Aftermath

by Simone Westfall — May 1, 2007

But what to tell Sam? I'm in agony on the trip home from the doctor's. If what he has told me is true, if he's been celibate for two years, then most likely I'm the culprit, and the malfeasance starts with my last partner, the wannabe Dr. Doggie Kevorkian with whom I was briefly involved over Valentine's Day. (You're wondering about condoms, I'm sure...well, yes, of course, but sometimes one isn't as cautious as one should be, especially in the small hours, and therein lies a lesson for us all.)

I decide the best thing is to give it to him straight. Sam, blessedly, has no symptoms and is a stand-up guy about the whole situation. "What a way to start things off," I tell him. "I don't blame you if you never want to see me again."

"Not at all." He is the soul of graciousness. "These things happen."

He offers to send a messenger when I have had the prescription filled.

But then there is a problem with the pharmacist, who tells me in a crisp British accent that she cannot provide double the dosage because my insurance won't cover it. What if I pay for the second set of pills out of pocket? She won't do that either, for reasons that make no sense to me but probably have to do with some obscure pharmacist's code of making patients feel miserable and guilty. When I call Dr. C to see if she can bring some pressure to bear or call in a separate prescription, she informs me firmly, "I'm not his doctor. I can't do that."

If there is a God, He/She is clearly doing everything within His/Her power to punish me.

The only solution seems to be for Sam to see his own doctor. But he doesn't have one in the city, only a family physician in St. Louis, and he certainly can't go to him with a problem like this. So I call my own doctor, and without going into elaborate detail, explain the problem. The receptionist schedules an appointment for him with Dr. B the next morning.

Sam is, under the circumstances, astonishingly grateful for my efforts. He seems to me to have every right to call down the hounds of hell upon my head, but he doesn't. He simply remarks, with a touch of amazement, "You are a remarkably resourceful woman."

"Let's just be grateful for the miracles of modern medicine."

So Sam flies to St. Louis for the weekend with his little vial of pills and I continue to take mine, and within a few days whatever microbes have been traveling through my system are wiped out and I can walk without pain once again. In the back of my mind, I'm sure he'll want to call it quits and return to his monkish routine, but instead I get an email over the weekend praising certain female attributes in unblushing detail and expressing a desire to get together on Wednesday. What a guy.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.