My True Story Of That Snowy Night

My True Story Of That Snowy Night

When I was two years old, a thick blanket of snow covered our town, gently falling from the sky. It was beautiful but also dangerous, hiding a layer of ice beneath the snow.

On that night, my mother was preparing to take my sister, Dorothy, to the bus stop, where she would go home to her husband. My mother bundled me up warmly and carried me on her hip. As we walked past a gate, everything seemed fine, but suddenly, my mother slipped on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow and fell on top of me.

I was hurt. My leg throbbed with pain, and I remember screaming. They tried to stand me up, but my leg wouldn’t cooperate; it wouldn’t stay on the ground. I felt scared and confused.

My mother called for help. We didn’t have a phone at home, so they had to find someone to call an ambulance. I don’t remember much about what happened next, but I vividly recall wanting my dad with me.

When the ambulance arrived, they wrapped me in a red and black checked blanket. That blanket was special; it was one my dad had bought for me. As they wheeled me away, I cried for my dad, who was working his afternoon shift at the coal mines from 2 PM to 10 PM. I felt lost and afraid, but my dad arrived home just as the ambulance was taking me away. I remember he was crying when he saw me.

At the hospital, I was placed in a cold metal cot. The smell of medicine filled the air, and even though the nurses were kind, I missed my family terribly. I cried a lot, feeling lonely without them. It was hard when they had to leave.

One day, a nice lady brought me a small teddy bear, which provided a bit of comfort. I held it tightly, wishing I could be with my family.

Time passed, and eventually, my leg healed. However, I faced the challenge of learning to stand and walk again. When they tried to help me, I felt scared and wouldn’t let them. I cried and resisted, feeling frustrated.

Eventually, I learned to walk again, but I remained frightened of snow and ice after that. What had once been joyful now felt scary.

Finally, the day came when I could go home. I was surrounded by my family, and it felt wonderful to be back with them. At home, I was placed in a cot set up downstairs. My dad held my hand, and my mom played with me, trying to bring joy back into my life.

Even then, the memory of that snowy day stayed with me. Snow made me feel afraid, and I became wary of ice, turning a season that once brought happiness into something filled with fear.

Throughout my life, I kept that red and black checked blanket. It has always been my comfort blanket, and it still looks like new. Now, when I miss my dad—who passed away in 1988—I snuggle under that blanket, feeling his love wrapped around me.

My family supported me through my fears, but I found it hard to shake the anxiety that formed that night. I learned to navigate winters cautiously, holding tight to the memories of that snowy day while also cherishing the love and warmth of my dad’s gift.

I know you may think I was too young to remember this, but I wasn’t. What I’ve shared is truly what I remember from that cold winter’s night. Yes, there is much that I don’t recall, and perhaps I only remember the trauma of it. Yet, what I recall frightens me. I hate the snow.

Chionophobia is an extreme fear of snow and snowy weather. People with this disorder have severe anxiety and panic attacks when they think about or see snow.