White coat syndrome

The phone in our room rang and I thought with relief "Thank God, Dad's gotten in throughthe lobby and is calling me from downstairs." Tammy answered the phone. "Is it Dad?" I asked. "Yes", she replied. "He'll be up in a few minutes." That's when Dave and Peter's friend I'd nicknamed "Dad" came in. I had my eyes tightly shut so as not to open them until the miracle was complete, it had snowed in the lobby, and we were ready to celebrate eternally. He took my hand in his and tried to calm me down. It felt like my dad's big hand, but I wasn't sure. I thought "If I open my eyes and it's not him, I'll have ruined everything." "Think of up north, Chrissie, the lake. Calm down", he said. (Tammy must have coached him about my country place.) "Yes", I said, "all snow covered." "Hey", I said, deciding to divulge my secret to my "friends", "for this world-shaking event we should have snow fall in Rio. That would be a miracle. OK, let there be snow", I exclaimed, still holding my eyes so tightly shut.

That's when snow personified came into our room in the form of a nurse in a white coat. The next thing I knew she was jabbing my arm with a hypodermic needle. (Twenty-two years later, I still, on occasion, have nightmares about needles being thrust into my arm, so traumatic was the feeling.)