Since I had to travel for work on Monday (meaning I would miss Valentine’s Day) Alan and I decided we would celebrate early by making reservations at Brasserie Beck for dinner right after work Friday night.
We were both pretty excited about it, so when my leg ballooned to the size of an elephant’s trunk and I hopped a cab for the hospital, I called him with the news, “We may need to push back our dinner reservation, because I’m on my way to the ER.”
I probably should’ve started that call with, “I’m fine and you shouldn’t be worried…” but I was too fixated on the meal to think rationally. So it was no wonder Alan promptly freaked out and jumped in his car to meet me at the hospital.
Little did he know, we would log about four hours there that day before we could head to dinner. The good news is it offered plenty of fodder for the blog. At one point, a crazy woman sat down next to me and started blurting out random statements. I tried to ignore her (“I’m hungry! Gonna go home and make me a steak!”) but I saw Alan pulling out a piece of paper and taking notes.
I pitied him when I left him sitting with her while I got an ultrasound, but I shouldn’t have. When I came back (sporting more KY Jelly than anyone other than a prostitute should ever come in contact with) he was sitting with a proud smirk on his face. I just shook my head, waiting until we were at dinner to get the details from him.
Fast forward to Sunday, when I got hit by a car. I called Alan from the scene of the accident, telling him I was heading back to the ER to get checked out. He met me there again, a pro at securing a visitor pass so he could hang out with me in the back. I was doubly glad to see him because the woman who hit me wouldn’t leave until he showed up.
And as a side note: I don’t care HOW NICE someone is, you really do not feel like hanging out for hours with the person who struck you with her vehicle. I kept trying to get her to leave (mainly so I could call my friends and tell them about her), but she insisted on staying with me, alternating between tears and apologies.
I was the one hit by a car, but she was the one who needed consoling. I probably should’ve warned Alan of this because he didn’t know what he was walking into when he arrived at the hospital. But he figured it out pretty quickly. We locked eyes over her shoulder as he hugged her.
When we finally drove home Sunday night, I apologized for a Valentine’s Day weekend that included about eight hours in the ER. He shook his head. “I’m just glad you’re in one piece.” And then, “Besides, I totally have great material to write about now.”
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. Seriously. Happy (belated) Valentine’s Day!
Next year, I’m thinking maybe we can spend it at a police station.
pithypants 
Wow so much excitement for one weekend! I wouldn’t bother with the police station. ER is far better than staring at some walls of a cell!
True. Although I was thinking it might kind of be like a flashback to “Night Court” from the 1980s.