The Degustation of Dave

By D. A. Cunningham

Dave, an ardent body builder and reclusive software developer, makes a decision that results in dire consequences; leaving him half the man he started out to be. Maimed and disfigured in such a way that it is impossible for him to return to the life he has grown comfortable with.
Working ten hour days to satisfy an aggressive project schedule, and attending the gym six times a week, for at least a two hour session of weights each time, leaves very little free time for relaxation and socializing. Dave doesn’t mind. He is happy to immerse himself in mental activities whilst working and then to lose himself in the grind and grunt of pumping iron. His buddies down the gym are essentially the only people he talks with on a regular basis so his gym sessions form, for him, a satisfactory social activity.
In need of a holiday to wind down and give his mind a rest, Dave catches a plane to an exotic location were he partakes in all the typical touristy activities. But he still participates in daily workouts. It is during a daily workout where he is persuaded down a path that promises so much excitement and adventure, only to turn full-face on him and become a path to destruction. His chosen path takes him deep into the jungle and changes his life forever.
What has Dave been eating—or who, or what, has been eating Dave?
Readers will need to have a strong stomach to get through some parts of this novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. A. Cunningham
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311438294

D. A. Cunningham

Hello! Let me introduce myself. I am the eleventh child (seventh son) of British immigrants to Australia. Proudly Australian, I live with my wife in a city called Wollongong on the East coast of Australia. My daughter and two sons are now adults, well on their way to establishing their own footprint in society.Growing up saw an existence that involved hand me downs and a mother who was proud that she could get one hot meal on the plate each day. I feel that these humble beginnings, and my struggle to get to where I am today, created a worldliness that helps me devise realistic characters.My primary goal is to write in a style that is easy to read. The occasional big word will slip in, but I intend to keep things as uncomplicated as possible.I hope to write in a manner that encourages people to want to re-read what I write. Little nuances and tidbits will be scattered throughout to evoke those “ah ha” moments that come about only by knowledge of what is to come.English was not my favorite subject at school, helped by teachers insisting that I could not write to save my life. I preferred the certainty of mathematics and science and hence pursued a career in electrical engineering.I only became interested in writing novels at the start of 2012 and now follow this passion full-time. Writing allows me to exercise a creativity that I never thought I had.Insomnia often fills my nighttime hours; this used to be fuelled mainly by work concerns, but now my insomnia is put to good purpose. The quiet of the late evening come early morning is once again a friend that I openly greet and actually look forward to.Since taking up writing full-time I have a renewed interest in life and happily while away both the daytime and nighttime hours feathering the keys on my keyboard. This is now my “happy place”. But I still find time for family and friends and thoroughly enjoy a few drinks over a social game of cards.If you want to really see me smile, let me pat your dog. Even more so now that I have lost my beautiful Pongo, my friend of seventeen wonderful years. Please read my free short story about this wonderful dog - https://dacunninghamauthor.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dear-pongo.pdfI have been told that sometimes I seem to enjoy the company of dogs more than that of people. How can I not? Dogs just give, and give, and expect so little in return.Hopefully, all readers will learn something, and hence enhance their lives, from reading what I write.

Book preview

The awakening

BRIGHT SUNLIGHT PLEASANTLY falls upon my face and gently kisses me into consciousness. A stark white ceiling, with a set of twin fluorescent lighting strips, hangs above me. Paint in need of repair provides the only distraction and is a welcome source of entertainment. The fine cotton sheets on my bed smell clean with a hint of starch explaining their crisp feel. A slight pressure, from the tightly tucked in sheets, constrains my movement in a reassuring way. They are snug and hold me in place, but they do not restrain me. My right arm gently rests freely outside the top sheet allowing my hand to feel the fine, almost smooth texture.

The room is surgical in appearance and exudes a strong aroma of bleach-based cleaning fluids. Its white walls are free from any paraphernalia—no pictures or unnecessary accoutrements are visible to me; the only adornments are an assortment of various wall plugs and what looks like breathing apparatus tucked neatly away in one corner. I expect there is no carpet upon the floor but cannot check this as it is hidden from my view. The ambience of the room impresses upon me that every surface is completely sound reflective and designed to repel dust—sterile. The smells, and the sounds off in the distance, are reminiscent of a hospital. What has happened, why would I be in a hospital?

