Hard to Kill
When I arrived in the waiting room on the gurney, I noticed a familiar body in scrubs looking at me through Coke-bottle glasses. “Hi Ron,” I said. “Hi! Do you want some of my ginger ale? It’s really good!” “No, thanks. That’s alright.” The EMTs unstrapped me and I shuffled to join Ron in the worn out row of chairs lined up across the wall of the dimly-lit, linoleum hospital basement. The security guard leaned back in his rolling chair as Ron turned to talk to me, his eyes like those of a goldfish through his lenses. Ron and I had been in the same unit in the ER and had been transferred to the same hospital a few hours apart. We both wore blue paper suits and grippy socks and I was wrapped in a thin linen blanket. As we sat there, eating animal crackers, he told me that he had been hearing voices that told him to kill himself. He also informed me that he works as a landscaper but used to work making pizzas. He loves fried clams and he lives with his aunt. I told him that I ha...

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