Title: Everybody Gives You Flowers
Author: JennifferButterfly
Summary: Wilson reminisces on what a simple gesture of flowers really means.

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Its funny when you find out you’re dying and the first thing you think of is Where am I going to put all the flowers? Granted, I eventually thought about my family, friends, and assets, but those didn’t cross my mind until later. In my line of work I see people die all the time, and most of them go slowly and painfully. This is when the flowers come. You can’t really give buds of fragrance to somebody who has just died in a car accident. Sure you can leave some on their grave, but you can’t really give it to the person. When somebody is dying of cancer, everybody knows they have time. It may be a week, a month, or a year, but they have time. Local florists, grocers, or supermarkets are called, orders are placed and delivered, and suddenly everybody feels like they have closure. I got flowers. When I found out what was happening to me, that is. Because I knew what was coming, I thought of the colourful petals that would soon be invading my home, hospital room, office, and so on. I guess my line of work just led me down that thought path first.

The first person to send me anything was Cameron. Naturally. That woman can’t resist sending some form of comfort unless it’s to a man who tested on newborn babies or a cheating cyclist. Then she’ll skip on the arrangements. Either way, she sent me a nice bouquet before I even found out what I had. Through the grape vine, also known as the rumor mill at Princeton Plainsboro, she found out I was sick and going in for tests. The morning of my initial blood work, I walked into my office to see a lovely arrangement of Fennels sitting in the middle of my desk. The card among it simply read,

I know you’ll make it.

Love,
Alison

The Fennel is the flower of strength.

Two days later and the test results came back. What luck I had for them to say that more tests were needed. It was okay, as a doctor I was used to having to order more tests. But as an Oncologist, I was even more used to the symptoms of cancer. I knew that I was on a journey, a fight, if you will, against the big C. I knew this before the additional tests were performed. On the day of my ultrasound I was greeted with the most welcomed of surprises. Again, there on my desk, was a small gathering of flowers. Pear Blossoms, to be specific. Now that wasn’t what shocked me seeing how I figured more would be coming my way. What caught me off guard was the fact that it wasn’t from Cameron, but rather Foreman. I never pegged him for the type that would care to send flowers, let alone to a coworker. Maybe the near death scare from six months ago changed him more than I thought. Sure his chipper new outlook on life didn’t last long, but something deeper inside of him seemed too. I walked over to the arrangement and read the small, business card sized tag that it came with.

Dr. Wilson,

Here’s to anticipating the best.

E. Foreman

The Pear Blossom is the flower of health and hope.

Once the tests, which varied from chest x-rays, barium x-rays, ultrasounds, and CT scans, were performed, I waited for the results. The nice thing about having the tests done in the hospital I work for is that I got a copy of all results. As it turns out, being head of a department does have its perks. I opened the patient folder labeledWilson, James and scanned the papers. The tests were in fact conclusive. I had a sarcoma, specifically stomach cancer.

House couldn’t stop poking fun at the situation. “The irony in an oncologist getting cancer,” he said, “how Shakespeare would’ve loved this one. Poetic, isn’t it?” I rolled my eyes and took a drink of water, trying to ignore his comments and pay attention to TV. I won’t lie, it did sting a little, but this was House. If he were to act with concern then I would worry and feel out of place. Tossing his comments to the back of my head, I made a mental note that my first consultation with one of my employees was tomorrow. Dr. Andrew Zimmerman.

We debated as colleagues. Not as patient to doctor or as one friend to another. As far as the two of us were concerned, I was getting a consult on a case. It helped us maintain our professionalism. Something that is easily lost when an event like this hits close to home. It was decided that the best way to go about attacking this was to have me undergo surgery to remove the cancerous tumors from my stomach. Then, if need be, we’d discuss further options from there. The operation was scheduled for the Tuesday after next and in the mean time, more flowers came. They were the standard arrangements anybody could pick out of a water container at their local grocer, but each was special. When my office was full to the point where no more bouquets could stay unless I wanted to overpower all that came in with sweet fragrances, I started taking them home. It’s a good thing I found a place to rent not too soon after I left House’s apartment. A few went in my kitchen, some were spread throughout the living room, and a couple made their way to the bedroom. The day of surgery came and went but the flowers just came. They never went. Even when they dried up and drooped as the moisture left their once supple petals, I kept them around. It reminded me that no matter the outcome of the surgery, everything dies. Whether my death day would come in a week, a month, a year, or eighty years, I had to recognize that it was coming. Tests following my surgery said the cancer was in remission. I was cured, so to speak. Nobody ever really gets cured of cancer; their body just stops creating the disease. Well, hopefully it does. I’d seen plenty of cases in my time where relapses occurred and the tumors surfaced once more. Still, I was pleasantly surprised when a delivery man came to my home one day with another gathering of blossoms. I was still recovering from the procedure and, although I had already been back to work, I decided to take a day off. The delivery man handed me a medium sized bouquet of Myrtles and had me sign on the line. Once he left I sniffed the bunch and took them to my kitchen. As I looked around my cupboards for a container that had yet to be used, I pulled the card out of the bunch. This was from Chase. Once I found this out, I wasn’t surprised at all. He’s the type who secludes himself when sorrow and pain is involved but is open with everybody when the times call for celebrating.