My mind is a complete blank. To my horror nothing at all comes to mind! I cannot even remember my name. How could that be possible? This revelation causes rampant fear to swell within me. My thoughts are simply a confusion of images embedded in a thick fog that obfuscates glimpses of unfamiliar scenes that involve people I do not recognize.

Thinking that I must have suffered a blow to the head, I instinctively reach up with my right hand. A needle inserted into my wrist and tethered to a bottle hanging nearby—a drip—restricts movement.

On reaching my head I am pleasantly surprised to find there is no bandaging. A tube, taped to the side of my face, is buried into my left nostril, but nothing else seems peculiar. My hand audibly rasps over a multi-day growth of whiskers, and on reaching my lips, finds them to be dry and cracked. A quick exploratory roll of my tongue about the inside of my mouth discovers only a sand-like texture devoid of any saliva. My parched mouth and cracked lips make me wonder exactly how long it has been since I have had a drink of water, and hence, how long I have been here?

Loud beeps rhythmically emanate from a nearby heart monitor. It sings out an instantly recognizable tune with each audible ping sounding slightly less than two-seconds apart. I know that athletic beat as my own—maybe a little slower than normal actually, but definitely mine. How can I remember the rhythm of my heartbeat but not my name? Without recalling precise details, the foggy memories replay years of fitness training and healthy living. Fitness must have played a huge role in my life.

I can remember successfully lowering my resting heart rate down to about forty beats per minute. Why can’t I remember anything else?

My body is pain-free, astonishingly so actually. I have an overall numbness and a dire urge to go to sleep. Through my struggle to stay awake I realize that I must be sedated, quite heavily in fact, to maintain a calm physical state throughout all this mental anguish. I must stay awake; someone, anyone, must come in and see me. Answers are all I currently seek.

An itch on my right knee starts to demand some attention. I do not want to trifle with a mere itch; I am still struggling to work out who I am and where I am for that matter. The itch is screaming out for attention and obviously will not go away of its own accord. Bugger it, I’ll give it a quick scratch and then I can get back to concentrating on more important issues.

Reaching down beneath the bed sheets, I scratch at my knee but feel nothing. How could my hand avoid contact with my knee? Reaching further vertically down I hit cold, barren bed sheet. So I sweep my hand to the center, still nothing. How odd!

The true extent of my condition reveals itself when I hurriedly fling back the top bed-sheet and see that I do not have a right leg. Only a small stub remains. A shock surges through my body like a lightning bolt, and I become completely horrified at what I have discovered.

With intentions of sitting up to investigate this further, I attempt to rise into a seated position, but the push away from the mattress with my arms merely causes me to twist, and fall, to my left side. Pain seizes my midriff and leaves me in writhing agony. The sedative is incapable of masking this pain!

My left hand sent no feedback of touching the cold bed-sheet and my entire left arm refused to get involved in the maneuver. This awkward, painful movement results in me coming face-to-face with the remnants of where once lived a proud strong left arm—now only a bandaged stub remains. A scan down reveals that my entire torso is heavily bandaged and an assortment of wires and tubes connect to machines and to various collection bags.

What the hell? My voice is a mere rasp, just slightly louder than a whisper.

Quickly tossing the top bed sheet completely from off my body, the full extent of my predicament, or so I thought, becomes blatantly obvious to me. I am missing both legs, my left arm, and something is wrong with my guts; they hurt like a bitch. Phantom-itches start popping up all over my body. It feels like a thousand bugs are crawling over me and there is nothing I can do to rectify the situation. My body must be going into shock and is sending histamines all over the place to combat a war that simply is not there. A phantom menace so to speak.

Knowing I will never be able to relieve a phantom-itch; I attempt to meditate away the affliction. But, it is impossible to meditate. Too many questions run uncontrolled through my mind. Please can someone come through the door to check on me? Thoughts of death, as a permanent reprieve, swim into my mind but are instantly replaced by a strong will to live. I wish my heart to momentarily stop, or at least for one of the wires connecting the heart monitor to my chest to become dislodged. That way alarms would bring staff running. ‘Code blue’.

Wriggling as hard as I can in an attempt to dislodge a wire proves to be futile. All the wires remain firmly in place, and the monitor continues to mock me, pinging reliably every two-seconds. The insistent beat elevates only slightly and hides my near state of panic. Those sedatives must be really strong. For that, at least, I am thankful and can only imagine the pain I would otherwise be in.

