Rare are the times when I wish I had a boyfriend. Usually, I’m perfectly happy being single, especially in New York City. But there are exceptions.
A couple weeks ago, I left work early. I was feeling awful – sore throat, headache, chills. As I walked home, for a moment I thought how great it would be to leave work at 1:00 every day. I could spend the afternoon finding hot boys to have sex with! But at that moment, I had no interest in sex whatsoever. The only thing I wanted a hot boy to do was to bring me soup, wrap me in blankets, and cuddle with me.
Cuddle?! I was definitely sick.
Last week, I had to have minor surgery on my hand. I somehow developed a ‘retinacular cyst’ under the skin of my right palm, and removing it required surgery. Though it was minor, it was full-blown surgery: arrival at the hospital Friday morning at 5:45 am (!), made to wear nothing but the loose – fitting hospital gown with my butt hanging out in the back (they wouldn’t let me keep it, I asked), and full anesthesia while they sliced open my hand in the O.R. to remove the alien cyst. Because of the anesthesia, I was required to have someone accompany me home.
My friend the Photographer generously agreed to be my escort. Because I didn’t want him to get up at 5am or sit in a waiting room for 3 hours, I told him to arrive around 9am, which the hospital said was OK. But as I was sitting in the sterile, curtained off pre-treatment area, clutching the thin gown around me and looking nervously at the IV equipment, I couldn’t help but feel very alone. I pride myself on being independent and self-sufficient, but at that moment I really wanted someone to sit with me, and make me smile, and tell me everything would be fine. I wanted a boyfriend.
After the surgery, I was overjoyed to see the Photographer, giddy in fact, and greeted him with a huge, dopey grin. The anesthesia clearly hadn’t worn off. He got me in a cab, stopped with me at Duane Reade to fill my Percocet prescription (good stuff), and took me home.
The next 48 hours were a blur, filled mostly with drugs, sleep and Domino’s pizza. There were, of course, times that I again wished I had someone to take care of me (suddenly not having use of your right hand makes the simplest tasks insanely difficult), but overall I managed pretty well. Until Monday.
My instructions were that on Monday, three days after the surgery, I could remove the mountain of bandages wrapped around my hand, and begin simply covering the incision area with band-aids. Monday night I sat on my bed, took a deep breath, and began to unwrap the sticky ace bandages. It wasn’t the pain that concerned me (it had mostly stopped hurting by then), it was the fact that I am somewhat squeamish about things like cuts, blood, and general bodily grossness. And by “somewhat squeamish” I mean I’m a huge baby.
I managed to get the outer layer of ace bandages entirely off, and then remove the two larger gauze pads. Then I saw what was left: a small square of thin gauze, which was discolored from dried blood. Another deep breath and I began to peel it back. It stuck to the skin.
“Ahhh!” I cried. I realized I was being foolish. “Stop being a baby,” I told myself. “You’re an adult, it’s just a little dried blood, and it probably won’t even hurt. Just do it!”
Once again I began to peel back the gauze, forcing myself to keep pulling as it slowly separated from the skin. I grinded my teeth and kept peeling... until I saw the first of the stitches. They had used black stitches, and the way the ends stuck out from the purplish wound make it look like a big dead bug on my hand.
“AHHHHH!”
I grabbed my cellphone.
XJosh answered on the 2nd ring. “Hello?”
“Are you home???” I cried.
“Uh... yes...” my ex-boyfriend answered cautiously.
“I’m coming over!” I exclaimed. XJosh and his current boyfriend, Marabou, had recently moved to a new apartment in Hells Kitchen, just 2 blocks from my place.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because!” I raced through an explanation in one breath, “Friday I had my hand surgery and today I’m supposed to take off the bandages and I took off the bandages but now there’s a piece of gauze and it’s stuck to my hand and I think it’s from dried blood and it’s stuck to the skin and I looked underneath and I can see the stitches and they’re grosssssssss, and I’m afraid to rip it off cause what if it starts bleeding again and what if it hurts and I need some help and ... and your sister’s a nurse!!”
XJosh signed, knowing full well my ridiculous inability to deal with anything icky. “We’re finishing dinner. Give us 20 minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, I was pressing the buzzer to his apartment.
“Everything you need is in there,” I said dramatically, handing my messenger bag to XJosh as he opened the door.
Marabou opened my bag and began inventorying the items. “Band-Aids … and vodka?”
“Start with that,” I ordered as he pulled out the half-empty bottle I’d brought.
“What do you want it with?”
“Ice.”
After I downed half my drink, I let XJosh examine my hand.
“Can you get it wet?” he asked.
“Yes, they said that’s OK today.”
For the next ten minutes, XJosh tended to my hand, carefully dripping warm water on the gauze and lightly peeling it back, then gently applying several band-aids, all while Marabou tried to distract me with the video game he was playing.
“There,” XJosh announced, proud of his work. “All done. Didn’t even hurt, did it?”
“Thanks,” I said. Then I handed him my empty glass. “I’ll have another.”
We hung out for another hour, and then I went home, leaving the rest of the vodka as a thank-you. Walking home, I reflected that going there was probably a little ridiculous. But sometimes you literally need a helping hand. Still, it was the third time in as many weeks that the idea of having a boyfriend seemed less appalling and more appealing.
A few days ago, one of my colleagues came in to work very upset. When I saw her crying at her desk, we went to the supply room to chat.
“My boyfriend and I broke up last night,” she told me, new tears coming to her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to comfort her. I listened for a while as she let out her I-can’t-believe-I’m-single-agains, and her I-really-thought-he-was-The-Ones. I handed her tissues, and patted her arm.
Then she exhaled a long sigh, looked at me and asked, “Why are relationships SO HARD?”
I shrugged and shook my head – I certainly didn’t have the answer to that one.
“Don’t ask me,” I replied. “I’m perpetually single.”
“Well right now,” she said, laughing through her tears, “I’m thinking that’s not such a bad thing!”
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