Dad remained with me until his supper hour, at which time he would again be transported into the functioning world, where normalcy, rather than malaise, reigned complete. Following supper, he again returned to the hospital; our evening was generally spent in front of the television, taking in what entertainment it had to offer, and then between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 o'clock he kissed me good-night, and walked to his motel, located in the immediate proximity of the hospital. On the eve of Labor Day weekend, Mom flew back to Rochester, and Dad left for the airport soon after eating his last meal of the day. He was always punctual, preferring to wait several hours at his destination rather than lounge about at the home base until the last minute lest one of a hundred mishaps occurred. Such was the scenario depicting that evening, and I felt I could look forward to a night bordering on the exact characteristics of the one before, distinguished only by the fact that my father was absent. I had observed a fair amount of television when the nurse entered to read my vital statistics and administer the nightly shot to my thigh. Feeling also that I needed to utilize the facilities, she escorted me to the door of the bathroom, pushing the IV pole beside me. Suddenly the IV tube swung out before me, dangling crazily like a wind-blown vine; it had become detached from the "socket" which protruded from my skin. I saw no cause for alarm, yet the nurse wheeled and darted up the hall, leaving the muffled remnants of an explanatory reason for her flight, to the effect, "I'm going for a syringe. . ." I hadn't seen the tube touch the floor, although contamination was the cause of the nurse's anxiety; I decided to stand at the bathroom door and await her return.