Once on an overnight shift in residency, I walked into a conference room where two of my fellow residents were ironing out the details for a website that would help define the rules of dating.

We use algorithms to make sound medical decisions. If we had algorithms for dating, we could create healthier relationships, Danny had said.

Relationships are all managed online now anyway. You find your person online and then click over to our site to not mess it up, Serj replied.

For example. Danny looked down at his notes. Previous marriage should be date one. Previous engagement should be date three. But snoring?

Date four, Serj replied.

Regular snoring or the noise your airways create? I had asked. Having shared a call room with you, I say that needs to be bumped up.

Damn, Aryana.

They don’t call her the ice queen for nothing. Serj laughed. I let it slide. At least he hadn’t called me hormonal. But a child is date one for sure.

What if you don’t have custody?

First date, I insisted.

The list of disclosures had become long and complicated: a DUI, a history of cheating on an exam, a trust fund, car sickness, a personal history of addiction, undesirable recessive genes, cold sores, and a predilection for porn.

They never talked about at what point a person should reveal a history like mine. They didn’t even get close.

There is never a right moment to bring up a dark past. It will ruin a good night. It will totally destroy a bad night. I was certain that knowing my history would scare Adam away before I could conquer my demons and let myself sink into this relationship with eyes wide open. I needed time.

At first, it was too early to tell him. In a blink, it became too late.

“Let’s get something to eat and you can vent,” Adam suggests. Before heading up to my apartment, we stop by two different shops to get our dinner: custom salads, organic brownies, and a bottle of wine. Adam sets the table, and I get a corkscrew out of a drawer. “So. What did you resect in the OR today?”

Adam gets a kick out of using the jargon. And he knows that my worst days are when something goes wrong. Sometimes, that happens during surgery. Tumors grow a lot of blood vessels. Months of chemo changes how organs function. Cancer cells hide in lymph vessels and nodes, out of sight. And even though the disease isn’t my fault, I feel responsible for even the smallest complication.

“I have this speech therapist with colon cancer. She’s been skipping her chemo because it’s not fully covered by her insurance. Such BS. Now she’s been having headaches on and off. We sent her to the ER for a head scan, and I have a really bad feeling about what we’re going to find.”

“That’s criminal.”