Lying here feeling helpless, with phantom itches taunting me, does little to appease my anguish of looking down upon the places now bereft of limbs. I still have no recollection of how I became burdened with such an affliction. A hazy memory of being able-bodied and trekking through the jungle in a small group, led by a gorgeous young woman, seems to be trying to make its presence known. Was it an accident or a disease? I simply cannot recall.

Praying to God that this is all a dream yields absolutely no reprieve. Answers do not come! God is not to blame. I do not even know whether religion has played any role in my life or even if I believe in God. But, I do accept one fact that even if God does exist he probably would not answer me anyway. How could he intervene now? It all seems a bit futile and a bit late, but praying was worth a shot!

The continuous beep of the heart monitor now does nothing to appease me. And to think, only a short while ago that incessant noise was giving me a modicum of peace by its familiarity, now it supports only the fact that this is reality. This is not a dream!

Mere moments had passed since I first gained consciousness but so much has happened already, it seems as though I have lain here analyzing my situation for ages. Now is the time to get some help, even if only to get rid of these annoying itches. I open my mouth and start to yell as loud as I can. This is extremely difficult and uncomfortable to do with a tube running down the back of my nose and into my stomach. No words come out of my parched lips. All I can muster is a loud growl sounding like a bear in trouble. A trickle of blood flows from an aggravated crack in my lower lip but that does not stop me. The moisture is actually welcomed by my tongue. Urgency to get the attention of someone for relief from these now insatiable itches is my prime objective.

Two shocked nurses burst into the room only moments after I began yelling. They were not surprised by my panic stricken state; they were shocked that I had woken up at all. When I had arrived at the hospital, obviously in an immense amount of pain, doctors had pumped me with enough anesthetic to induce a coma. Now, only five days after arriving, waking up was the last thing anyone had expected me to do.

The nurses rush to the side of my bed and appear to be genuinely concerned about my welfare and sympathetic to the obvious state of distress that I am in.

One of the nurses calmly says, Mister Levette, please calm down. We are here to help you.

I cannot calm down and rather adroitly respond with, Mister Levette, who the fuck is that? Then after a short moment of pause, I itch all over, please help me. Where am I? How did I get here? How long have I been here? What happened to me?

There are so many questions that need to be answered and a dire need for some relief from these itches that ravage my body but cannot be scratched.

The two nurses have a quick word between themselves and one rushes out of the room while the other approaches my bed and stops at the bottle draining itself into my right wrist.

I will administer some antihistamines Mister Levette. That should help with the itching.

I am so grateful for her professional attitude and willingness to help in face of the foul language I was throwing at her.

Thank you. Is my name Levette? How do you know that? What’s wrong with me? I am so thirsty! Can I please have some water?

My questions keep on growing in number but I am getting no answers!

The documents that were on your person when you arrived indicated that your name is David Levette. Don’t you know your name?

She pauses for a while to give me a chance to respond, but her words elicit no immediate response from me. Stunned into silence I view her question as purely rhetorical. She politely continues, I am sorry, but I can’t give you any water until a doctor gives the approval. You presently have a feeding tube in. That will first need to be removed.

As if on queue, the other nurse returns, accompanied by a man and a woman. The woman speaks first.

Mister Levette, I am surprised to see that you are awake. We were hoping you would sleep for much longer so as to let your body heal. I’m your supervising physician, Doctor Julito. I understand you have many questions, so do we. Given time we hope to sort everything out.

I think to myself, ‘OK, I know who you are but what about me?’

A new, quite peculiar, question now adds to the confusion in my mind. That word ‘physician’ somehow has a double meaning to me. I know it means a doctor in a hospital but what else could it also mean. Not knowing things is an unrelenting agony!

Before I can speak, Doctor Julito continues her obviously stock-standard monolog.

The nurses here will do everything they can to make you as comfortable as possible. I would encourage you to let them sedate you and send you back to sleep. That will be the most humane course of action.

No! I’ve got a shit load of questions that need to be answered, and I am dying of thirst. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know who I am.

This last statement elicited a bit of interest from the man who had recently entered the room. The nurse who had told me my name earlier looked in his direction and gave him an affirming nod.

He asks, Do you know what day of the week it is?

This simple question infuriates me, Hell no! I reply. I don’t even know my name, doesn’t that tell you something?

