During the critical forty-minute interval, while five physicians stood waiting the outcome, one of them quietly recommended that any absent relatives be promptly notified. It was a toss-up with the Grim Reaper--and I won; though the victory was not assured for several days. Later when I inquired after a missing member of our party I was told that about the time of the crisis he had been dispatched posthaste for home to shovel the snow off the family lot. THE ROAD TO RECOVERY The rest of the story is in a somewhat lighter vein. When they first lifted me from the bed and sat me in an easy chair for a few minutes, I felt as I imagine a jelly-fish might feel after being stepped on. My head wobbled about from one shoulder to the other like that of a newly hatched bird, and altogether I felt as if I had scarcely enough stamina to begin life over again. I well remember the comment of my nurse, who was so delighted with having “pulled me through” and at seeing me up in a chair that for a moment her Irish humor overcame the art of simulation. After viewing me for some seconds with an estimating eye she honestly confessed that I looked like the last piece at a remnant sale. As I looked out of the window and saw figures moving about on the streets it seemed as if I had migrated to some alien world, where everything was topsy-turvy, and I asked the nurse why everybody was walking backward. She smiled and shook her head.--“You’ve been very ill.” My head went round and round, as if it were on a swivel. A blustering snowstorm was in progress and as the figures scurried about on the street I was puzzled to know why they all faced the wrong way--how they could tell where they were going, or when they arrived at their destination. I was barely conscious of having once lived somewhere, on some sphere, and I vaguely wondered if I should now have to begin life anew and learn everything all over again, or if I could pick up the broken threads and start where I had left off. My wife having heard that I was sitting up, came in. We talked for a while, and somehow she appeared relieved to find how little I remembered of what had happened the past few weeks. She seemed glad that I was going to get well, perhaps because--among other considerations--it lessened the burden on her conscience for having pushed me into the first operation; and by way of making amends for this, and also for scolding me about my stubborn refusal to get well before the second operation, she said I had been a very good patient; that I had been right all the while, and I knew more than all the doctors, nurses and everyone else--even including herself--about what ailed me. After this tremendous concession--which made me a little suspicious that something had gone awry and some bad news must be impending--she asked if there was anything I wanted. This seemed odd, after getting used to being _told_ what I wanted. “Yes,” I said, “I want a new room.”