The Valentine date who knocked me out

New York City evokes a deluge of memories for me. I have had so many memorable experiences there, deeply etched in my mind and heart, which I will surely remember way after senility sets in.

I lived in New York in the early ‘80s and again from 1995 to 2000. I can truthfully say that those years were for the most part filled with many joyful moments. At this time of the year, I reminisce over past Valentine experiences, some very happy, some bittersweet like my Valentine of 1999.

In November 1998, my relationship of four years was decidedly over, but to ensure a happy holiday season for both of us, we decided to officially call it quits after New Year’s Day. Call it weird, but it worked out well for both of us. Spending the holiday season together softened the pain of the breakup.

When 1999 set in, my new year’s resolution was to move on with my life. Admittedly, no matter how amicable our separation was, parting was such sweet sorrow and I felt crushed about my failed relationship. Staying true to my resolve of moving on with my life, I decided to follow the schedule I had over the past years and that was to start the year with a complete medical checkup.

I passed all my tests with flying colors except for one thing. My ob-gyn discovered a medium-size cyst in my cervix and advised me to have surgery ASAP. I know that in matters like this, time is of the essence, so I agreed to do it right away.

As I did not want to alarm my folks back home, I decided not to tell them. But I had to tell someone, just in case, God forbid, some freak accident happened, so I told my ex-paramour over dinner and did so in such dramatic fashion (tears and sobs included) that he almost choked to death on his steak. I appealed to those in the restaurant and screamed for help. The man at the next table ran over and was prepared to do the Heimlich maneuver on him but, thank God, he was able to cough it out.

Moral of the story: Do not do your histrionics during the main course. Wait till after dessert; that way you will get more sympathy as his whole attention is on you, not on the food.

On the day of the surgery, as I was being wheeled inside the operating room, I had an anxiety attack and started to hyperventilate. I had a blurred vision of a man who stuck a needle in my vein and, before I knew it, I was off to dreamland.

The surgery took an hour and when I came to, my ob-gyn assured me that there was nothing to be alarmed of. But — and this was the scary part — the cyst had to be sent to a laboratory for a complete biopsy and I had to come back after a week for a post-surgery checkup and to find out if the cyst was malignant or benign. I am sure all of you can relate to the gamut of emotions that wracked my sanity during that one week of waiting for my biopsy results.

I prayed countless novenas to all my favorite saints and lit candles in every church that I passed, even the non-Catholic churches (I did not want to leave anything to chance, just in case their saints were more powerful than ours!). I was a bundle of nerves, the skies were gray, it was a very cold winter, I was healing over my broken relationship, and my world was so bleak. To make matters worse, I had no made no real estate sale in the past few months (I was a licensed realtor) as all my rich clients were off in the Alps skiing or in the Bermudas sun bathing. I felt the world crashing down on me. I was a total basket case and my only consolation was the warmth I felt from the love and care of my close friends, ex-paramour included, who were very supportive and kept me company when I needed cheering up.

D-day came. I was ecstatic with joy when my ob-gyn read to me the good results. I was not embarrassed to show my emotions even though I saw a man, a George Clooney look-alike, hovering in her office, as if checking me out. I was not curious to know who he was nor did I care why he was, there. All I was concerned about was my health and I was given a clean bill of health, alleluia!

Sometime during the first week of February, I got the surprise of my life when the concierge of my apartment building rang me up to say that I had a delivery from a florist. Three dozen white roses! I was dying of curiosity to find out who they were from.

The business card had a doctor’s name on top and had a short note at the back: “I hope I was gentle enough with the needle.” Signed, “From the man who knocked you out…”

I called up my ob-gyn and told her about the flowers from this doctor. She laughed and told me it was my anesthesiologist, the man in her office who wanted to be formally introduced to me but I was so out of it, so emotional and so oblivious of everything but my biopsy results, that she figured it was not the right time. Short of endorsing him, she gave me a “praise-to-the-high-heavens” background report on the good doctor.

My “thank you for the lovely roses” call led to a formal Valentine dinner date at one of New York’s snobbish clubs and, I must say, this handsome, dark-haired doctor with dark blue eyes was a knockout in his black tux. Given the circumstances I was in, it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable Valentines of my life. I could not have asked for more! My date was a polished dancer and had a great sense of humor that he was not even aware of.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship and the sun shone on me even during those frosty winter days.