Abstract
To the Editor.— Thursday evening was a snowy night in Palmyra, Pa, where daughter Cher and family live. We tried our luck at contract bridge, only because the game at the Distelfink restaurant in Lancaster had attracted us. After the game, Cher noticed that my hands looked blue, and she asked if I felt well. Looking at my hands, I felt a little woozy, so I sat down. One minute later I felt fine, and I let Cher drive me home since there was no sense in taking any chances. On the way, we noticed that my hands looked terrible—like those of a corpse. Again she asked if I felt well, and I said, I'm okay. At a fork in the road, she turned into the Hershey Medical Center. It was about midnight when the nurse on duty asked what was the matter. I felt fine, but my hands were
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