In the coming hours since admittance, Isaiah discovered a handful of key differences between his recreational activities of the past and morphine, chiefly that the latter struggled to produce for him quite the same feelings of euphoria. He felt the pain of his burns, dully, though the building blossom of happiness that overlapped that pain felt far cleaner than times of the past. The ever-familiar urge to vomit surfaced. He found he couldn't move much, not without assistance, which was likely to the nurses' approval. The bathroom, however, became quite a feat to master while staff kept him for routine observation. Cathing him left them free to roam to more needful patients while he enjoyed the lack of need to stumble for that too-far door to the water closet.
Bandages spanned his back and leg in pronounced swaths of white. The debridement had gone smoothly with adequate dosage, and meant the healing process began unhindered. He remembered quite well how he screamed about it upon entry, not longer willing or able to stomach more of the blistering pain, and water was administered ad nauseum over the wounds. They cut his clothes off, to his later chagrin, wrapped the expansive wounds and stuck him in the arm before he could ask any questions about the dose (he found later, though, that it was a tetanus vaccination). They expressed constant care over the first several hours, keeping up with his fluid management and checking temperature regularly (which he did not understand; he recently was burnt, therefore what was the need for blankets?) while on their rounds.
He learned, however, that he needed skin grafts to cover the worst of the burns, which were their own procedure. Isaiah did not care much for it, but the aftereffects of it produced the highest discomforts, even in the deep swaddling of morphine. Five thousand calories was not a number Isaiah ever wanted to hear in his lifetime, unless applied to a weekly summation, and yet the nurses frequently orbiting about him suggested it for a count of 24 hours. This entailed nasogastric tube visits daily, to his avid protest, and an unpleasant refusal to empathise with him on his figure. They insisted he looked emaciated and required the nutrition regardless, that he starved himself into a nutritional decline, and that the caloric increase was necessary to sustain healing for all the injuries.
In a word, Isaiah was nonplussed. Not miserable, not enraged, simply nonplussed.
For one could not tread further than that under morphine's pleasant thrall.
At the time the knock sounded, one very stoned Isaiah Zähne was sitting up with one knee drawn towards chest, and struggled with the dizzying chore of drawing water to lips. The morphine left him terribly nauseous, for which they administered an antiemetic, and despite the saline IV meant to keep him hydrated, they humored him with a water bottle. Since the nurses simply bustled in without his indications, Isaiah did not at first think to acknowledge the knock. After a moment, however, he issued the obligatory "come in" with drawled tones.
Pixie Nyxie
hope this works for a start!
