That evening I phoned the hospital in Reno. The operator transferred me to the cardiac unit where Ephron was. Actually, I phoned the nursing station. It was them who decided if and, if, for how long, a particular critical patient should talk on the phone before 'enough' became 'too much' and the phone got snatched back. They passed the phone to Ephron, guardedly.
'How y'doin', Buddy'? , I began.
He sounded awfully weak and saint-like.
'Coming along, I guess'.
'What happened'?
'I- I don't know. It all happened so fast'.
'Do you have a history'?
Ephron seemed mystified.
'A history of what'?
'Of heart disease', I replied, patiently.
'Oh. No, not at all. This is all new. Gosh, they shaved my chest. That's weird'.
He shouldn't worry, I said, it would grow back, and, besides, they needed something to attach the electrodes to.
'Yes, the electrodes', said Ephron, weakly. 'Well, I guess I'm pretty sick. Who knew'?
'You had pain'?
'Well, sort of. I mean, no, it wasn't the worst pain ever. Not like appendicitis'.
He paused to....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice conversation... i guess he is okay