12th Unit Stories

Sweet Summer Child

I was in the corner of the hall with a Palahniuk book when another patient approached me. He wanted to chat.
Screw it, it's not like you are interrupting anything here.
He turned out to be 18 and still in school. He had voices in his head, he said.
I told him that I'm studying (or rather trying to), and that's my second attempt to make it past the first semester.
He frowned.
Why don't I get on disability?
Why would I?
Well, you know, so that they make your studying easier and grading not so harsh, and maybe...

Fuck, kid. We're the same age. How come you don't even have a clue?

Later that day we chatted with a man in his 50s. I like him: he's very polite, doesn't mind sitting in silence and smiles at me. Sometimes we drink tea together.
He told me he's pondering getting on disability, as his doctor advised.

You think you should?
I don't know. She suggested that before, but it was different at the time.
But do you have a job?...
Yes. I'm a construction engineer. Stable. Pays well. I'm holding to it.

He looked at me. He will lose it the moment his diagnosis shows on his medical record.
Finding another job... Slim chance. And not with good pay.

He's nice. Real nice. I wish all of us here wouldn't have to choose between bad and worse.
Because you always have to. And the result is always destructive.