Since I published around chapter 10, I more or less know the direction the novel will take until its end. I have a small notebook full of notes and ideas that I read every week to make sure I'm on the right path.
I had planned to be close to finishing the first volume by now, but it seems my calculations were off. So, I'll continue without issue until I develop what I need. We're literally in the final stretch of Volume 1.
In Volume 2, new things are coming—stay tuned.
By the way... 100!!! chapters. What madness. Thank you so much for reading.
PS: Chapter 100—I think it's a good time to ask (aside from author's notes) for a review. If you've already written one in previous chapters, I'd like you to write another one so I can see what's changed since then. So give some love, please.
Enjoy.
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"You're sure you're not exaggerating?" Chase asked, panting. "You, better than anyone, know how nurses and gossip are."
I couldn't argue with Chase there.
"Yeah, it can't be that bad. After all, the man donated a hundred million dollars to the hospital," Cameron commented. "Not many people do that."
"Not many people can do that," Chase added sarcastically. "I mean, imagine the tax benefits."
"Tax benefits, seriously?" Cameron asked, frowning.
"What?" Chase asked, offended. "How many people do you know who can donate that much money?" he added. "I don't know if you know this, but donating is an amazing financial move."
"People do charity just for the sake of charity," Cameron said defensively, making the rest of us look at her incredulously.
I was sure there were many people in the world who acted the way Cameron believed—simply to help others.
"He used his donation to buy his seat on the hospital board," Foreman said ironically, making Cameron close her mouth, slightly embarrassed.
"I'm just speaking my mind. I met the man, and I didn't like him. That's all," I said, raising my hands. I didn't have the time or the desire to debate why I didn't trust Vogler.
"I think we should go introduce ourselves," Cameron said seriously. "If he's really as bad as PJ says, we just have to do our jobs without drawing his attention. We lose nothing."
"It never hurts to look for the good side of a rich person," Chase added, nodding in agreement with Cameron's plan, making Foreman snort in amusement.
"Well, I can't deny that," I said, nodding.
That was an angle I hadn't considered. Maybe a title and a slightly docile attitude would be enough to stay on the man's good side—someone I had already recognized, without much trouble, as a self-centered narcissist.
"If you need me, I'll be in the library," I said, slowly getting up while grabbing my things from the table. "Apparently, I have to publish something soon," I muttered to myself as I walked out of the room.
A little later, I arrived at the library. For several seconds, I stood there, motionless, staring at the shelves packed with information, my mind blank, not really knowing what to do.
It wasn't that I lacked information to work with—on the contrary, I had so much medical theory stored in my head that I didn't know where to start or what to choose.
I definitely didn't have the time in my life right now to start a proper research project, and with Vogler on the board, I doubted I'd easily get approval to use even more of the hospital's resources. So, starting a project from scratch was completely out of the question.
The idea had come to me without much trouble—it wasn't an epiphany, nothing dramatic. Just… common sense. So, without many other options, I nodded to myself and walked over to the librarian.
"Hey, which section has the latest publications?" I asked with a friendly smile.
Following her directions, I reached a shelf filled with medical journals. Since it was a university-affiliated hospital, it was perfectly normal for them to have subscriptions to almost all of them. Among them, there it was: the New England Journal of Medicine, with the edition that included an article that had revolutionized the use of aspirin for secondary prevention.
I didn't have time, resources, or a team. But I did have years of compulsively reading and understanding every piece of medical information I could get my hands on. At that moment, I probably had more clinical data internalized than many of the hospital's residents. And it was time to use it.
A meta-analysis. That was something I could do alone. I could dig through data, compare studies, and build without needing to use hospital resources beyond the library's information—without fear of being wrong, since all the information I'd use was what I knew would eventually become standard. I just needed to refine the angle.
Cardiovascular prevention. A heavy topic, yes, but already consolidated enough to avoid the noise of unvalidated theories. Aspirin. Yes, an old acquaintance, but its preventive role was only just being systematically recognized outside the most specialized circles. There wasn't yet a completely uniform clinical guideline, and that was enough.
