All of a sudden, amid their daily pre-rehearsed set of questions, I was asked whether I experienced any gas. "A little," I said amusedly. "What about a bowel movement?" Somewhat aghast I looked at them and replied that I had not; "Why?" I asked, quite perplexed. "Well, you see, we don't want to start feeding you until we know the system is functioning properly." I raised my eyebrows and wondered where in the world they thought a bowel movement would come from; admittedly, I devoured the thought of food daily, but that would produce nothing of interest to them. "How am I supposed to go if you don't feed me first?" I asked. "Other people move regularly who are on IV's," they said. I knew I had a problem on my hands. If other people generally "went" it meant that I probably would not; in a world of rules, I was often the exception. There was no rhyme or reason to my physiology. What was "was" . . . for example, I always sneezed in threes. It was a simple fact. "I have to go before I get to eat... oh great!" . . . I may never eat again, I thought dejectedly. For the next few days the doctors would ask if I'd had a bowel movement. "Nope." "Any gas?" "A little." I tried to surmise how long this would have to continue, and began to use the little persuasive ability which I possessed. "How about feeding me something... you'll get what you're after!" Well, they didn't know. As the days progressed, fruitless in respect to their tall order, they began to soften. "Any B M yet?" "Nope!" "Gas?" "A little. . . how about some food?" "Well, everything seems to be healing well . . . we'll see. . ." I sat back in bed, thinking that maybe I would eat again after all. With the new school year close at hand, Mom began to think about her kindergarten: her room at school was disheveled and barren; still wearing its stark summer time guise. She would have to restore order to the chaotic array of boxes and create an atmosphere of warmth and welcome for the children who would soon fill the room with energetic enthusiasm; Mom needed to return to Moline. A plane reservation was booked, and Dad drove her to the airport with the understanding that she would fly back to Rochester on the coming weekend. It was different with Mom gone, more quiet, understandably, yet the difference extended beyond all those of the physical nature. Perhaps there is an instinctual essence within us, as humans, which desire maternal companionship in times of emotional turbulence or physical weakness. It is unfair to fathers who love, and are loved deeply in return, but the mother, the protectress and shrine of life, shall always be the sustaining end of the cord which had bound her child to existence.