Survivor Stories (pt. 14)
CW: Sexual violence
Every survivor has their own story, yet not every survivor feels heard. For a multitude of reasons, survivors fear speaking out. And even if they do speak out, that doesn’t mean someone will listen… or believe them.
From the start of my work with PAVE, I emphasized my desire to highlight survivor stories. I desired to create a space for survivors to share their voices, one that perseveres even after my time at PAVE.
The pieces below were submitted by survivors, some requesting to remain anonymous. Thank you to these survivors for your strength and vulnerability. We hear you. We believe you. We support you.
Compiled by Jessica Katz
Care During Crisis: My R*pe Kit Experience by Brooke Gallagher
It was summer of 2021, the summer before my senior year of college, and I was living in a new city with my best friend for the first time. I felt unstoppable; I had just broken up with a high school boyfriend and was enjoying the freedom that came with it, I had an amazing manager at a great internship program with a company I wanted to work for postgrad, and I was having my first months of relative normalcy after turning 21 during the height of quarantine. I was grateful every day and was excited to finish out the summer before starting my senior year of college.
Then, in July, I was sexually assaulted while drunk, and I was thrust into a world I wasn’t prepared for. While the assault was deeply traumatic, I was also forced to navigate accessing health care while in crisis.
By the time I finally got him out of the AirBnB I was staying in for the summer, I was in complete shock. I paced around the apartment for a bit, cleaning up the kitchen, the bathroom, before I finally decided I needed help.
I had heard of a popular hotline for sexual violence victims, and I mustered up the courage to call. A robotic voice said something to me that I couldn’t understand, and when I finally connected through to a person and I told them what city I was in, they said they couldn’t help me. I had been connected to a crisis center in my hometown because of my area code. I had muttered the words “I think I was r*ped” for the first time, and for nothing.
I guess it was this that motivated me to reach out to my friends and loved ones. The desperation at this point outweighed the (admittedly unreasonable) fear of burdening them. It was late at night, so the first few slept through my messages, but eventually one of my best friends living out of state was able to call me. She was kind and amazing and loving and gentle, and told me to find a hospital, and then managed to get ahold of our mutual best friend who had moved to the city with me.
There were three search results for “hospitals near me,” so I called the closest one, and once again had to mutter the same horrific phrase. I said that I wanted a test and an exam, and she said they could do that. I asked if they would call the cops, and she said that it would be up to me.
So I got off the phone, and my best friend and I ordered an Uber to the hospital.
But when we arrived, and I handed over my ID and insurance to the front desk, a nurse said that they had to call the police, that it was protocol, that I could refuse to make a report if I wanted but the cops had to come.
They had my ID and insurance information already, and I was too tired to fight, so I gave in, begrudgingly, not knowing that I was fully within my right to refuse.
They moved me through check in then instructed that my friend had to stay in the waiting room because of COVID protocols. I once again reluctantly accepted this, given the at-the-time ongoing restrictions from the pandemic.
I was led back into a room between the waiting room and emergency ward. I asked to use the bathroom and they led me back, not warning me that it could impact the evidence collection. When I returned to the front room, the door to the ER hallway remained open the entire time they conducted a routine intake exam, like checking blood pressure and temperature. Then I was left alone in the room, with the door still open, and the weight of the ordeal hit me again. I began crying again, loudly and breathlessly, and despite the fact that people passed and looked in, no one moved to close the door for privacy.
Eventually, after what seemed like forever but was probably no longer than 15 minutes, an older ER doctor entered the room, gave me tissues, and placed his hand on my shoulder. He apologized; he said it would be okay. I felt less alone again.
He led me back to a room at the other end of the hall; it was small and private, but definitely not an exam room. It had two chairs, a sink, and a TV hanging from the ceiling, just out of reach.
On the TV was an episode of Law & Order: SVU. But before I had a moment to process that, the doctor informed me that the police officer taking my report was on his way. After that, he said, I would have to take an Uber to another hospital; they didn’t do rape kits in the one I choose.
He left the room, without turning off the TV, and I was left with Mariska Hargitay’s voice filling the silence. I was in disbelief. It was almost funny; there I was, maybe only an hour after my assault, stuck in a hospital watching a show about sex crimes waiting on a cop I didn’t want to see. Then, I would have to pay for another Uber to a different hospital for the actual exam.
I don’t know how long I waited, but eventually a detective showed up; he was from the Special Victims Unit for the city I was in, and he turned off the TV as soon as he walked in, which was kind.