I saw a Circulation cover discussing new data on post-heart attack mortality in patients treated early with acetylsalicylic acid. I nodded, satisfied.
A quick mental review confirmed what I already knew: reduction in thrombotic events, decreased mortality in acute heart attacks, solid antiplatelet effects—and despite all that, there was still underlying skepticism in certain sectors. Some studies even advised against its use in general populations.
I walked between the shelves and began systematically searching. First, BMJ. Then JAMA, The Lancet, and of course Circulation—because if you're going to do a review on cardiology, you can't ignore the journal named after a vital function. I pulled every volume from 1970 onward and stacked them on a nearby table.
I knew what came next: days of reading, underlining, categorizing, frustration, more coffee than advisable, and hours digging through bibliographic cards for what I needed. And yet, for some reason, I was excited.
With a notebook open in front of me and a wide smile I couldn't wipe off my face for some reason, I began jotting down titles, authors, small quotes, and ideas I'd need to write.
I definitely needed a computer.
Leaning back in the library chair, I wrote a possible title:
"Prophylactic Use of Acetylsalicylic Acid in Cardiovascular Prevention: A Critical Review of Clinical and Epidemiological Studies (1970–1991)," I read quietly, tilting my head in satisfaction.
It sounded technical enough to shut Vogler up for a while.
I set the pen down, closed my eyes for a second, and took a deep breath.
Since I'd helped Dr. Thomas, I hadn't put much effort into compiling information and writing.
Still with my eyes closed, I exhaled and slowly shook my head. I was definitely excited to start. I'd forgotten how good it felt.
When I opened my eyes again, I focused all my attention on beginning to read.
Completely immersed in reading, taking notes, and marking pages, time flew by.
"PJ," the librarian suddenly said in a murmur, touching my shoulder and completely breaking my concentration. "You got paged to the diagnostics lounge," she added, smiling.
"Oh, thanks," I said, quickly gathering all the things scattered across my table and closing my notebook—now filled with pages of ideas for the paper's structure. "I'll be taking these," I added, pointing to some of the journals and a couple of books I'd taken from the shelves.
"Sure, I'll just need to write them down," the woman said, nodding with half-closed eyes as she checked the titles I was borrowing. "Do you have your badge?"
"Yup," I replied, immediately searching for the small card Dr. Cuddy had given me a while back.
A couple of minutes later, with a pile of research materials in my backpack, I returned to the lounge, where I found all the doctors inside House's office—everyone except House.
"Hey, that looks heavy," Chase said, sitting comfortably in House's chair with his feet on the desk.
"The weight of knowledge," I joked, dropping my backpack on the usual hook and taking a seat in one of the empty chairs. "Where's House?" I asked.
Before any of the present doctors could answer, from the doorway:
"I'm here, no need to cry," House declared with false exasperation, as if tired of my questions. "It's not an inflammatory process, it's not a clot—because Chase's angio says so—and it's not cancer, because her butt is perfect," he added before I could even think of a response.
In silence, House motioned for Chase to move from his chair, making the Australian doctor quickly get up.
"Anybody else got an aunt Elyssa with weird stuff?" House asked while reviewing the images on his desk.
As soon as he lifted the images—the venograms of the patient's foot and leg—House frowned.
"Maybe it's worth looking into—" Cameron was saying.
House interrupted her. "I thought you said Carly's angio was clean," he said, looking seriously at Chase.
"It was clean," Chase said defensively, his brow slightly furrowed.
Clenching his jaw, House silently walked to the lightbox on his wall, turning it on and placing the images. "You guys see the problem here?" he asked while slowly turning toward us.
"There's no indication of any abnormalities," Foreman said, walking to House's side to get a closer look at the images. "No lesions, no spurs, no mastitis..."
"Her toes are screwed up," House interrupted.
And immediately, I understood.
"Oh," I murmured—definitely louder than I intended, since I drew everyone's attention. "It's the wrong foot," I said, lowering my head slightly in embarrassment, avoiding looking directly at Chase.
