L.A. Affairs: I went to the ER after a fall. But I might have left with a boyfriend

I am an 81-year-old widow with shaky balance. But friends have told me that I have a face and outlook as those of a younger woman. Not too long ago, after I finished breakfast, a strange feeling came over me. My whole body, mind included, felt numb and spaced out. Seated at my dining room table, I felt my body lean to the right, then to the left.

I struggled to keep my eyes open. Through all of this, I was aware my body was still swerving. Afraid I’d fall to the floor, which I have done before, I stood up, hoping to shake off whatever had taken control of my body.

As I neared the kitchen, my body gave way and I fell. Hard. Twice I tried to get up but couldn’t. I was alone, in shock, with no way to get help.

My first thought was to call 911, but my cell was on the dining table where I always kept it.

Scooting on my butt, I made it to the counter. Reaching up as far as I could, I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. I remembered I had given a key to my neighbor and friend Rodney, so I gave his number to the firefighter who answered my call.

The ambulance came quickly. It was 9:30 a.m. when I arrived, and Long Beach Memorial Medical Center was eerily quiet. A nurse came into my room and asked me some questions, took my blood pressure, pricked my finger and withdrew a tiny amount of blood, then said the doctor would be in soon. I had nothing to do but lie there and wait. And listen.

I heard a nurse asking questions of her patient in the “room” to my right. It was not difficult to hear since these rooms were divided only by drapes.

“How tall are you?”

“Six-six,” a deep masculine voice responded.

Six-six? Wow! That got my attention.

“Do you drink?” she asked.

“Every day,” he said jokingly.

“What is your cell number?” I heard the numbers, and for some crazy reason, I wrote them down.

“When was the last time you had a drink?”

“Last night I went out with my buddies and had a few beers.”

So, he’s single! Great! He seemed so convivial that instead of being repulsed, I was turned on.

I had a strong urge to talk to him, but that would be weird, right? I reminded myself we were in a hospital, not at a social event. Still, my desire to connect with him was more powerful than my good sense.

“Hi, neighbor,” I called out before saying, “You sound so clever and cute that I had to say hi.” Oh, my God, I did it!

“Hi, neighbor,” he replied warmly.

Excited, heart racing, I anticipated he’d continue the conversation. But he didn’t. So I figured that was that, but I wondered why.

Then I heard a female voice different from his nurse. His wife. He’s married. Damn.

The doctor finally came in to see me. He said my blood pressure was normal, and the blood test was fine.

“I just want to get a CT scan of your head. I’m not expecting to find anything but just in case.”

A tech pushed aside the drapes and entered my tiny space with a gurney. We happened to go in the direction of my neighbor’s room. A strained glance through the small opening in his drapes was all I needed. He was attractive!

On my way back from the scan, I again peeked into the narrow opening to his room. This time I caught sight of a youngish woman and two gray-haired men I assumed to be his buddies. I was shocked! Gray hair? My neighbor had light red hair from what I could tell.

Back in my room, I waited for the doctor. That my neighbor (I wished I knew his name) was married threw a wrench into the possibilities. Then I heard another female voice, low, kind of sexy, also scratchy and highly annoying.

“You know, guys, if Dad had given me any reason for worry, I would have called you right away.”

Daughter? So not married. Single! Still single. No wonder he didn’t say more.

My doctor finally returned. “Everything is fine. You can go home.”

After nine hours at the hospital, I got dressed in the only piece of clothing I had with me: my nightgown. A tinge of sadness swept over me.

I stepped out of the room and paused to take one last look toward my neighbor’s room and saw a gurney transporting him somewhere. CT scan? MRI? Surgery? I watched him being wheeled away until the gurney was out of sight. Then I left.

I replayed the experience in my head. I was kind of proud that I had the chutzpah to do it. It was a little adventure and a welcome diversion.

After I got home, I called a close girlfriend, Beverly, to tell her about my fun fantasy and that I wrote his phone number down, but that I would never contact him.

She said, “I think you should.”

“I’m not going to do it. He’d think I was a stalker.”

We had several back-and-forths about this. The last thing I said to her was, “Why should I?”

“Because you never know.”

“Not doing it,” I said loudly, hoping the subject would finally be dropped. But what she said stuck in my head.

A few days later, throwing caution to the wind, I texted him. He texted me back: “Hi, neighbor.” Several texts and pictures later, he said, “I want to meet you.” Oh, my God.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’m a spontaneous guy. How about today? 5? El Torito in Long Beach.”

“I can be spontaneous. El Torito is perfect. See you at 5.”

My fantasy was becoming a reality!

Then Beverly called me. “How are things going?”

“I can’t talk. I’m meeting him in an hour.”

“Good luck! And don’t forget ...”

“I remember.” We said it together, “You never know!”

I hung up and finished getting dressed, my heart racing — in a good way — at what I was about to do.

The author is a freelance writer who wrote a memoir, "My Sexual Awakening at 70," published on Amazon. She also has written three psychological suspense novels, which are available for representation.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com . You can find submission guidelines here . You can find past columns here .

This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times .