April and Ryan are Gettin' Hitched

It was a trick question, maybe.

"That guy who flew with drug-resistant tuberculosis?" Baer said. "He was going on his honeymoon."

"I saw that," I said.

"That's a bloggable item."

I said, "I promise if I have drug-resistant tuberculosis, I won't go on on our honeymoon."

Then I paused.

"Or is the right answer that I'll go on our honeymoon anyway, because that's commitment?"

"That," Baer said, "is a good question."

The things we do for love. As some of you know, we had a small medical drama here in the house of White-Baer, about 10 days ago. The night began like any other, a couple of folks came over to watch The Sopranos and Entourage. Pizza was consumed. And ice cream. And some beer. And grape Crush.

It was a cool, rainy night, but a cool, rainy night late enough in the season that we allowed ourselves to think that perhaps it would be the last cool, rainy night. One fake log left next to the fireplace. We made a fire, curled up on the couch under a blanket and fell asleep watching a Harry Potter movie.

About an hour and a half later, I woke up, warm. I woke Baer up, because it was after nine, the sun was nearly down and without question it was time for bed. We pulled ourselves up from the couch; I headed into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Ever fall asleep in the afternoon and wake up after dark? You awake disoriented. Is it morning? Night? What did I sleep through that I'm going to pay for now? And where in the hell am I?

One minute I was getting ready for bed, the next I felt like that last paragraph. Where was I? On the bathroom floor. How did I get there? I don't know. What's that voice? April, asking if I'm Ok. Why does my head hurt.

I sat up, about the time April walked in and saw blood on the floor. I reached behind my head and found the source of the blood. Bad news. Not too long after that, we're in the ER, I'm in a neck brace and the local Fox affiliate is on the television, passing crap off as news. Seems ol' Brit Spears had thrown a temper tantrum on a United flight. No leather seats is a real bitch sometimes. Life's tough all over.

Eventually we get seated, took about an hour, should have had reservations. Left behind in the waiting room was a woman in a nightgown, curled up on two chairs, a couple dealing with a sore tooth (she had a tattoo on her face), and various other bumps, bruises and obvious ploys for painkillers.

A nurse led us back. Later, a friend would suggest this was a lousy way to check out nurses. This nurse was going about 6-foot, bald, tattooed and a former Marine. Bad ass guy. He'd been in the first Gulf War, turned down invitations to this one because he'd promised his daughter he'd be here. Did a stint in Italy after Iraq I. Bragged about how good he was with a needle. The guy was good with a needle.

I got an I.V., and an EKG, and blood disappeared into vials. The doctor, guy named Campbell came in, asked a lot of questions. I go for a CAT Scan. The ride is cool. Neck immobilized on the bed, I got a view most people only ever get when they're watching television medical dramas: ceiling tiles, rounded mirrors, quick flashes of passing faces. There was a heart-rate monitor taped to my finger, glowing red. My neck was stretched by the brace. I felt like E.T.

April helped a guy named Todd lift me on to the CAT Scan table. It's mechanized, and it whirred me toward the working parts, a thin cylinder. Inside, parts turn. It was like being in the middle of a centrifuge, or one of those amusement park rides where you stick to the wall. While April was looking at pictures of my brain -- and feeling a little better about this marriage thing, once she saw I had one -- I'm thinking like James Bond.

"Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr. Bond ..."

Everything check out, A.O.K. One of those things, the doctor says.

"Now we'll staple up the back of your head."

"Can I watch?" Baer said.

"Can you watch?" I said.

She could. She watched them staple my head at about 20 to 3 a.m.

At home, about 20 minutes later, she said, "I guess we can get married now."

I guess we can. And I know for a fact I'd chase her across the Earth with a head wound. Maybe not tuberculosis. Or maybe. We're still not sure what the right answer is. More likely than not, though, that guy with TB probably just didn't want to deal with the airlines and changing the tickets.