I'll spare you the details of how I ended up in the hospital early one Saturday morning.But I will say it involved a night out,a chronic physical condition that occasionally makes me fall down and hit my head,and these words from one of my bro-iest bros: "Dude,you need to go to the hospital….Can I have your beer?" What got me there doesn't matter.What does: I left with a big,fat crush.
When lying in a hospital bed,I expect blood,bedpans,that antiseptic smell.The only thing that should make my manly bits jump is a looming catheter.But the first doctor to check me out was,in a word,hot.She looked like a kick-ass comic book heroine,with her cropped cyberpunk hair,piercings,wicked smile and athletic body.Dr.Rock Star treated me with care,and when the chief resident came by,she made him laugh with the story of how my hubris had gotten me there.她是所有恶作剧和魅力,smarts and knowledge.A funny,sexy doctor—yowza.
Each time she circled back to my bed,I learned more about her: She was from out West,the daughter of hippies.We had worked in the same ski town,where we'd read the same books and awakened in the morning to the same radio station.Other than the fact that I had only just stopped bleeding,things were going really well.
And then she was gone.I saw her leave—was that a motorcycle helmet under her arm?—but I convinced myself she was running out for lunch.Would she leave without saying goodbye?Yes.The chief resident discharged me an hour later.
The stalking wounded
Had I misread her?How hardhadI hit my head?After some sleep,I was still thinking about how Dr.Rock Star looked as she dressed my wound and how cool it was that everyone called her Doctor…Doctor…what was it?I could've punched myself for not remembering,but I didn't want to open the stitches.
My discharge papers had been signed by the chief resident.Knowing it was crazy,I called the hospital and had him paged.
"Jake,how are you?" he asked.
I played it cool."Better,thanks," I said."But my PCP wants to know: How much aspirin was given to me by the first doctor I saw in your E.R.—Doctor…?"
"Dr.M___," he said."Dr.Erica* M___.It was 20 milligrams."
Perfect.It took me three seconds to find her on Facebook.She used to be a brunette.She looks great in a bathing suit and in jeans and,yes,on her motorcycle.I agonized over whether I should message her.Would it be a romantic next step or a creepy stalker move?
I went for it.I logged on to Facebook…and there was a message formefrom Dr.Rock Star!"Hi,Jake.Just came off a 12-hour shift.Wanted to check in and see how you were doing.Erica." I messaged her back,thanked her for saving me the step of stalking her (total lie) and asked her out for a drink.
We've been on three dates.She likes my foot massages,my hockey team and my dog.I like her brain,her job and,yeah,her body.Most of all,I like that we took a risk.When it comes to missed connections,the chasm between doing something that may result in painful rejection and embarrassment,and doing nothing (which keeps you forever preserved as a cool first impression but also ensures you die alone) is a massive one.My advice: Cross it now and then.If things work out,I'll toast you at the wedding.If they don't and you get hurt,you can always go to the E.R.