Before the operation, my date got to watch a nurse move my pasty, fluorescent-lit body out of my bloody jeans and into a hospital gown. Physical humiliation was next on the agenda. I couldn’t hear everything, but “seven centimeters” and “arterial” came through loud and clear. When I asked, “I’m not going to lose my arm, am I?” the answer was a troubling, “I don’t think so.”Ī brusque surgeon with a pitiless stare prodded me as he mumbled about my case to a flock of residents. When I looked down, I glimpsed my exposed triceps and more blood than I had ever seen in my life. As she unraveled herself from our embrace on the couch to use the bathroom, I fell onto the after-dinner drink she had left on the floor, the glass slicing into the soft underside of my upper arm. So far my success with this particular woman had been an exercise in ignoring the reality of it, which apparently also led me to ignore the reality of my surroundings in general. Even if the evening goes well, I often appreciate it only later and from a distance, as if it had happened to someone else - like dating in the third person. Any brain space left for experiencing the date itself is woefully small. Not unusual questions to ask yourself when meeting new people, but for me they can be paralyzing. I have been on anti-anxiety medication for about 10 years, and on dates I’m constantly asking myself: “Was that the wrong thing to say? Do I seem nervous? Will obsessing about being nervous make me appear more nervous?” I realize that meeting someone wonderful is the whole point of dating, but actually being with someone wonderful can be too stressful for me to enjoy. Each outing felt as if I were sneaking into an exclusive club, and at the end of the night I always feared I would be discovered and asked to leave.

No escape hospital