Eventually, our friendship developed into something deeper.
One evening, after an appointment, he nervously invited me out.
“I know this crosses a line,” he admitted one evening in his office,
after my appointment. “But I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t at least ask. Would you go out on a date with me?”
I understood that romantic relationships between doctors and patients were complicated.
Perhaps I should have hesitated.
But I’d developed feelings for Nigel, so I accepted.
Dating him felt surprisingly natural.
He described the visible world without treating me as helpless. He encouraged me to cook despite occasional burned meals and remembered exactly how I preferred my coffee, always positioning the mug three inches from my right hand.
Two years later, we married. By then, Nigel was no longer my physician.