To my complete annoyance, the rotund, elderly man looked at the floor, deep in contemplation, for way too long. The only sound that filled the room for a good number of seconds was that, now annoying, constant beep from the heart monitor. After what seemed to be an inordinately long delay, he decided to chirp in with, I was worried about that. You have suffered a severe trauma, and you probably have post-traumatic amnesia as a result. Amnesia is a natural defense mechanism that the mind sometimes resorts to.

You must be the shrink then!

Ah yes, I apologize for not introducing myself. My name is Jesus Lopez. Not normally one to be rude, this seasoned psychologist takes pride in bringing humor and enjoyment to bad situations.

You’re not a doctor then? I ask.

Oh no, I can’t call myself a doctor in such esteemed company. I’m a psychologist, and I hope to become your friend.

Shey-Zeus, that’s a weird name. Like in Doctor Zeus? Immediately on annunciating this statement I have an internal struggle trying to work out where that knowledge came from. I do not know who ‘Doctor Zeus’ is; the name simply jumped into my mind unprovoked.

No, no, no! My name is quite a common name here in Chile. Not at all like Doctor Zeus. It is spelt J-E-S-U-S.

Oh Jesus, like our lord and savior. Where am I coming up with all this crap?

Jesus seems happy to hear that there is some semblance of memories hiding in the recesses of my mind and says, Those little memories of names and events inspire me to think we will be able to get your full memory back. This is very encouraging indeed.

Doctor Julito does not change the emotionless expression on her face throughout this brief verbal interchange. Having worked in this hospital for nearly twenty years, she is well entrenched into its workings. Not much happens without either her knowing, or without needing her approval. With the personality of a wet fish, she is none-the-less extremely gifted in her profession and holds her position based on merit.

After adjusting the glasses on her nose, Doctor Julito turns to walk out the door whilst flippantly stating, Please excuse us for a little while. Looking over at the nurse tinkering with the apparatus feeding fluids into my wrist, she adds, Nurse it is okay to remove Mister Levette’s nasogastric tube now. When you have done that give him a small sip of water, but only a small sip. Maybe some ice cubes to suck on as well. The three of them walk out into the hallway leaving the nurse behind to carry out her orders.

Removing the nasogastric tube is a quick, but disgusting, exercise that causes no real pain. Its promise of a sip of water makes it more bearable. Every inch of the tube makes its presence known to me as it slides out of my stomach and up through my esophagus. It takes all my efforts not to vomit as I gag on the movement of the tube through my throat, flicking my uvula as, nearing its final release, its end recoiled up into my sinus passage.

Half a cup of disgusting slime accompanies its eventual emergence from my nose. The sight and smell of that slime is the clincher that causes a massive stomach spasm. The nurse is completely on top of matters and thrusts a fresh kidney bowl under my chin, but I do not need it. A dry wretch is all that I can muster. I am thankful that she discarded the tube and slime-filled bowl and did not reuse it. The clean bowl smells of disinfectant and helps calm me down.

With that unpleasantness out of the way, my thoughts instantly turn to that promised sip of water. What is this ‘small sip’ nonsense? I feel cheated. I want more than a sip! Sarcastically I think, ‘Yay, I’ll have some ice cubes too. Yummy, yummy!’

The water bathes every recess of my throat as it finds its way to my stomach. My esophagus is mercifully getting moistened, and areas that were previously fused are pleasantly becoming unstuck. With my thirst only partially quenched, I yearn for a huge gulp of water. Swallowing an ice cube whole even tempts me, but I resist that as pure folly.

I resign myself to lying on the bed hoping that answers may soon come my way. At least the medication is working and the itches are starting to ease off. I am also glad that the pain medications are doing their job and wonder how much pain I would be in without them.

Neatly replacing my, earlier discarded, sheet, the nurse politely enquires whether I am comfortable as she deftly tucks the sheet in. I feel its embrace and feel comfort in the support it provides. Hiding my grotesque body is also something that brings a little solace.

I am not feeling any pain thank you, and those meds have helped a lot with the itching. Amazing myself with my calm attitude as I utter my reply. Back to my normal polite self, good to see!

In a more relaxed state I wish for the doctor to come back in and let me know some answers. I am ready to hear answers now.

CHAPTER TWO

How Dave got to the hospital

IN THE HALLWAY and out of earshot of their patient, Doctor Julito, Jesus Lopes, and Nurse Amelia Briggs discuss how they should approach the subject of disclosing what they know. They thought they had more time to prepare for this discussion; the drug-induced coma should have delayed this eventuality until well after the patient’s wounds had healed. They need to now consider adding mental anguish to the existing physical trauma.

