They say it always happens when you least expect it.

My life was at a crossroads. I had just graduated medical school, and only a week before had moved across the country to a state and coast I'd never even seen before. It was time to start my internship, and I felt unprepared and nervous. Most distressing of all, my student days were over -- it was time for me to get serious. I was about to become a doctor.

Romance was the furthest thing from my mind as the blinding San Diego sun cast shadows of palm trees upon the walls of Mercy Hospital that hot June morning. I sat down with the other new interns in the orientation room, unaware that fate was just about to tap me on the shoulder, then slug me right in the mouth.

But as my new co-workers began cheerily introducing themselves to each other between facefuls of bagel and coffee, one of the office managers pulled me off to the side. "There's someone I want you to meet," he said, smiling secretively. Without another word, he walked off. Confused, I followed him past the crowd and through a nearly hidden doorway into a small back room. I looked around and suddenly, my stomach dropped, my head began to swim. That's when I first saw her.

I remember it all like it was yesterday. I was wearing a blue shirt and goofy suspenders; she was wearing a pair of Duracell AA's. It wasn't long before pager #5708 and I went everywhere together. You might say we were joined at the hip. And why not? After all, this was a time in my life when I'd begun to take on new responsibilities. I was no longer just worried about passing tests and getting grades -- I had real, living patients to take care of. Having her by my side gave me the confidence I needed.

Though she rarely spoke, I sensed a hidden complexity within. Just slipping my hand around her smooth back gave me the sensation of something electric inside her. Yet despite her soft-spoken nature, I always knew that if there was something important going on, she'd tell me. And she was the only one who could interrupt me any time she wanted. I even found it kind of cute, the way she'd cut in mid-sentence.

Like the time one of my patients decided that since he was Julius Caesar, congestive heart failure was not nearly enough to keep him from his appointed duties of taxation, orgies and constructing aqueducts; he therefore had to leave the hospital at once. Had my girl not alerted me to the situation, perhaps I wouldn't have arrived in time to convince him that his empire would be well-controlled for another four days while we removed all the fluid that was overloading his heart. And we'd never have learned to fear the Ides of March.

Of course, as with any new love, I was eager yet apprehensive about introducing her to my parents. Would they understand how closely we'd bonded in such a short time? Would they mind that she was black? Fortunately, when the time came, my darling little #5708 was up to the task. In fact, she dominated the dinner conversation, rarely going a minute or two without speaking up about something. And whenever she spoke, you could be sure it was about something of consequence. I could not have been more proud.

Then there was the first time we slept together. I guess you always remember your first time. I lay awake, feeling even hotter than the 125 degrees of the tiny fourth-floor call room. Sure, there were over 300 sick patients waiting just beyond my door. But all my senses were filled with her, clinging to my waist, snuggled tight against me. She seemed, at times, to just glow there in the dark. How often did she wake me that night? There was the time she told me that a patient's leg was turning cold and blue, forcing me to spend the next three hours slowly injecting clot-dissolving medication into it. But all I remember is that I didn't mind a bit. I was in heaven.

Yes, for weeks my heart would sing every time I heard her crisp, melodic voice. I didn't even notice that we were starting to go out a lot less. But my friends noticed. First it was just whispering, but soon there were accusations. I never went out drinking. I never played basketball. They only saw me at the hospital, and even then I was always with her.

At first I argued back, told them that they just didn't understand. I told them that she made me feel important; she made me feel like a doctor. Didn't they see?

But slowly I began to realize they were right. I was withdrawing. It had become just the two of us, and for as much as I loved being with her, my social life was starting to suffer. Though at first we had whispered of all sorts of exciting things like codes and emergencies, soon it seemed all we could talk about were drugs I had ordered incorrectly or lab results I needed to pick up.

In fact, I found that she was becoming more and more controlling. Soon the nervous excitement of going out together at night began to fade. She was always the one deciding where we'd go and what we'd do, and then oftentimes she'd force me to get up and leave right in the middle of the movie or dinner. And she was always interrupting me when I talked. I hated that. Maybe, I thought, I wasn't ready for this kind of commitment.

I guess I should have said something then, but instead I just made excuses for her. It was a phase she was going through, I told myself. It would pass eventually, and things would settle down. But it didn't. And soon, her high-pitched voice began to sound more shrill than anything else.

"Why weren't you at conference today?" she'd sneer accusingly. "Why didn't you put that diabetic on a low-sugar diet?" She knew my soft spots and had learned to push all my buttons (though, to be fair, I'd been pushing hers for quite some time). I was growing tired, and began to curse that office manager who'd introduced us so long ago. He must have known about her. Why did he do this to me? He was no friend, I thought. He tricked me into this, never letting on that under her tight, shiny young exterior was a cold, metallic woman.

So with whatever strength I had left, I fought. I wanted my life back, I'd shout. I didn't want to spend my nights hearing her drone on about my patients' elevated potassium levels and dislike of hospital food. I said I could change, but she told me she couldn't, that this was "how she was made." We had taken each other for better or worse, she'd remind me. I was stuck.

It was true, I realized. For all the misery she had caused, I still needed her, and had come to depend on her. After all, if it weren't for #5708, I never would have made it to Mrs. McClure's room in time to convince her not to sign out of the hospital because she was in danger of dying from her irregular heartbeat. And then there was the time when my pager pulled me out of lunch to tell me Mr. Rosenthal's blood pressure had dropped to near fatal levels, and I was able to get there in time to help save him.

Indeed, for all her faults, she did have an uncanny sense -- call it woman's intuition -- about what was going on with my patients, and when they needed me. To be honest, I don't know how other doctors, especially those in the olden days of medicine, managed to stay single. Who warned them of danger? Who told them of the emergencies? Yes, my wife certainly had a lot of downsides. But I suppose I could not have made it without her.

When that happened, I realized that there was only one thing to do. Marriage is forever, and if this was going to work, I simply had to come to accept #5708 for who she was and that she'd be with me for the rest of my life.

Today, #5708 and I have come to what I consider somewhat of a truce. Yes, she continues to wake me in the night, usually for no good reason at all. And of course, she still keeps me from doing all the things I'd like. But, I now realize, marriage is a partnership, and can't always just be about what I want. So we still spend our long days and short nights together. Sometimes she gets run down, and sometimes so do I. And when that happens, we just attempt a smile, recharge each other, and steel ourselves for another day.