[Picks up a small maze puzzle off his desk] Nancy Wells, cervical cancer, 70% survival rate. Died November 6, 1998; 64 years old. [Puts the puzzle down and picks up a small wooden carving of a bird] Bernie Jones, melanoma, 89% survival rate. October 10, 1999. He was 52. [Puts the bird back and picks up a deep sea diver from a collection of toys on a counter behind his desk] John Taylor. Thyroid. 96% survival rate. I promised him he'd be fine. [Putting down the toy] Eight years old. I am not going to die slowly in a hospital bed under fluorescent lighting with people stopping by to gawk and lie about how I look. Even a small chance of that happening is too big a chance for me.
It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. An oncologist with cancer. Of all the things that could be killing me...It's like the universe is giving me the big middle finger.
It's cruel advice. They were just trying to make sense of what was happening to them, and I'm there telling them not to bother? I should have spent my life being more like you. Should have been a manipulative, self-centered, narcissistic ass who brought misery to everything and everyone in his life.
No. No. I'd rather die here. [crying] Not in an ambulance. Not in a hospital. Please, you can't do that to me. I can't — House… Please. Promise me that you won't do that to me. Promise me.
[On the phone to Wilson's mother] Hi, this is Greg House. Again. Third message. Hopefully indicating how much I want you to call me back. I'd say that your son is dying to increase the urgency, but you probably already know that.
Life is pain! I wake up every morning, I'm in pain! I go to work, I'm in pain! You know how many times I just want to give up? How many times I thought of ending it?
You're the only one I listen to. The last couple of days I didn't, and I almost killed my patient. I think it's time for you to accept that you're just smarter than I am.
