There were no rooms in the pediatrics ward. I was led to a room which was quite old and depressing, and found to my disgust that my roommate smoked. "I hope this doesn't bother you," she said motioning to the hand that held her cigarette. What did it matter, I thought; she would continue smoking regardless of the way I felt about it. From experience I had learned that, although many people who fostered bad habits did not want to be overly offensive, most never possessed enough genuine concern for another individual to refrain from their habit. I waved off her question, and hoped for adequate ventilation. Is this the bittersweet price for societal living? My few belongings were stowed in a closet, then I went back to my bed and sat on the edge of it, uncertain of what I was supposed to do; during these periods of anticipation, had I been a smoker, I might have lit up. I did not wish to spend the night there; anxiety clawed at the walls of my stomach. Through the window across the room, city lights twinkled like hundreds of stars which had been hurled to the earth, spreading toward the horizon in a grid-work of interesting lines. Soon my parents would return to their hotel; I almost wished that they would leave, so I could adjust to my new surroundings, for I would face tomorrow's test, and the following operation; I had to find comfort within myself. Mom and Dad kissed me goodnight, amid their internal struggle toward leaving their little girl in the hands of strangers. Once they had gone, my nervousness began to subside; anxiety breeds anxiety, and lacking two generators, I now bore only my own. Seeing that I was quite alone, a nurse entered the room bearing the essentials of hospital life, issuing to me a gown, and placing kleenex tissues and a thermometer and styrofoam water pitcher on my nightstand. She routinely popped the thermometer into my mouth and took my blood pressure and pulse rate; removing the thermometer from my mouth, she glanced at the reading and made notations for her file. Before bidding me goodnight, the nurse reminded me that I should eat nothing, nor should I drink water after 6 a.m. the next morning; I nodded in comprehensive agreement, and climbed beneath the sheets to stare at the ceiling. At first it was difficult to dispel my restless thoughts, and I fought to find a comfortable position amongst the stiff sheets and unfamiliar pillow. Yet at some unknown point in time, disquietude was overruled by fatigue, and I was claimed by the obscure world where conscious and unconscious thought are united as one. I drifted into a pleasant, untormented sleep.