I lived through the most ridiculous tonsillectomy recovery.

It was 2014, and I was doing what any responsible 23-year-old would do days before a tonsillectomy surgery. I was taking shots of tequila at a bar with some friends, in anticipation of my upcoming surgery recovery period, when the cute guy that had been eyeing us came up to the bar and ordered a drink.

His name was Peter, and he seemed very sweet. He was really funny and after some small talk, we took a shot of tequila together in memory of my tonsils, exchanged numbers, and said goodbye. I never thought I’d see him again.

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I was surprised to get a text from him the very next day while I was running errands and stocking the fridge with ‘surgery recovery approved food’.

He asked if he could visit me while I was recovering and I said yes, even though I knew I would be a drugged-up mess and I couldn’t see anyone.

But it was sweet of him to ask.

On the day of surgery, I walked in brave and walked out in a daze.

My sister picked me up, brought me home, and the rest of that day was a painkiller-induced blur.

I tried to sleep but woke up every 15 minutes gasping for air. Though the doctor had warned me I would have trouble sleeping with the swelling, I didn’t know the recovery could be this bad.

I had pictured myself sleeping peacefully and waking up to watch Sex and the City while I ate a pint of mint chip ice cream.

This was not the case.

On day two of recovery, I was still in pain and still absolutely drugged up when Peter texted me, asking if he could bring over some get well soon ice cream. Unfazed and high, I said yes and gave this hot stranger from the bar my address.

A few hours later, he rang the doorbell, standing at my door with flowers and a pint of chocolate swirl ice cream.

I thought he was the sweetest to come see a girl he had just met in this drugged-up state. I let him into my apartment, and we crawled right into bed.

I don’t really remember much of what happened after that, but I know he spent the rest of the day with me. He set an alarm on his phone to give me my painkiller and with it, my nausea pill.

It took me 10 days to eat without crying, so there I was on day two, having this really hot guy force-feed me a spoon full of chocolate swirl ice cream every few hours.

It was better than any Sex and the City marathon I had pictured.

Eating was the worst part of the recovery. But Peter was there.

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I would cry every time I had to eat yogurt or a spoonful of pudding just to have something in my stomach before I took another pain-killer. But Peter was there, setting alarm reminders for pills and helping me sit up and eat.

I thought it was sweet of him to stay with me all day. That night, he even offered to stay overnight to make sure I got my medication on time. What an angel, right?

The next morning, he kissed me goodbye as he left for work. Shortly after, he texted me, asking if he could come back after work to take care of me.

I thought it was super considerate of him. Sure enough, he came back and stayed with me for the next few days.

Day five, the pain subsided and I didn’t need as many pain pills throughout the day. I came down from my high dosage of meds and became more aware of this unofficial roommate situation.

Yes, the hot guy from the bar unofficially moved in with me.

He didn’t bring clothes or furniture or anything like that. But we were spending all day together. He’d come over after work and sleep with me until he had to leave for work in the morning.

I still couldn’t swallow food or drink liquids without pain and I had no one else to help me, so I wasn’t in a rush to fire my personal nurse. He took care of me as if it were his job. If it weren’t for Peter, I would’ve been alone.

As we spent more time together throughout the next few days, we got to know each other a bit better. We started asking questions about each other’s upbringing, where our families lived, etc.

I mean, we had to. We knew nothing about each other but here we were, spending full days together in bed while he spoon-fed me pudding so I could take my nausea pills. It was a first date story for the books.

One of the first things I noticed on his heavily tattooed body was the two large names inked on his chest.

I asked who they were for and he explained, “My sister’s kids died in a car accident, so I had their names put on for her.”

I thought it was beautiful that someone would do that for their sister. And it would’ve been sweet if it were true. But those tattoos weren’t for his sister’s kids. You know that now. It was all downhill from here.

The very next day, he came running into my apartment after work and the first words out of his mouth were, “I need you to block this number from your phone.”

Hello, red flag. He said something along the lines of:

(inhale)

His roommate’s girlfriend has a friend who is in love with him but he just thinks of her as a friend and his roommate’s girlfriend must have let her friend in the house because she somehow snuck into his room and got a hold of his phone and got my phone number and she’s probably going to text me because she’ll read his texts and get jealous that he’s seeing me.

(exhale)

Yes. That was his story.

No, I did not believe him. But I chose to benefit myself and keep my live-in nurse. So, I blocked the number he told me to block, no questions asked. I never asked about it and he probably never planned on talking about it again.

A few days after the “roommate’s girlfriend’s friend story”, we were on the couch watching television when I got a text message from an unknown number. And just like that, the messages came rushing in, one after another.

The texts all said something along the lines of:

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I hope you’re happy ruining a marriage.”

“They were supposed to be getting married! He ran away because of you.”

(And a few other explicit home-wrecker accusing texts which I will not repeat.)

Along with the texts that were flooding my phone, I also received a collection of pictures of an adorable family posing together in a green grassed park. There was a mother, a father, and two adorable children holding signs that said, “Mommy and Daddy are getting married”.

The man sitting next to me was the man in those pictures.

I looked over at him and bluntly asked, “Do you want to see something?”

I showed him my phone, which displayed his family portrait on my screen.

The look on his face was something that I can only describe as sheer desperation. He tried to lie his way out of it but he was spiralling.

He had another long story for me about his engagement. According to him, they were no longer together because she had kicked him out of the house when he tried to call off the wedding.

I asked him why he wasn’t honest with me about having kids.

Or honest about leaving his fiancée. But his answer didn’t matter now. I could no longer have a live-in nurse who was having a cold feet situation. The truth had been revealed and I couldn’t involve myself with this man and whatever was going on in his relationship.

It upset me that he had lied but I also felt relief.

Even with a swollen throat, I laughed at myself for a long time. I was relieved that my stupid self let a complete stranger into my home to take care of me and out of the many ways that this could have gone terribly wrong, this is all that happened.

As I watched him walk out of my apartment, everything made sense.

He wanted to stay with me because his fiancée had kicked him out of the house. He didn’t have a place to sleep while he figured out his relationship status. The whole time I thought he was helping me!

He tried to reach out to me after that day but I blocked his numbers until he gave up. I never saw him at that bar or anywhere else again.

For the record, if there is another surgery in my future, I will not be bringing home any strangers.

But from this wild incident, I learned sometimes people will enter your life at the right moment, exactly when you need them.

Even if it’s just for a short amount of time. The fascinating thing is that you might enter their life at their moment of need too.

Peter was using me because he needed a place to stay and I needed a nurse to take care of me. I couldn’t thank the universe enough for sending me a stranger to be my live-in nurse that wasn’t a serial killer.

Wherever Peter is now, I really hope he has grown up and is making memories with his beautiful family and maybe not lying about his wife and kids to other tonsillectomy patients.

Please note: the image used is a stock photo. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.