A Plague Of Dissent
Having navigated the car park, Adam then pushed his way through the two sets of double doors and all but fell through the last.
A queue, now that was to be expected, but there were only two people in it. The first was already at the counter and the other a policewomen. He had obviously attracted her attention as he stumbled through the door. She looked him up and down for a minute or two, obviously deciding he wasn’t deranged and likely to run amuck in the hospital. She said in the usual authoritarian manner that all policewomen seem to have.
“You look as if you’re in pain. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Yes, I am in a lot of pain, but if I sit down, I doubt I would be able to stand up again,” as he leaned on the wall for support.
At this, she turned her back, moved as if to guard her place in the queue, waiting for a few minutes until the receptionist beckoned her forward. Just as she approached the desk, her phone rang, which she proceeded to take out and answer, indicating to the receptionist to wait by holding up her hand.
After a minute or so of conversation, to what was obviously a female friend, she finished the call walking up to the counter to proclaim that she had come to pick up a sling for her son’s arm. By this time, several of the patients sitting in the waiting area who had heard the original exchange between her and Adam were giving her really dirty looks.
Had this been any of the other numerous occasions that Adam was in this A&E, he most certainly would have told her what he thought, but this morning he hurt far too much. Fortunately, by now the receptionist who had also heard the exchange as well as the comments and gestures being made by others in the waiting room.
“Would you mind waiting over there, please? I think the patient behind you needs to be taken care of first.”
“But I was here first I’m in a hurry and need to get back to work.”
The receptionist ignored the policewomen and waved her out of the way, much to the amusement of those sitting in the waiting area and beckoned Adam forward. The receptionist asked him what the problem was and after a few seconds picked up the phone to call for a nurse and wheelchair. Much to his relief as by this time another step would have been the last. The nurse pushed him past the policewoman whose face was now a vivid shade of scarlet and clearly very embarrassed.
Once secreted away behind a closed curtain, the nurse produced a paper gown.
“Could you put this on please?”
Adam attempted to stand but didn’t get far; his arse lifted an inch or two from the wheelchair and slumped back in agony.
“Here, let me help you.”
The nurse helped Adam up and pulled off his hoodie, then pushed down his trackies, managing deftly to keep his boxers in place. As she did so, she tried not to smile and think about the body she was revealing.
Shame I’m undressing him here. No bad girl. Stop that, but what would I love to do to that body.
She helped him slide his right then left arm into the gown and then manoeuvred him over to the bed.
“Sit down, and I will help you swing your legs around.”
With Adam lying on the bed, she slipped her arms around him and under the paper gown and removed his boxers. Trying to regain her composure and get her mind on the job at hand and not think what she would rather be doing with her hands, her mouth.
The nurse wiped the sweat from her brow; she began to examine him, whilst listening to his explanation of the pain and prodding his abdomen through the gown.
“Does this hurt?”
“Uh, yes, rather a lot.”
Oh God. I like his body, that’s not a six pack; it’s an eight pack I can feel under there. I wonder how many times a week he works out.
“I think you have a ruptured appendix,” she said as she stoked his abs subconsciously “And I need to get one of the doctors to see you now.”
She picked up Adam’s discarded clothes and put them on the chair as Adam’s car keys clattered to the floor.
“Shit! I am going to get so many tickets” Adam said to the nurse as she put the keys back in one of his pockets before hurrying off to get the doctor.
A doctor arrived, and things went from there as they usually do: needles, pressure cuffs and blipping monitors, one of those needles, thankfully enough, was connected to a syringe and a dose of morphine.
The Conservative Party might well be castrating the NHS, but Adam certainly hadn’t any complaints. He was visited within an hour by the surgeon and his gang and told that they would be removing his appendix that he was at the front of the list and would be in theatre as soon as they had finished the kidney transplant that they were about to perform. That was followed soon after by another shot of morphine that had Adam feeling much better. Even to the extent at one point, he asked if he might go outside for a while.
He knew there was half a joint in the ash tray of the car which he had spied earlier and, in his drugged-up stupor this seemed like a sound plan to him, not so to the rather annoyed nurse,
“No, of course you can’t do that and anyway you are about to have several holes made in you. If I were you, I would try to go to sleep for a while.” She replied rather more sternly than she meant to compensate for the lust she was actually feeling.
This, he promptly proceeded to do, or was in the process of doing so, as orderlies arrived to whisk him off to the men in gowns. Adam later would tell that it seemed like a very expedient service: in, out, stitched up, a vague recollection of being in a recovery room and then waking up to somebody’s bloody mobile ringing.
