The Descent of Mary Rose

It wasn’t even much of a crash. No dramatic high siding as I powered at vastly excessive speed around a challenging bend with 750cc of throbbing twin between my legs and everything heroically on the limit. No, I was just riding to work on a normal, dreary morning on a bloody moped and some moron, more interested in his leaking cardboard coffee cup and his suit, than where he was pointing a ton of poorly maintained automotive junk and the state of actual traffic lights, T-boned me before I could get out of his way. No more than twenty KPH and I hit the deck, and he keeps going. He’s only two peddles to work out but manages to press the wrong one. So end up with an ambulance ride and two hours on a surgical table whilst a surgeon pins and screws my leg back together.

And that’s how I met Mary Rose. Scared me half to death, that she did. The last thing I remembered was pain and an anaesthetist saying “Count back from 10, 9, 8.” I wake up and there is a nun looking down at me.

I mean, what are you supposed to think? 'Oh, I’m in hospital after surgery and this is a Christian who has taken it upon herself out of the goodness of her heart and a tendency to never miss a chance to evangelise to provide company and comfort to the wounded,' or as I did, 'Fuck, I was wrong. I’m dead and this is it, nuns and hymns for eternity. At least it's not coal shovelling and sulphur'.

“Bloody hell!” I exclaimed inappropriately as my eyes opened and consciousness snapped back. I’ll say this about modern anaesthetics, they are pretty much like a switch, it’s ‘goodnight’ and you are gone and then suddenly the lights are back on with no idea what has happened or how long it has been.

“No, Ward 2,” she corrected, and instantly I liked her voice. It sounded familiar although it wasn’t. Must have been the accent, she must have been local. “Don’t try and sit up yet, here, just wet your lips with this.” Gently she pressed something wet and vaguely, refreshingly lemon-favoured to my lips. “I’ll get a nurse.”

I lay back and focused on the ceiling, taking in the sounds that told me I was in a hospital, a machine rhythmically beeping, voices, telephones ringing, and air-conditioners humming. A nurse appeared, lifted my wrist to take my pulse and then looked at the machine I was hooked to, presumably to confirm that either it worked or that she could count. She lowered my wrist, pressed a button on the machine and left.

“They’re very busy.” The nun’s habit filled my field of view, and this time I noticed how very young and how pretty she was. Not the withered old crone I had assumed I had seen. Funny how the mind fills in what you think you have seen based on preconceptions, when it actually hasn’t got enough information to give you a true image. Nun’s attire and so it must be an old crone, withered and dry, having lived a life of delusion, deprived of normal human contact. Two nuns in a bath, one says ‘Where’s the soap,’ and the other replies ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it’. And that’s a verbal joke, you’ll need to read it out loud. And back to the plot.

“I’m Sister Mary-Rose. How are you feeling?”

“Confused, but apparently I'm alive.” I tried to sit up and all kinds of painful hell screamed at me from my right leg. “FUCK!”

She smiled.

“Sorry Sister.”

“What for?”

“My language.”

She waved a hand as if it was of no consequence.

“Is there much pain?”

“In my leg or morally?”

“In your leg, of course.”

Again that smile. Helen of Troy may have had a smile that launched a thousand ships, but if she'd looked like Mary Rose I can assure you that no ships would have been built, the shipbuilders would have all been drooling idiots, constantly sloping off for a quick one off the wrist.

“Oh, isn't the nurse's job. Surely you are here to rescue my eternal soul.”

“Does it need rescuing?”

Again that smile. I wasn't phasing her in the slightest. Yes, I admit it, I was being pretty rude. My leg was all kinds of painful and I had no time for religious nuts, especially ones that had just scared me half to death.

“I don't think so. But that's your job, isn't it? To set yourself up above everybody else and tell them to give up everything enjoyable so we can live the same kind if miserable life you do?”

Again that smile and as she leaned towards me, I could see that she definitely had a substantial pair hidden away under her habit. She was pretty, stacked, and I was getting a boner. This was uncomfortable.

She offered the wet lemony thing to my lips again.

“Do you want a drink?”

“I supposed a double scotch is out of the question, so black coffee, no sugar and some pain relief would be nice.” If you smile at me like that again, some hand relief too, wouldn't come amiss.

She smiled, and looked down at the depressingly thin bedsheets, her gaze lingering. I followed her gaze. Yes, my erection was certainly trying to masquerade as a tent pole.

“I'll go and see what I can do, don't go away.”

I know what you can do, girlie! Oh, was that a joke?

She turned and left, giving me time to rearrange myself before a nurse came over. The nurse was young and pretty too, but she's a nurse and deserves more respect in my world, so I tried to ignore her appearance and let her be professional. She picked up my notes.

“So,” glance downwards, “Andy, on a scale of one to ten, how's the pain?”

I mean, how can you put an imperial scale on pain, it's all subjective isn't it? But play the game or you get no pills.

“A nagging five, but eleven if I try to move.”

The nurse lifted the sheet from the bottom of the bed and felt my toes, then the other foot for comparison. Obviously satisfied, she put the sheet back down. She looked at my notes again.

“I'll go and get you something, try not to move around too much. Do you need to pee yet?”

That I hadn't thought of.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Well, there's a bottle here on the bedside if you do. Just press the button when you've finished, we need to test it.” She glanced at the machine that goes 'beep'. “I'll go and get you something for the pain.”

She turned and left, to be replaced by Sister Mary Rose, still smiling but now carrying a mug of black coffee. I can smell it from here. I tried to sit up and winced. She put the coffee down on the table.

“Here, let me help.”

She bent over me and adjusted my pillows, then placing her hands under my elbows, helped me slide up the bed and into a sitting position, well, at least upright enough to be able to drink from a cup.

As she bent over me, my face was excitingly close to where her cleavage must have been. There was an aroma of soap and incense. Not perfume, definitely not perfume, a bit of old-fashioned soap and incense. It suited her.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” She was asking me.

“No, not at all, help yourself. Don't you have sheep to minister to?”

“Sheep? Oh, a flock! Very good. No, I'm not a priest or a vicar. I'm just a nun.”

“So what do you do? Spread the gospel, preach to the not-yet-converted?”

“No, I'm just here to be someone to talk to when you are alone and in pain. Some people find it helpful. Some people want to talk about God or their beliefs, but many don't. I'm not here to talk to you about mine.”

Her tone was just friendly. It didn't seem that I could ruffle her easily, and now I didn't want to. Suddenly I was seeing beyond the wimple and gown, seeing an interesting woman beneath.

“Why not? I've got none to talk about. We're born, we live, we die. No outside influence, no afterlife, no reincarnation. Dead's dead. That does for me. So why don't you tell me about you?”

Sometimes you meet people whose views are so totally opposed to your own, but aren't aggressive about it. If you can not be either, sometimes those are the most fascinating discussions. I think you rarely change people's deep-held beliefs, however erroneous, but you can perhaps get some insight into why they think that way, and perhaps they will examine what they believe too. And you see, from the phrasing of that, I'm always right. I was sure Mary Rose thought she was too, but I like a challenge.