"Or either she literally has two left feet," House added irritably, staring at Chase, who looked completely stunned.
Shaking his head softly, Dr. Foreman returned to his seat while Chase walked over to where he had been standing a moment ago.
House walked back to his desk, grabbing the documents—presumably the radiology report. "Maybe it was Jenny," he commented with annoyed sarcasm. "How come some resident signed this radiology report?" he asked, looking incredulously at Chase. "Were you even in the room?" he added slowly, his jaw tightening.
"I'll redo her angio—" Chase tried to say.
"You'll do nothing!" House interrupted, shouting, obviously furious. "Foreman, you do the angiogram," he added a moment later, lowering his voice.
Chase and Foreman exchanged looks for a few seconds before, slowly, Foreman stood up and walked out of the room.
"I can't believe I did that," Chase murmured, turning his attention back to the images.
"Yeah, and you better hope your mistake didn't cost her," House declared flatly.
The mistake was serious, and the tension in the room was palpable. Chase took a deep breath, his fingers lightly gripping the edge of the lightbox as if searching for support.
"House, I—" he began, but the older doctor had already turned back to his desk, dismissing any attempt at justification.
"Save it," House grumbled without looking at him, distractedly flipping through another file. "Your excuses won't un-screw her."
Chase closed his mouth, his expression hardening. He obviously knew House was right, but that didn't make the blow any less painful.
"Should I at least check on her?" he asked, trying to redirect his guilt into something productive.
House let out a sarcastic snort. "Oh, by all means. Go hold her hand while Foreman does your job," he said, obviously not meaning it at all.
The Australian didn't respond. Instead, he walked toward the door with firm steps, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. Behind him, Cameron also stood up, clearly following to console him.
Just as his hand touched the doorknob, House added without looking up: "And Chase? Next time, try looking at the patient, not just the pretty face running the machine."
Chase didn't turn around, but his back tensed for a second before he left the room, with Cameron just a few steps behind him.
A couple of minutes after the doctors left the room, "How likely do you think it's a clot?" I asked House while reading the latest studies done on the patient.
"Does it matter?" House asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I guess not," I responded a few seconds later, lowering my head slightly.
House and I remained silent in the office for several seconds.
As I read the patient's latest lab reports, "What's in your backpack?" House suddenly asked, breaking my concentration.
"What?" I asked, confused.
"Your backpack. It was practically empty when you got here, now it's full," House said, squinting, pointing at it suspiciously as it hung from the hook.
"Research," I answered, mentally preparing for the teasing that was about to come.
"Oh, did your ego really get hurt that bad?" House murmured, smiling, apparently finding the situation amusing.
Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I decided not to respond.
"Let me see it," he ordered calmly. "What did you pick?"
Letting out a long sigh, I stood up with the intention of taking my notebook from the backpack. House, in theory, was my supervisor in the eyes of the university and the hospital. In a normal world—one where House wasn't a pain in the ass—it would be perfectly logical for him to want to review what I was working on.
I unzipped the backpack and pulled out my notebook. It had a hard cover, already worn at the corners with some pages bent from constant use. I placed it in front of House, who took it with almost theatrical slowness, as if expecting to find something immediately mock-worthy inside.
He opened it where I had left the fabric bookmark, reading a few pages without saying anything, only making a subtle noise with his tongue—obviously trying to mess with my nerves.
"Aspirin? Really?" he asked suddenly in a flat voice.
"Secondary prevention in patients with cardiovascular risk," I answered without hesitation.
"Chase is gonna love this, now that he possibly missed a clot in a patient," House said with a malicious smile.
I didn't reply. A couple of seconds later, he clicked his tongue and pointed at one of my notes with his pen.
"This statistic is misquoted," he said without looking up. "The Physicians' Health Study was with healthy doctors, not patients with a history of heart attacks. You're mixing primary and secondary prevention. Beginner's mistake."
I crossed my arms, suppressing the urge to explain myself. It was pointless. If there was one thing I knew about House, it was that any justification was fuel for his comments.
"And this outline?" he continued, turning the notebook toward me. "Are you making a comparative table of adverse effects by dosage?"
