discomfort.”
Watford hung up the phone and glanced across once more at his neighbor. The gentleman’s head moved on the pillow, rolling slowly from side to side, dry lips sucking air, mumbling sounds; he appeared to be regaining consciousness.
Watford leaned over the better to hear the mumbling. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right now.”
Again the man mumbled.
“What? What’s that?”
More indecipherable garble.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak more clearly. I can’t—” Just then his eye caught sight of the jar the nurse had left behind. In the next moment he rose, took the jar, plus a breakfast fork left behind on his night table and went directly to the lavatory in the corner of the room and closed the door. Once there he urinated freely into the jar, set it down on the sink top, then taking the fork up, unhesitatingly punched one of the prongs into his thumb. Instantly a bubble of red swelled outward from the wound, followed by a steady flow of blood.
Watford permitted a number of droplets to drip into the urine sample, then swirled it about until it had achieved an even mixture. Next he ran cold water over the bleeding thumb until the wound had been sufficiently stanched. Finding a bit of gauze and adhesive in the medicine cabinet above the sink, he bound the wound, took his “doctored” sample and returned to the bed.
By that time the orderly had just appeared at the door. “Watford?” he inquired.
“I’m Watford. You have my medication?”
The young man held up a small envelope with a half-dozen tablets. “Got it right here. Where’s the attending physician?”
“Who?”
“The attending physician, Dr. Rashower. He called in for these.”
“Oh, Rashower. He left about five minutes ago. Some kind of an emergency.”
“He’s gotta sign out for the pills, otherwise I can’t release them.”
Watford groaned and clutched his head. “You mean to tell me I can’t have my medication? I’m in excruciating pain.”
The orderly looked perplexed. “Sorry, that’s regulation. We gotta have the AP’s signature for all prescription drugs.”
“You mean to say that just because the doctor happens to have forgotten that petty detail, you’re going to deny me relief from pain? Rashower is going to hear about this. Believe me, heads will roll.”
“I’m sorry. It’s regulations. I can’t. I just can’t.” Watford groaned again. This time more volubly and with a deeper note of pathos.
“Okay, okay,” the young orderly, none too fast on his feet, capitulated. “But you’d better tell your doctor to get that prescription down to the dispensary first thing in the morning.”
Deep within his Demerol dreams, Watford dozed cozily before the TV. It had been on for hours but he was scarcely aware of anything he’d seen. The orderly had left him six pills, one to be taken every six hours and only in the event of extreme pain. Actually, he’d had no pain, but he’d had four Demerol anyway. That was the way with Demerol. He craved it always, particularly during times of stress. Besides, the proximity of the pills, the fact that they were close at hand, invariably led to increased dosages.
Stuporous, he lay numb and far removed within a cool, totally silent chamber where the constant bickering of daily life could not impinge. While deadening his sense of unspecified dread, the Demerol had also the effect of enlarging his sense of perception. The scale of everything he looked at appeared greatly magnified. At the same time his response reaction to external stimuli was notably slowed.
He was distantly aware of nurses coming and going, the sound of spongy soles squeaking on waxed vinyl tile, and then the small sporadic movements of a barely conscious man in the bed beside him. In Watford’s drugged state of heightened suggestibility, he noted that the aggravated breathing rhythms of his neighbor had imposed themselves on those of his own.
The technicolor figures of
Watford hung up the phone and glanced across once more at his neighbor. The gentleman’s head moved on the pillow, rolling slowly from side to side, dry lips sucking air, mumbling sounds; he appeared to be regaining consciousness.
Watford leaned over the better to hear the mumbling. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right now.”
Again the man mumbled.
“What? What’s that?”
More indecipherable garble.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak more clearly. I can’t—” Just then his eye caught sight of the jar the nurse had left behind. In the next moment he rose, took the jar, plus a breakfast fork left behind on his night table and went directly to the lavatory in the corner of the room and closed the door. Once there he urinated freely into the jar, set it down on the sink top, then taking the fork up, unhesitatingly punched one of the prongs into his thumb. Instantly a bubble of red swelled outward from the wound, followed by a steady flow of blood.
Watford permitted a number of droplets to drip into the urine sample, then swirled it about until it had achieved an even mixture. Next he ran cold water over the bleeding thumb until the wound had been sufficiently stanched. Finding a bit of gauze and adhesive in the medicine cabinet above the sink, he bound the wound, took his “doctored” sample and returned to the bed.
By that time the orderly had just appeared at the door. “Watford?” he inquired.
“I’m Watford. You have my medication?”
The young man held up a small envelope with a half-dozen tablets. “Got it right here. Where’s the attending physician?”
“Who?”
“The attending physician, Dr. Rashower. He called in for these.”
“Oh, Rashower. He left about five minutes ago. Some kind of an emergency.”
“He’s gotta sign out for the pills, otherwise I can’t release them.”
Watford groaned and clutched his head. “You mean to tell me I can’t have my medication? I’m in excruciating pain.”
The orderly looked perplexed. “Sorry, that’s regulation. We gotta have the AP’s signature for all prescription drugs.”
“You mean to say that just because the doctor happens to have forgotten that petty detail, you’re going to deny me relief from pain? Rashower is going to hear about this. Believe me, heads will roll.”
“I’m sorry. It’s regulations. I can’t. I just can’t.” Watford groaned again. This time more volubly and with a deeper note of pathos.
“Okay, okay,” the young orderly, none too fast on his feet, capitulated. “But you’d better tell your doctor to get that prescription down to the dispensary first thing in the morning.”
Deep within his Demerol dreams, Watford dozed cozily before the TV. It had been on for hours but he was scarcely aware of anything he’d seen. The orderly had left him six pills, one to be taken every six hours and only in the event of extreme pain. Actually, he’d had no pain, but he’d had four Demerol anyway. That was the way with Demerol. He craved it always, particularly during times of stress. Besides, the proximity of the pills, the fact that they were close at hand, invariably led to increased dosages.
Stuporous, he lay numb and far removed within a cool, totally silent chamber where the constant bickering of daily life could not impinge. While deadening his sense of unspecified dread, the Demerol had also the effect of enlarging his sense of perception. The scale of everything he looked at appeared greatly magnified. At the same time his response reaction to external stimuli was notably slowed.
He was distantly aware of nurses coming and going, the sound of spongy soles squeaking on waxed vinyl tile, and then the small sporadic movements of a barely conscious man in the bed beside him. In Watford’s drugged state of heightened suggestibility, he noted that the aggravated breathing rhythms of his neighbor had imposed themselves on those of his own.
The technicolor figures of
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