How Getting Rejected By A Hot Doctor Improved My Self Image
By: Claire Manship
Tags: New York City, Emergency Medicine, Medicine, Doctors, Dating

I’ve had a lot of medical issues in the last couple years, but abdominal pain is the thread that ties them all together. Abdominal pain is a sure-fire sign to me that something is seriously wrong, because every time I have felt it in the last couple years, it means I’m dying. That’s not me being dramatic. I was literally dying. So, it’s understandable, that when I felt a similar abdominal pain last week, my PCP thought an infection could be brewing. I was encouraged to go to the ER for a CT scan, so I didn’t have to wait for insurance approval. The last time I waited too long for radiology, my body tried to kill me by means of attacking my internal organs (LOL).

Lenox Hill Hospital is like my second home. For a time, it was literally my second home. Now, I am so comfortable there that I look forward to going back. It’s genuinely a pleasure. That’s what being chronically ill does to a person: you may not be able to count on much, but you can always count on someone at a hospital caring when you’re down. It may be sad to say, but the doctors, nurses, PAs, and staff at The Hill have cared for me in a way that no one else ever has. I know most of the surgical staff by name, and the radiology staff recognizes me when I come in, now. I get whatever testing I ask for, not only because I have great insurance (thanks, Obama), but because the staff at The Hill know that infrequent testing almost killed me twice. Let’s just say, when your nurse calls you “boss”, it’s well earned.

I arrived at the Lenox Hill ER, surprised to see it so slow. Pandemic precautions had some frontline workers in the main ER, and some in a back waiting area, assisting non-COVID patients. I was taken into an exam room, where my nurse, a beautiful and friendly blonde, who could be a fit model, helped me settle in. She told me that the doctor would be in to see me soon.

When he showed up, I was not prepared. This man was tall and muscular, with dark hair and kind eyes, in all-black scrubs, accompanied by a swag I have never seen at this hospital before. The Hill is a great hospital, but it’s not a particularly swaggy place. And this was a particularly swaggy doctor.

After some initial exams and tests, it was determined that nothing was wrong enough for me to be admitted (which is one of my biggest fears). A few hours after I had arrived, the doctor sat down next to me in the waiting area, his body angled toward me, and his arm relaxed across the back of the seat. He had a clear charisma and comfort in this space, and in his body. He spoke casually to me, leaning close to make jokes, or give me advice about next steps. I had watched him for hours walking back and forth across the ER, with a tenor in his step that made it clear he loved his job. But, it was when he was making jokes to me, sidled comfortably into the waiting room seating, that I knew he loved his job. Nothing is hotter than a man that loves his job. Unless, you know, he’s too in love with his job, and then he’s the worst.

I went home, defeated. The pain was subsiding from the Toradol the nurse had given me, but a new pang had arrived. For the first time in my medical journey, I was genuinely attracted to my doctor, in a way I could actually explain. If I had met this person under any other circumstance, I would have been attracted to him. It just so happened, that this man was a doctor. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Maybe my transference had manifested into a type. Or, maybe, my type was always swaggy, muscular men in scrubs. Why no one has identified these hotties before is a mystery to me.

As any good Millennial will, I went home and looked him up, curious why I had never seen him at Lenox Hill before. When you Google my name a lot of information comes up. When you Google his name, it’s absurd. The amount of press that has been done on this man is astounding. He’s mildly famous, not only because he fought the pandemic and lived to tell the tale, but he’s a dancer, musician, world-traveler, blogger, and photographer. Honestly, how dare he? Everything about him was attractive and interesting and cool. Almagated together, he was truly swaggy.

I commented on one of his posts that I appreciated his care at the ER. The speed with which he got back to me was astounding. He knew exactly who I was and wished me well. I was flattered, and my interest was officially piqued.

A day later, I replied to one of his Instagram stories, and he messaged me back just as quickly. This time, with some flirtatious banter. I couldn’t believe a hot doctor took the time to send me a cute and quippy message.

Finally, after much research on the ethical dilemma I was about to throw at him, and consulting with a number of famous TikTok doctors what risks were involved, I sent him the following DM:

“Hey, if we had met under any other circumstance, I would have asked you out. So please let me know if you’d ever be interested in going on a date MONTHS from now.”

He responded just minutes later:

“Hahaha thank you! Sadly I’m taken! Ships in the night…”

We continued the conversation for a few more messages. He was indeed as swaggy as I had perceived. He was as kind as his eyes gave away in the ER. He was as funny as his waiting room jokes had led me to believe.