“Short while ago, actually, I woke feeling quite frisky,” Purdue smiled at Nurse Madison again to reiterate their private joke. She pursed her lips to hold the giggle and handed the doctor the board.
“I’ll be right back with some breakfast, sir,” she reported to both gentlemen before exiting the room.
Purdue pulled up his nose and whispered, “Dr. Patel, I’d rather not eat right now, if you don’t mind. I think the drugs have me nauseated for a while still.”
“I’m afraid I would have to insist, Mr. Purdue,” Dr. Patel urged. “You have been sedated for longer than a day already, and your body needs some hydration and nutrition before we proceed with the next treatment.”
“Why was I under so long?” Purdue asked instantly.
“Actually,” the doctor said under his breath, looking very concerned, “we have no idea. Your vitals have been satisfactory, even good, but you seemed to have stayed asleep, so to speak. Usually, this kind of operation is not too dangerous, has a 98 % success rate, and most patients wake up about three hours after.”
“But I took another day, give or take, to come out of sedation?” Purdue frowned, trying to sit up properly on the hard mattress that cradled his buttocks uncomfortably. “Why would that happen?”
Dr. Patel shrugged. “Look, people are all different. Could be anything. Could be nothing. Maybe your mind was tired and decided to take a time-out.” The Bangladeshi doctor sighed, “God knows, from your incident report, I think your body called it a day — and for good bloody reason!”
Purdue took a moment to consider the plastic surgeon’s statement. For the first time since his ordeal and subsequent admission to the private clinic in Hampshire, the reckless and wealthy explorer gave his tribulation in New Zealand some thought. Truthfully, it had not seeped through to his conscious mind yet, just how horrifying his experience there had been. Apparently, Purdue’s mind dealt with trauma in a delayed sense of ignorance. I’ll feel sorry for myself later.
Changing the subject, he appealed to Dr. Patel. “Do I have to eat? Can I just have some watery soup or something?”
“You must be a mind-reader, Mr. Purdue,” Nurse Madison remarked as she pushed the silver trolley into the room. Upon it was a mug of tea, a tall glass of water and a bowl of watercress soup that smelled positively wonderful in the otherwise sterile environment. “About the soup, not the watery bit,” she added.
“That does look very scrumptious,” Purdue admitted, “but really, I cannot.”
“I’m afraid it is doctor’s orders, Mr. Purdue. Even you just have a few spoonful’s?” she coaxed. “As long as you just have something in, we would be grateful.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Patel smiled. “Just try it, Mr. Purdue. As I am sure you would appreciate, we cannot continue treating you on an empty stomach. The medication would wreak havoc on your system.”
“Alright,” Purdue reluctantly agreed. The creamy green dish in front of him smelled like heaven, but all his body wanted, was water. He understood why he had to eat, of course, and so he took up his spoon and made the effort. Under the cold covers of his hospital bed, he could feel the thick padding sporadically patched onto his legs. Underneath the bandaging, it burned like a cigarette cherry being put out on a bruise, but he kept his pose. After all, he was one of the main shareholders in this clinic — Salisbury Private Care — and Purdue did not want to look like a wuss in front of the very staff whose employment he was responsible for.
Pinching his eyes to fight the pain, he lifted the spoon to his lips and savored the culinary expertise of the private hospital he would call home for a while still. However, the exquisite flavor of the food did not distract him from the curious apprehension he felt. He could not help but be preoccupied by the thought of what his lower body looked like under the padding of gauze and adhesive.
After signing off on the latest assessments of Purdue’s post-operative vitals, Dr. Patel issued the next week’s prescriptions to Nurse Madison. She opened the blinds to Purdue’s room, and he finally realized that he was on the third floor up from the courtyard garden.
“I’m not on the ground floor?” he asked quite nervously.
“No,” she sang with a puzzled look. “Why? Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” he replied, still looking a bit taken aback.
Her tone was somewhat concerned. “Do you have a fear of heights, Mr. Purdue?”
“No, I have no phobias, per se, my dear,” he explained. “Actually, I cannot really say what it is about. Maybe I was just surprised that I did not see the garden when you drew the blinds.”
“Had we known it was important to you, I assure you we would have accommodated you on the ground floor, sir,” she said. “Shall I ask Doctor if we could move you?”
“No, no, please,” Purdue protested gently. “I am not going to be difficult about scenery. All I want to know, is what is going to happen next. By the way, when will you be changing the dressings on my legs?”
Nurse Madison’s light greens regarded her patient with empathy. Softly, she said, “Do not worry about it, Mr. Purdue. Look, you had some nasty snags at the horrid…” she hesitated respectfully, desperately trying to soften the blow, “…experience you had. But don not fret, Mr. Purdue, you will see that Dr. Patel’s expertise is unparalleled. You know, whatever your evaluation of this corrective surgery, sir, I am sure you will be impressed.”
She gave Purdue a genuine smile that accomplished its aim of putting him at ease.
“Thank you,” he nodded, a slight smirk teasing his lips. “And will I be able to assess the work anytime soon?”
The small framed nurse with the kind voice gathered the empty water jug and glass and headed for the door, soon to return. As she opened the door to exit, she glanced back at him and motioned to the soup. “But only once you have put a thorough dent in that bowl, mister.”
Purdue did his best to make his consequent chuckle painless, although the effort was in vain. The delicate stitching tugged at his carefully spliced skin, where the missing tissue had been replaced. Purdue put in the effort to eat as much of the soup, though by now, it had cooled to a pasty meal topped with a cracking coat — not quite the cuisine billionaires normally settled for. Then again, Purdue was only too thankful that he even survived the jaws of the monstrous occupants of the Lost City and he was not about to bitch about cold broth.
“Done?” he heard.
Nurse Madison entered, armed with instruments to clean her patient’s wounds and fresh dressing to cover the stitches after. Purdue did not know how to feel about the revelation. He possessed not an inkling of fear or timidity, yet the idea of seeing what the beast in the maze of the Lost City did to him made him uneasy. Of course, Purdue dared not exhibit any traits of a man who was close to a panic attack.
“It will hurt some, but I shall try to make it as painless as possible,” she told him without regarding him. Purdue was grateful, because he imagined that his expression was not a pleasant one right now. “There will be some burning,” she continued, as she sterilized her delicate implement to loosen the edges of the plaster, “but I could give you a local if you find it too taxing.”
“No, thank you,” he grunted slightly. “Just go for it and I will deal with the pinch.”
Briefly, she looked up and flashed him a smile as if she approved of his courage. It was not a complex task, but she secretly understood the perils of a traumatic memory and the anxiety it could produce. Although none of the details of the attack on David Purdue was ever disclosed to her, Nurse Madison had previously had an unfortunate acquaintance with tragedy of this intensity. She knew what it was like to be maimed, even there where nobody could see. The memory of the ordeal never abandoned its victims, she knew. Perhaps this was why she felt so sympathetic towards the affluent explorer on a personal level.