"Yes," I answered immediately.
"Good luck with that. Half the studies before '85 don't differentiate between minor bleeding and clinically relevant bleeding. You'll end up with a table that just says 'aspirin bleeds' and call it a day," House said sarcastically.
I knew that, but I also knew there were clinical studies from '89 that differentiated it much better.
"So, what do you think?" I asked, even though my mind was already made up about continuing with the review paper. For some strange reason I couldn't explain, I was interested in House's opinion.
"No one's expecting you to know the difference between statistical heterogeneity and selection bias, so anything with more than three citations and decent writing will look brilliant coming from you," House replied mockingly.
Of course.
"Thanks," I muttered ironically. I didn't know what I was thinking, asking for House's opinion. I wouldn't make that mistake again.
"Do it," he said seriously, tossing my notebook back at me. "Just don't be an idiot. There are already enough reviews written by people who don't understand what they're reviewing. Don't add to that pile."
I looked at him for a second, confused by the mix of mockery, criticism, and—was that?—a hint of approval. I nodded without saying anything, taking my notebook.
"Anything else?" I asked, curious if House would continue his strange behavior.
"Yeah, before you submit it for publication with my name as co-author, I'll have to review it to make sure you didn't write anything stupid," House said arrogantly.
"Who said you'd be a co-author?" I asked, raising my eyebrows—though I really knew that if I wanted the article to be taken seriously, I'd need more than just the university and hospital's name behind it.
"Just a hunch," House said smugly as he stood up.
Without another word, House dragged the board—with the patient's symptoms written on it—and started studying it. He seemed so focused that, inadvertently, I also concentrated on looking for some pattern in the symptoms.
A few minutes later, "The patient had a respiratory arrest from fluid in her lungs," Cameron said, breaking the silence that had filled the room until then. "Foreman did a thoracentesis to drain the fluid. She's stable."
Fluid in the lungs? That was pretty strange.
Immediately, my mind filled with various theories. It wasn't an infection or autoimmune disease—blood tests would've shown that. The same went for pneumonia. There was no history of trauma, and Dr. Wilson had ruled out cancer. An allergic reaction didn't make sense because it hadn't happened with Chase. The only thing left was pulmonary edema.
"We sent the fluid to the lab," Cameron murmured after a second, getting no response from House. "It'll be back in a few hours. And you'll be happy to know Chase's mistake didn't cost her. The angio revealed no clot."
Finally, the last part had caused a reaction in House. "I'm thrilled," he said sarcastically, raising his eyebrows, making Cameron lower her head slightly—undoubtedly worried about Chase—before silently saying goodbye and leaving the room.
"Are you thinking of pulmonary edema?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Obviously," House replied without turning to look at me. "But it doesn't make sense," he added, referring to the symptoms written on the board.
After staring at the symptoms for a couple of seconds, House took the eraser and wiped everything off the board.
"Psychological symptoms?" I asked, reading what House wrote next.
"She's a woman in her thirties, CEO of a company entirely dedicated to aesthetic beauty," House murmured while writing something I couldn't see.
I didn't understand where House was going with this.
"What do you make of a person who refuses to get a colonoscopy despite a high probability of colon cancer?" House asked, taking a step back to let me see what he had written.
Withholds pain. Control.
"Fear," I answered immediately.
"That's what you'd think, but she agreed to other, much more invasive tests," House murmured. "She just didn't want the colonoscopy."
It took me a second for the answer to hit me. "Shame," I said slowly.
"Yeah," House murmured, stepping back to the board to write my answer.
"You don't think she..." I said, pressing my forehead at the implications.
"Only one way to find out," House replied, walking out of the lounge.
Without waiting long, I quickly followed the man. Generally, pulmonary edema could be caused by two main problems: cardiogenic (the heart can't pump properly, causing fluid buildup in the lungs) or non-cardiogenic (direct damage to the pulmonary capillaries).
In no time, we arrived at the patient's room. The woman, visibly in pain, was sleeping—likely under the effects of medication—in a fetal position.