Dr. Wilson,

Congrats. I heard the good news and

decided to spread some cheer. Here’s to

a long life.

Robert

The Myrtle is the flower of joy.

A year went by and then another. The cancer hadn’t come back and I was starting to feel like my old self again. Sure, I knew there was still a risk, but why focus on what could be? I was happier living with what was. Why not? For every patient that had their cancer come back, I knew of at least two more that permanently remained in remission. The numbers were in my favour. I earned the right to be happy.

But, as a wise person once said, when man plans, God laughs. I planned on living a long life. I planned on putting all of the events from a few years ago behind me and only thinking about it when I went in for check up screenings. I planned, God laughed. Two and a half years after I was diagnosed, the cancer came back and packed a harder punch. Now the sarcoma had reappeared in what was left of my stomach, moved into my bowels, and half way up my esophagus. Just like that, practically overnight, my fears came true once more and my hopes were dashed. Plan B was shot to hell. I met with Dr. Zimmerman and we discussed what to do next. This time it was not colleague to colleague, it was doctor to patient. So this fear I felt, this uncertainty, this is what it felt like to be on the other side of the desk, on the other side of cancer. We eventually decided that chemotherapy would be best since my cancer was wide spread and I scheduled treatments to begin next week.

House didn’t laugh this time. There was no irony to this. There was nothing that Shakespeare would love. There was only pain. I know he would never admit it, but he hurt just as much as me. I was the only person around that was willing to put up with him. I was the only person around more than willing to call him a friend. Now that friend was in pain. Now he was in pain. I must admit, though, the short, magenta coloured Rocky Horror Picture Show reminiscent wig he bought me was rather striking. As a matter of fact, it was funny in its own twisted way. Columbia had nothing on me and House said if he were a biker with only half a brain named Eddie, he’d run away with me.

Chemotherapy went on and on, sometimes seeming like there was no end. Dr. Zimmerman would order a test, I would lay in the CT scanner, bald head cool against the plastic pillow, and we would hope for the best. But, as I said earlier, I planned and God is an omniscient being that likes a good laugh. A year on chemo and nothing changed. That’s when I realized there was an end, if I wished it to come. I had seen plenty of patients go through the cancer system. I watched as they spent precious time on cures that never helped. I gazed at myself in the mirror one night, realizing the same was happening to me. The next day I decided that enough was enough. I politely told Dr. Zimmerman that I was done with treatment, though I felt like screaming that I was done with the nausea, mouth ulcers, and low blood cell counts. I then gave my resignation to Cuddy. She quietly accepted and let me leave early that day. House didn’t stop by to help me pack, even though my office was next to his. Before I left that day, Cuddy stopped by with a going away gift for me. A bouquet of Cyclamen. She told me that she was sad to see me leave and hugged me before parting, leaving both of us with tears in our eyes.

The Cyclamen is the flower of resignations and goodbyes.

I went home and created a list of things to do. Granted, ninety percent of those things were in the city and weren’t adventurous by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a list none the less. Item number eight: reread my favourite book series, The Incarnations of Immortality. Number six: rent the full series of The Three Stooges and watch it from beginning to end with no breaks except to eat, pee, and sleep. Number one: say goodbye to House. Number fourteen: learn to cook a new dish. Number one still needed to be taken care of. Number five: volunteer one day at a dog shelter; I should’ve asked Cameron if she wanted to join. I still haven’t gotten number one done, it would help if House returned my calls. Number two: come to terms with my death and make a will. Done and done. Number one is taunting me now. Number the Last: Pass away peacefully in my sleep.

Out of that whole list, I think Number the Last was the easiest. The others required me to put thought and acknowledgement into what was happening. Number the Last required none of that from me. It simply smiled at me when the time came, carefully tapped me on my shoulder, and asked me to sit down in my favourite chair with a small glass of fine wine to sip. Then, when I was at my most comfortable moment, Number the Last quietly came up, tucked the blanket under my chin, and took all that was needed of me.

Which brings me here. A small graveyard with empty folding chairs once filled with mourners, a vacant hole in the ground covered by a cherry casket that had the summer breeze gently graze its surface, not disturbing the forever sleeping man inside, and a tall figure standing nearby. Turns out House did feel the need to say goodbye. He didn’t say it with words, though. He just gracefully placed a purple Hyacinth on my beautiful box and left.

The purple Hyacinth, the flower of sorrow, regret, and loss.

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Dedicated to all of those who have fought or been affected by cancer. Special dedication to Gramps, the man who battled it four times and never called it quits, even when his body did.