From 'ephron' Poem by Morgan Michaels

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....