One's natural reaction is to run from a threat, and to postpone less palatable situations as long as possible. For me, however, there was always a point at which flight and postponement no longer satisfied my emotional needs, but instead created agony in their own right. When I reached that summit, I grew intensely nervous and within minutes made a 180 degree turn which boosted me into an entirely different mode of thought. That which I had fled, I sought, and if I was denied the pursuit of my goal, I would experience an inner explosion of panic. To reverse the feeling that I was the quarry in an unfair hunt, I had to establish for myself that I had complete control over the situation. In effect I did not "give in" or surrender to a stronger authority; my flight came to an end through a deliberate, conscious decision on my behalf. And so it was that I finally decided to check in to the hospital and surrender my body to a world of white. Once I was clad in the gown, my identity became synonymous with scribbles on a chart, and color, the brilliance of life on the outside, drained away. Hospitals robbed me of something; I could be happy and possess a positive outlook, but the energy and vitality of life was inaccessible. Perhaps this blandness in my soul was a way of coping with adversity, for if I had little passion from the outset, no ill tidings could evoke a particularly heated or irrational reaction. Dad left relatively early for his motel, or maybe my feeling of isolation only made it seem that way. Had I been able, I would have left also; sterile atmospheres are rather nerve-wracking, and I knew Dad was nervous enough without the added pressure of whiling away the twilight hours in a cramped four-bed hospital ward. The room had no T.V. so I turned my attention toward the window. Tiny dots marked streetlights and houses, but the vast darkness prevailed over most of the scene, creating a solitude which mirrored my own. During hours such as those in the hospital, I realized how terribly insignificant I was as compared to the entire world. A person could lose himself in this world. The morning held no delights. I would not even receive a breakfast tray. I looked forward only to a day of anticipation in which I was fourth in line to leave for the operating room. I could do little but stare at the walls and wait for the morning to ripen into afternoon. By mid-afternoon I began to wonder if the operation would be cancelled due to the lack of time, but finally several people retrieved me, whereupon I was taken through the hospital corridors on a gurney and given a different perspective of the building than I was accustomed to seeing. (Unlike some public buildings, I was pleased to note there were no spit-balls on the ceiling.)