"Close your eyes, kid. Don't want you getting too excited," House joked as he carefully lifted the patient's gown to examine her thighs.
"Damn it..." I murmured upon seeing numerous cuts on her leg.
A classic example of cardiogenic pulmonary edema was congestive heart failure, and someone with an eating disorder like bulimia could cause it. Prolonged use of ipecac, ingested to induce vomiting, could lead to emetine myopathy—muscle damage that not only explained the leg pain but also the progressive deterioration of the heart muscle.
"She needs a heart transplant," I said, clenching my jaw.
"Yeah," House said. "Unfortunately, being a risk, she won't be a candidate," he added grimly, studying my face out of the corner of his eye.
Disorders like bulimia represented too high a clinical and ethical risk. The transplant committee would never approve someone who couldn't guarantee treatment adherence or sufficient psychological stability to survive the process.
House, still watching me from the corner of his eye, remained silent, waiting for my next move. Obviously, what House was doing was a test. Another one.
He wanted to see if I understood what we had just discovered truly meant. Because if the patient **couldn't** be on the list, that wasn't a diagnosis.
It was a death sentence.
"Then it's a good thing she isn't a risk," I said quietly, stepping closer to the bed and gently lowering the gown, making sure to fully cover the woman's leg.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.
The slightest curve at the corner of House's lips. A half-smile, quick and almost imperceptible. But it was there.
He had set a trap. And I had passed.
"I'll talk to her in the morning," House said calmly.
He turned on his cane and left the room as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
And we both knew it.
Checking my watch, it was still early relative to my usual leaving time, but after everything that had happened that day, it felt like weeks had passed inside the hospital.
Taking one last look at the patient, pushing any moral doubts about the decision I'd made out of my mind, I nodded and left the room.
Grabbing my things after returning to the lounge, I left the hospital, heading toward my car just a few steps away. The sunlight still illuminated the path, but dusk was already beginning.
As Case had ordered, I didn't drive to the gym. Once home, after dropping my heavy backpack in my room and greeting Gabe, who was doing homework at his desk, I left again, walking toward Meemaw's house.
After knocking on the door a couple of minutes later, I decided Diane wasn't inside. I knew that several days a week, Diane went to the Coopers' house to drink tea and chat with Mrs. Cooper.
A few seconds after knocking on the Coopers' door, Mrs. Cooper—with her ever-present kind smile—opened it.
"Ah, PJ... oh," the woman said, her smile fading as she saw my face.
"Hello, Mrs. Cooper. How are you?" I asked, smiling at her while completely ignoring her worried expression.
"I'm fine, thank you," the woman replied, still staring intently at my face. "You must be looking for Diane," she declared, snapping out of her daze.
"Is she here?" I asked, nodding in response.
"Yes, come in," the woman said, making space in the doorway.
Inside the house, in the Coopers' living room, Diane sat with her back perfectly straight and smiled when she saw me.
"Hey, you're early," she murmured, checking her wristwatch.
"Yeah, Case ordered me to rest for a couple of days," I replied with a soft smile.
On the coffee table in front of Diane were various types of cookies and three teacups—one of which surely belonged to Missy.
"Since I got off early today, I was planning to go to RadioShack to buy a computer. Want to come with me?" I asked, amused at the idea of having a sort of "date" at an electronics store.
"Sure," Diane responded immediately.
Before Diane could stand up—likely to say goodbye and thank Mrs. Cooper—"RadioShack!" echoed from inside the house in the unmistakable voice of Sheldon. A moment later, running more excitedly than I'd ever seen him, my little friend appeared in the living room.
"Can I come with you?" Sheldon asked hopefully.
"Don't ask me, ask your mom," I replied, amused at how quickly the kid had moved upon hearing "RadioShack."
"Oh, I don't know, Shelly. It's late," Mrs. Cooper said, shaking her head slightly.
"Oh, please, Mom! If we leave now, following traffic rules, we'll arrive forty-eight minutes before the store has to close, meaning we'll be back an hour and a half before dinner," Sheldon immediately argued. "Right?" he asked, staring at me intently.
