Us little people dump the bags in the hospital basement – not them six-figure docs.
The trick is not thinkin’ about what’s in ’em. It’s tough. I mean … they’re bright red, and the big black letters say “MEDICAL WASTE.”
My co-worker Barry’s a jerk. Keeps laughing and reminding me what’s in there – placentas, blood, gangrened burn tissue … maybe even a severed arm. Barry jokes that maybe a departed soul from a dead man will get lost and wind up there in the bags. Try to come back.
I want Barry here, now. God, I do.
One bag just moved.
Eric writes because the stories in his head insist on their telling, and the voices there clamor to be heard.