What time is it? Don’t know. It’s still dark! Why can’t I move? My legs are all tangled up! Shit, where’s the damn call button? Don’t know, it’s dark!
The ringing had now gone from intermittent waking him every 10 minutes or so, to constant.
That is the strangest ring tone I have ever heard. Ah! Ring tone that gives me an idea.
If he could find his trackies, which in theory should be on a seat beside the bed, he could then find his mobile phone. Which should again, in theory give him enough light to see the call button. If not, bung a pillow at the offending phone owner.
The first part of the plan went quite well and indeed the trackies were on the chair, which he found remarkably quickly in the dark and unable to move anything below his belly. The mobile too was in his pocket as he hoped.
The next bit didn’t come along quite as planned. The meagre illumination the mobile provided was enough to see the edges of the bed and a table beside it, on which was a paper piss bottle and some paper bowls, presumably for something else.
He could turn enough to see the chair with the remainder of his clothes at one side and a little cabinet at the other but no call button. Attached to the rail running along the side of the bed were two plastic bags, both with a smattering of something that looked like cats vomit inside them. They had tubes attached to them which ran underneath the blanket which was wrapped tightly around him.
He wondered where the other ends of the tubes went.
That might explain the pain when I move.
The rest of the plan wasn’t so hot either. A curtain surrounded the bed preventing him flinging a pillow, not that he thought he would get it very far anyway. The phone was still ringing or beeping or whatever. And whoever it is kept on ringing back, or so it seemed in the aftermath of a general anaesthetic and morphine.
The offending noise was actually not that of a mobile, but an alarm on one of the many instruments attached to the patient opposite. He, as Adam discovered later, was not well at all, making him feel rather guilty for his thoughts at that time.
But now a more pressing issue had to come to hand or rather to his bladder, he really did need a piss.
The question was: should he wait until a nurse did turn up and help him unwrap himself, but by then would be so desperate he would end up pissing everywhere or should he do it himself? Really there was no option. He gradually managed to un-wrap the blanket from around his torso and thighs, leaving his lower legs and feet entangled to reveal a very fashionable paper gown which naturally was fastened at the back.
God I hate these things, why are they tied down the back?
After a great deal of messing around in the dark, he eventfully reached over for the piss bottle, which wasn’t actually made of paper, but more of a cardboard. But now came the tricky bit, getting the neck of that bottle between his legs into the hole in his boxers, around his dick and pee, without wetting himself.
He did think later that it was a shame that there wasn’t a camera recording the scene the tape would make very funny viewing and a number one You Tube video. Eventually, he did get his dick into the bottle in time and was mighty relieved to empty his bladder and get the bottle back on the table with all but a small fraction of his urine in it. He had found out it is really hard to shake when inside a piss bottle.
Adam was wondering what to do about the incessant noise coming from across the ward, when he heard a door opening and in came a nurse. At least now he could go back to sleep, but no such luck, and, after 20 minutes of footfalls, the lights came on.
It was about half an hour later before the curtains around his bed finally opened, during which time he had a good look around and took stock of the state he was in. The tubes from the bags did seem to enter him, as just above his groin was a large plaster into which the tubes disappeared and above that seemed to be dollops of superglue, which in fact it was. His navel was covered in a large blob of it in as well as patches of glue lower down.
Enquiring later from a nurse he was told that they go in through the navel with a thing to cut and remove the appendix, with a camera and manipulator arm stuck through the holes to the left: keyhole surgery apparently, and then stick it back together with superglue. He still had his feet wrapped in the blanket and only the remnants of the paper gown, but he did have his boxers on which were more or less covering him up.
So when that nurse finally did open the curtains, the choice words that were going through his head wouldn’t be delivered by a man totally lacking in dignity, even if his boxers were a little stained.
As the curtains opened, they revealed an exceptionally pretty tall blonde nurse. If there was ever anything to make Adams mood brighten it was the sight of a pretty girl, so instead of the tirade she was going to get, it turned into a weak smile and,
“Hi, I’m in a lot of pain. Do you think you could get me something?”
Pathetic he knew, but it worked well. Just to make sure he left the right impression, he managed to tell her about the full piss bottle before she moved the wheeled table beside the bed, getting a smile from her and words of appreciation.
Adam really did like to flirt. It didn’t have to be serious or lead to anything. It was just an enjoyable thing to do with a pretty girl. So despite the fact that he was lying there, nearly naked with piss-stained boxers, a couple of tubes and a wad of superglue over his belly, the opportunity to flirt was irresistible to him.
The nurse soon had him cocooned again in the blanket and departed with the words,
“I’ll be right back with your pain killers,” and true to her words, she was.
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