"Yeah, totally," I replied, nodding seriously—though I actually had no idea what time the store closed.
"He won't interfere with your date?" Mrs. Cooper asked, concerned.
The sincerity in Mrs. Cooper's question made me chuckle. Strictly speaking, going with Diane would be a date—but not one that couldn't be "interfered" with by Sheldon. It wasn't like we were going to a restaurant or the movies.
Still, I glanced at Diane, silently asking.
Apparently not understanding the silent question, Diane frowned slightly. "Oh, I don't mind," she finally replied a second later.
"Actually, it'd be a big help. I think Sheldon knows more about computers than either of us," I said, looking back at Diane, though I doubted my own statement.
Shrugging, Diane nodded in agreement.
"Forty-six minutes," Sheldon pleaded with his mother.
"All right, but I want you to listen to PJ and Diane," the woman warned her son.
"Of course," Sheldon responded excitedly. "Come on!" he urged us to leave.
Letting out a soft sigh, I offered my hand to Diane as we said goodbye to Mrs. Cooper, stepping out of the house a moment later behind Sheldon, who was already several steps ahead of us.
During the walk to the store, Sheldon filled every second of silence with meticulous questions about my "requirements," as he called them, covering everything from processing power to memory expansion. Meanwhile, I did my best to answer—usually just picking one of his suggestions and changing my answer based on his reaction—exchanging amused glances with Diane, who seemed just as entertained by Sheldon.
Before long, we arrived in front of the now-lit store.
"Hello, Dave," Sheldon said, entering first.
"Ah, Sheldon," the store clerk said. "You're here later than usual."
"Correct. I came to help PJ choose a computer," Sheldon replied formally, pointing at me.
"Hello," I said, imitating my little friend's formality, raising my free hand since the other was still holding Diane's.
"Nice to meet you," the man, Dave, said, approaching us. "So you're looking for a computer. May I ask what you plan to use it for?" he asked.
Before I could respond, "Oh don't worry about this Dave, I've got it, you can focus on the other customers," Sheldon said, raising his hands with a bit of arrogance.
"Customers," I murmured amusedly - apart from other employees in the store, there was no one else.
"All right," Dave said, stepping back theatrically. Strangely, he seemed to trust Sheldon to handle the sale.
"Great!" Sheldon exclaimed, clasping his hands. "So, here we have the latest in the Tandy line, the Tandy 1000 RXL," Sheldon continued, guiding us through the store. "It has an Intel 80386SX CPU, expandable RAM from 512 KB to 1 MB, hard disk storage from 20 to 40 MB, and runs MS-DOS 3.3 or Windows 3.0," he added rapidly without pausing for breath.
"Sounds good, I'll take this one," I said, stopping anything else Sheldon wanted to say.
"What?" the boy asked. "But we haven't gotten to the other models yet," he added, slightly nervous.
"I like this one, Sheldon," I said calmly. I really didn't feel like continuing to listen to the boy talk about computers - I just needed one to write the paper on.
Seeing Sheldon's discouraged face, I said, "Look at it this way - you were a big help in choosing a computer. Pick something that costs ten dollars and I'll buy it for you," I said smiling.
"Really?" Sheldon asked incredulously.
"Yes, but you only have five minutes to choose," I replied, raising my watch. "Your time starts... now!" I exclaimed, making the boy freeze in place. "Time's passing," I warned amusedly, watching Sheldon who didn't seem to fully process what had just happened.
"Oh boy," Sheldon finally said, snapping out of his stupor and moving through the store.
"I'll take one of these," I said to Dave, who wasn't far away. "Do you take credit cards?"
"Of course," the man responded with an excited smile.
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Once again, thank you so much for reading 100 chapters of Daily Drama (In American TV Shows). I truly appreciate it.
I don't want to be annoying, but reading your reviews really motivates me to write. If you have the time, I would greatly appreciate it.
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Author Thoughts:
As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin and not McLovin.
Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:
11332223
RandomPasserby96
Victor_Venegas
I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.
Thank you for reading! :D
PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.