Jesus is pertinent that full disclosure is absolutely warranted. To support his opinion, he explains that hiding anything may have dire consequences on the patient’s mental health. Doctor Julito voices her concern that shock may set-in and that this may delay the healing process. Amelia silently bides her time knowing indubitably that her opinion carries no weight. She is present only in case the other two need to direct her to perform some trivial, or unpleasant, task.

After only a few moments of quiet contemplation Doctor Julito agrees with Jesus and walks away leaving Jesus and Amelia to deliver the news. The two of them reenter the room, Jesus seems cheerful but Amelia wears a look of concern.

Jesus proudly proclaims on entering, Mister Levette, Doctor Julito has kindly agreed that we can tell you everything we know about your circumstances. Some of what you will hear may shock you. Doctor Julito tried to convince me that full disclosure may over stress your body. I convinced her that your mind needs to heal to help your body heal.

Yay, finally, some answers.

Approaching the bed, Jesus notices that the nurse has removed my nasogastric tube. I see that nasty tube is out of there. That must be a relief. Have you had any water yet?

Yes, it is a relief to have that tube out. The nurse was gentle with me. And yes I have had a sip of the sweetest tasting water in the world. It felt heavenly as it slid down my throat. The nurses look at each other and share a knowing smile, satisfied that their actions have enhanced my existence just that little bit and happy that I have acknowledged this.

Thank you Jesus for persuading the good doctor to see things your way, I will try to remain as calm as possible. You must know that these last few minutes have already been extremely stressful to me. Before we begin, can we please turn that bloody heart monitor off? Its continuous drone is starting to annoy me.

Jesus calmly replies, Let’s just leave it on whilst I am relaying to you the information we have at hand. The nurses will monitor it and warn me if you are becoming overwhelmed. I will switch it to silent mode when I leave. We cannot switch it off as your condition is still quite serious. The benefit of 24hr monitoring remains something that we need. Deal?

Deal, I reply. Now please tell me everything you know.

Jesus commences a detailed recollection of every last detail about how I arrived at the hospital.

#

Five days earlier, the hospital received an anonymous phone call stating a person was in need of urgent medical attention. An ambulance, manned by the two brothers Lester and Lindsay Lasso, was immediately dispatched. On this instance Lester was driving. The Lasso brothers are veteran paramedics who live by the self-imposed motto, you dispatch us and we will rope them in—an obvious play on their last name.

The Lasso brothers have a custom of waging a non-monetary bet on what scene awaits them at the destination of each call-out to which they are dispatched. Not surprisingly, neither of them guessed correctly for this pickup.

Approaching the pickup area Lester was surprised to see a gathering of onlookers gawking at the scene. Meeting crowds at accidents is a common occurrence especially when it takes a while to drive to a busy pickup location, but this pickup was on a remote rural road that should not have much traffic. Five cars parked by the road temporarily delayed their arrival, but the crowd mulling in a specific area highlighted the spot where they needed to go.

Lindsay instantly opened up the back of the ambulance and proceeded to retrieve a gurney only to be halted by Lester yelling, Come quick, and leave that gurney in the back. Somewhat befuddled by this request, Lindsay heeded his brother’s words and set-off in the direction of the crowd. On arrival, he joined the amassed crowd standing jaws agape looking at the patient.

The patient, with three obvious amputations, lay neatly presented on a stretcher, in a drug induced sleep and with a drip already inserted into the back of his remaining hand. This was most unusual. A backpack, presumed to contain his possessions, neatly rested on the ground beside him and an envelope clearly labeled ‘For doctor’s eyes only’ neatly sat perched on top of his chest.

What the? Lindsay started to say. Is this some other hospital’s reject or someone’s research just left for us to clean up after?

I don’t know, replied Lester, they surely have made our job easy. We just need to carry him to the ambulance and strap him in.

During the drive back to the hospital Lindsay quizzes his brother about their bet, Neither of us was even close. Shall we call the bet off?

Lester replies, No way! A bet’s a bet and we’re sticking to ours. Sure there wasn’t a donkey, or a motorbike involved so we were both wrong. But I can handle a few ice cubes down my underwear just for the pleasure of seeing you squirm with a couple down yours.

You’re sick Lester, is the only response Lindsay could muster as Lester lets out a depraved chuckle that makes even his brother a little scared.

