[ absences and patients and nurses, oh my! ]

Who?: Chase, Cameron, Foreman..
Where?: The diagnostics room, where else?
When?: Wednesday, February 14, 9:27am
Warnings: None
Summary: Hurrah, Ducklings!

Status: Incomplete

The large room usually reserved for the diagnostic medicine department - when its chief wasn't out recovering from being shot, that is - was one of the quietest places in the hospital these days. If one could ignore what had happened there, and concentrate effectively on something else, it was a great place to do one's work - which was just what Robert Chase was doing at the moment.

Happy Valentine's Day, Ducklings! Kinda.Collapse )

[[ patient report ]]

[ report ]

Patient - Dr. Adrian Matthews (36yo, hospital pediatrician) - was admitted Monday night, complaining of abdominal pain and having a fever of around 100 degrees.

Fever spiked to 103 at about six in the morning, but was brought back down.

I got the file on Tuesday morning, around ten or so. Patient has been more or less stable since then, but his condition isn't improving.

Around 7pm Tuesday night, patient began complaining of pain in his feet. With no outside source, we have to assume that this is a symptom. Cause is unknown - I'll have to do some tests.

- Dr. Chase

{OOC: *flails* Sorry it's so late. At least it's here? Look! A patient report! Kinda. As best I could do. I have no idea what real patient records things would look like. .__.; I'm sorry. I fail.}
  • Current Mood
    discontent discontent
  • Tags


(As promised, the NL prequel posts with House.  Takes place over two months ago...)


A visitor: Wilson (incomplete)


Back to consciousness: Cameron


Cameron/Wilson [Pre-game]

The cafeteria had the same gumshoe smell that occupied the municipal gymnasiums of Allison Cameron's childhood. A kind of swabby, rubbery odor that came, partly from the food, partly from the underarms of the workers who prepared the food. She milled through the line, sliding the confetti-baked tray along the guide rail, her thoughts everywhere else but on the selections.

She had come in early that morning, as she had done for the past five (was it five? Eight, nine, twelve) mornings, to relieve either Foreman or Chase of their post at House's bedside. She preferred the morning shift. The window of House's room was east-facing and she didn't need to turn on the halogen to read by. If she read at all. Usually she'd get three sentences into a journal article (the office was full of them already, but Cameron had subscriptions) and then she'd catch a glimpse of the oxygen read-out, or the heart metronome and she'd lose her place and not be able to find it again.

And still he slept.

And still she needed to eat, so at eleven thirty-three exactly she left her post to the on-call nurse and went down to the cafeteria to placate her grousing stomach. She'd smelled vulcanized rubber the second she walked in. Chicken Florentine.

She would have yogurt. She kept a small jar of clover honey in the bottom cabinet of the diagnostics lounge, away from snooping fellows and stooping bosses. She might have a spoonful. Lord knows she needed the energy.

She reached for a plain yogurt and brushed the back of a white sleeve --

-- "Oh!" she said, and drew her hand back like a skittish rabbit, "Dr. Wilson...do you?...no, go ahead." She laughed because it was awkward and she was now awkward because she had laughed.