stupid grin. I was walking on air the first time someone replied to one of my pics - in fact, I still do bounce around everytime someone critics something I've written. Ah, praise, music for the heart, criticism, music for the hands.

At last the, I would say long awaited, but I'm probably the only one who cares anymore, next chapter of this beast. I do have to warn you, it's a short chapter without a lot of action, but I feel it had to be done.

The italics are the last bit of the previous chapter. For the lack of a better chapter title I'll call it:

Deja Vu

House’s chest constricted, he gasped, and he was in bed again. His vision was still swimming, there were people standing all around him and he was pretty sure that the attending on his case, C. something or another, was standing over him. “Good work people,” she said. As his eyes closed again, it dawned on him what he was supposed to remember to ask Maxwell. Then he felt himself drift off again.

The next few hours were blissfully free of dreams or pain. Being dead was apparently more work than it might seem. Later, but still early morning, judging from the dim light filtering through the windows, House came awake cold, achy, and covered in sweat. The sleep he’d had hadn’t done much good. House considered calling the nurse, but it seemed like they could never give him anything more, at least not without asking a doctor. House had been on the other end of the request more than a few times himself, so he knew relief was definitely not forthcoming any time soon. He desperately wanted to get off his back; he felt as if his vertebrae were slowly beginning to fuse with the mattress. But House wasn’t sure it was worth the jostling and resulting pain involved in the process. True, lying still hurt too, but trying to move, even to fidget a little, hurt more, and having someone else move him hurt worst of all.

House reflected it was amazing how much one could miss showering. He couldn’t remember a time either during his serious lacrosse days or the dark days of his internship when he’d felt this—there was no other word for it—gross. Of course they’d come in once a day, and jostle him around to change his sheets and gown, but it wasn’t long before he was back to being soaked in sweat again, which eventually turned cold.

House stared at the ceiling letting his vision blur and tried to will himself to concentrate on something besides the pain. He tried desperately to quit shivering so he wouldn’t jar his leg anymore. At least Stacy wasn’t in the chair next to the bed so she must have gone home to finally get some sleep. House was glad at least one of them was sleeping.

Somewhere on the floor someone was moaning. It was barely audible, it wouldn’t have been audible at all during the day when there was more activity or at least then it would have been easy to ignore with all the other sounds and activities, now it was just quiet enough on the floor that there was no blocking it out. The poor soul just kept at it, emitting a low steadily ululating sound. In all the nights he’d spent in the hospital it surprised him how different it was from the other side.

House went back to the long stare at the ceiling blurring his vision again and letting the moaning fade into the background. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but he found himself sprawling on the sofa in one of the staff areas studying the tie on his scrubs, Another scrub-clad pair of legs crossed into his peripheral vision. House looked up to see Maxwell flop into the chair across from him. This time he remembered.

“You’re dead”, House blurted. The filter between his brain and mouth was apparently even more lax than usual.

“Yes, I am. And for the record, I was wrong I don’t get to sleep now either”.

“So I’m. . .”

“No, you didn’t arrest this time. I’ll extend you the same gentle courtesy you do to your patients. You’re circling the drain, Ace”.

“I figured as much”.

“Yes, well you always were one of the smart kids. Doesn’t play nicely with others and won’t share the toys, but smart”.

It was her, apparently in the flesh again, perched in the chair with her legs tucked under her, with a cup of what was probably the vile herbal tea she enjoyed, or the more vile hospital coffee, the stuff from the lounge not even the marginally better stuff they served for the patients’ families in the cafeteria, which she always drank black.House realized that they had both subsided into silence after the prior exchange. It had been a long time.

“You want to take a picture or something Ace?”, Maxwell asked tucking, a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

House jerked back to the present, “Nah, it’d just break the camera anyway”.

“I know, I know long time, no see and all that.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“So I’m supposed to believe this is the afterlife, a big hospital?”

“No, but I do have my theories that hell is the pediatric burns service, or maybe the NICU”.

“I’d been expecting so much more, maybe some nice oblivion. I could deal with that. But no, I get this place instead of a never ending field of flowers, or whatever those New Age schmucks see.”

“Like you’d enjoy that.”

“Okay, so say, maybe a never ending monster truck rally? A nice, free bar?”

“I thought I taught you better. For that matter I know, if one of your juniors asked you something this obvious instead of trying to figure it out on his own, you’d kick him halfway to next week.” Maxwell paused for a minute. House kept looking at her. “Look, I could tell you what it’s really like, but then I’d have to kill you, seriously”.

yay! new fic! Keep at it Catlady- enjoyed it so far

I remember this!

I love this paragraph. Indeed House is on the 'other side'. The transition is gentle, but it's there, and you're telling us to listen up as much as you're telling House.

Great stuff, and congratulations for getting something else up.
Good luck, and I hope to read more from you soon.

Cheers.
AE.