She Met Her Husband On A Hospital Examination Table

On our wedding day, my husband was asked, “Where and how did you meet your wife?” He looked at me with a wide grin, and I jokingly warned him, “You better not say, or I’ll kill you.” Our meeting is a story we rarely share; it’s our little secret.

When he took the microphone, he said, “How we met was a miracle. It’s as if God placed a woman on your table with the message, ‘This one is for you.’ She appeared out of nowhere, and I instantly knew she was the one.”

Everything he said was a fabrication, except for the part about the table. I did appear on his table, but I doubt it was divine intervention.

It was a week before Valentine’s Day when I had a date with a guy I met on Facebook. We had been online friends for a few months and had developed feelings for each other, but we had yet to meet in person. He was in Australia, and I was in Ghana, planning to meet on Valentine’s Day.

I wanted our first date to be perfect, so I decided to visit a gynecologist to address a condition before meeting him.

After being directed to a room, a nurse prepared me for the doctor. Lying on the examination table, I hoped for a female gynecologist. Then I heard a voice say, “How are you, lady?” I froze. “A guy? A male gynecologist?”

I felt shy and embarrassed, but he did his best to make me comfortable. He asked questions with genuine care and cracked jokes to ease my tension. He assured me, “Everything should be fine, but you need to come back in six days.”

Those six days led right to Valentine’s Day, the day I was supposed to meet my special someone. I asked him, “Couldn’t it be sooner? I’ll be traveling on the 14th.” He replied, “The next six days is the 14th? Wow. You’re traveling for Valentine’s Day, right?” We exchanged smiles.

I returned early on the 14th, and he checked on me, prescribing some medications. He cautioned, “Don’t have sex until you finish these drugs. You should be fine afterward.”

I went home, took some medication, and began to react poorly. I struggled to breathe and started sweating profusely, prompting me to rush back to the hospital. After examining me, he said, “You need to rest here for a while. I want to make sure you’re okay before you leave.”

I spent the rest of the day at the clinic. As I was leaving in the evening, he said, “Go home and get a good night’s sleep, but if you have any issues, here’s my number.” He handed me a piece of paper.

On my way home, I opened it to find a number and a note: “Sorry to mess up your Valentine’s Day. There’s more to come. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Indeed, my Valentine’s Day was ruined. I couldn’t meet my online boyfriend and told him I was sick, reacting to medication from the doctor. He thought I was making excuses and got angry, saying hurtful things before hanging up. That was the end; he never answered my calls, but my health was my priority.

Any sign of discomfort had me calling the gynecologist, Charles.

“Charles, why am I getting rashes?”

“Charles, is it normal to feel dizzy after taking this medication?”

“Charles, I think I’m improving, but is there anything I should do to avoid this or that again?”

He was kind and patient, tolerating all my annoying questions, even at odd hours. It became routine; we were always on the phone, chatting. Our conversations shifted from my health to various aspects of our lives—upbringing, careers, love, disappointments, and more. One night, he proposed, and I said yes.

Love blossomed. Nearly two years later, we got married. So, on our wedding day, when he said God placed me on his table, it wasn’t entirely untrue. I was that girl lying on his table, and he was that guy trying to figure out what was wrong with me, but he couldn’t share that detail. It would have been too much information.

—Sandra