Arriving at the hospital, this unusual case demanded the immediate attention of Doctor Julito. Unfortunately, the envelope found itself floating about the passenger cabin during the drive in and fell to the floor where it remained out of view for a few hours.

The new patient perplexed everyone in the casualty department. The amputations attested to the involvement of a talented surgeon and a sterile environment that staved off infection and promoted healing. A drip infusing fluids, sedatives, and morphine for pain relief indicated attention to care and a general concern for the patient’s wellbeing. Survival of the patient seemed of great importance. But, why then abandon the patient in such a remote area? Why abandon him at all? The doctor who performed the surgery obviously had access to state of the art facilities and offered necessary care to ensure infection did not set in. This doctor must have been capable of overseeing complete recovery.

The backpack retrieved with the patient contained an assortment of personal items that included a wallet and a passport. The contents were typical for a tourist on a trip of a couple of days duration, maybe a week at a stretch. The real enigma was the presence of a bundle of US bills totaling twenty thousand dollars. Clearly robbery or lack of funds could not explain the patient’s abandonment.

The passport confirmed the identity to be David Levette from San Jose, California. The hospital ran a background check and found out that David had worked for a fortune 500 company in Silicon Valley. A check on medical insurance revealed coverage both within the US and internationally. There really was no reason for any medical facility to deny treatment. Knowing the patient to be an American Citizen the hospital formed a team fluent in English. We hoped this would help ease any suffering by not adding the additional burden of a language barrier.

The amputated limbs were obvious injuries, bandaging around the abdomen would require an MRI scan to determine what possible complications existed. This is actually the only concern that Doctor Julito had. The stumps remaining from the amputations had already started to heal. What hid beneath those bandages remained a mystery. We needed to non-intrusively take a look inside so the imaging department set about readying the MRI scanner.

Only after the backpack had completely been ransacked, and merely minutes before performing the MRI scan, Lester Lasso came running back into the hospital carrying an envelope. He had noticed it when performing his post-delivery check of the ambulance. A little clowning around by the two brothers had delayed this a little but luckily not too much. Lester wore an embarrassing wet patch on the crotch of his pants, but he felt the envelope may be urgent so ran it in unashamedly.

Doctor Julito hastily ripped open the envelope to find out what revelations it contained. Inside the envelope was a letter, detailed charts, and medication history for the patient. Uncharacteristically she showed real emotion as she read the letter that described the operations. The letter did not explain what everyone was hoping for—why the operations were necessary in the first place. Attention to detail was astounding and simply added fuel to the burning question of why! An explanation for the large sum of money was also to be found in the letter—it clearly stated that the money was to help with medical and transportation expenses. How bizarre!

It was fortunate that the MRI scanner was ready to use, as Doctor Julito simply did not believe what she had read. Her disbelief was only exacerbated by the evidence presented by the MRI scan that confirmed everything as documented in the letter.

The full extent of the surgery involved amputation of both legs, three inches below the hip joint, amputation of the left arm, three inches below the shoulder joint, removal of the left kidney, and a partial resection of the liver, removing one-third of its entire mass. The amputated limbs, reduced to mere stumps retained enough substance and mobility to possibly incorporate functional prosthetics in the future. The patient has been most fortunate that the skilled surgeon who performed the amputations and retained sufficient functionality in the amputated limbs to allow at least some quality of life.

The MRI scan, and subsequent blood tests, revealed no sign of organ failure, indeed the remaining kidney was pristine, and the liver enzymes already showed a healthy liver well on its way to healing. Pathology showed no sign of endemic disease or infection. If not for the surgery that had recently taken place, Doctor Julito would have ruled the patient to be an almost perfect specimen. With such splendid muscle development on the intact, right arm and torso the doctor assumed the patient had been either a body builder or an elite athlete.

#

I remained silent throughout Jesus’ recitation of events as he knew them. His story was both interesting, and disturbing, it answered how I got to this hospital but clearly left unanswered every other question I had. What disturbs me the most is not knowing why!

Throughout the proceedings, the nurses doggedly observed the various monitors attached to me. My heartbeat never rose above sixty beats per minute, and my blood pressure remained a more than healthy one-fifteen over sixty-five throughout the ordeal. They exclaimed that either I had a stoic nature, or the medication was sufficiently sedating me. It was probably a combination of the both!

After a moment of quiet contemplation, I broke the silence