I don’t remember much of the conversation; I was reluctant to give details as I was not prepared to talk to the police about the experience. I’m not sure exactly what was said, but he spoke to me softly and ultimately informed me that he couldn’t press charges if I didn't want to pursue anything. I don’t remember what I told him, and when he called me the next day to follow up and had several defining details wrong, like how I met the man who assaulted me. Maybe I had (still drunkenly) misinformed him, but it was a surprising and upsetting call regardless.
But overall he was as kind as I could have asked for from a cop I didn’t want to talk to.
When he eventually left, the doctor escorted me back through the waiting room and to the front door I had walked in through, instructing me to order an Uber to the hospital that was second on my initial list of hospital search results.
My friend saw this and followed me out, waiting with me in the front as I struggled to find an Uber so late at night with such bad reception. Eventually, we found a driver and ended up at the next hospital around 2 in the morning.
Upon check-in, I was once again informed that my friend would not be allowed to accompany me back. She waited in the waiting room once again as they took me back to another room.
This was another intake room, but it was nicer and more private–a luxury that the better funded hospital could afford. There was a comfortable reclining chair, and there was no SVU playing.
The nurse who led me back informed me that I would be meeting with a Victim’s Advocate before my exam, who would ask me how much I wanted to have done and could answer any questions I might have. She might have taken my vitals as well, but then I was once again left to wait for the next person to try to help me.
Texts from friends whom I had panic-messaged started flowing in during the night, and this helped occupy me for the wait. I couldn’t even estimate how long I waited, but eventually the advocate showed up and it was on to the next thing.
The advocate, Julia, explained her role to me, that she could help me access some sort of funds and could accompany me to appointments, that she would help me communicate with the nurse who conducted my exam, that it was something the city was supporting. She asked me what happened, asked for a sort of checklist of sex acts conducted during the assault, asked what I had to drink or if I had used drugs. She asked if I wanted photos for evidence, what parts I wanted swabbed, if I wanted to submit clothing. Then it was on to the medical stuff: was there birth control, was there concern for STIs, what injuries did I have? It was a dense and overwhelming conversation, and I only remember bits and pieces, but Julia remained calm and compassionate the whole time.
She eventually led me back to the exam room, and offered a blanket when she noticed how tightly I had my arms crossed. I thanked her for the offer and clarified that I wasn’t cold, and I’ll never forget her very gentle, “I know.” She did know; she had seen other people in this position before, lonely and scared and desperate for comfort. I felt understood and less alone, even if it was only for a minute.
When I entered the next exam room, I was shocked. It was small as well, with an almost scrub-room-like section at the front, with its own door. There was the standard exam table and stirrups, with the sterile paper drapes, and a ring light pointed directly between the stirrups.
I don’t remember if the examining nurse was in the room already by the time we entered, but I know the beginning was slow; we didn’t start with the exam, but instead there was another short dialogue about my expectations for the exam (no photos, where to expect evidence collection, what kind of medication I would be taking).
I was given a prophylactic for some STI–I don’t know what specifically–and a Plan B, along with sheets of paper about where to schedule follow up tests and other preventative prescriptions. Right as we were about to move on to the exam, someone came in requesting my keys; they said my friend in the waiting room wanted to leave and asked for them. (I later found out that they had asked her to leave to free up the space in the waiting room, but it would have been nice of them to tell me that rather than thinking she was just leaving me.)
Then came the part I feared most: the pelvic exam. Julia and the nurse left the room to give me the privacy to change into the gown, and when they returned, Julia stood beside my head and the nurse began the tests.
It started slowly and easily, with mouth swabs and hair samples, but I was still incredibly anxious; I was young, and it was my first pelvic exam ever. I was already in pain and vulnerable, and I was terrified.
The nurse was quick, and she only made me expose myself at the very end. It was painful, but she was quick and it was eventually over.
And then I put my clothes back on and took an Uber home as the sun rose, hours after I had been assaulted. I hadn’t slept, showered, brushed my hair or teeth–it was a new day and I was still in the pajamas I threw on once he was gone.
When I returned to my apartment, my friend had stripped the bed for me and remade it with new sheets. She saved the sheets in case I needed them for evidence. She slept on the floor with me and made sure I wasn’t alone. I am so incredibly grateful for her, and for all the other people who supported me through this.
I only survived this experience because of the kindness of my loved ones and the humanity of individuals working hard to fill in the gaps. But the healthcare system failed me.
My story is not unique: I am a white cisgender woman, living in one of the most populous cities in America at the time of my assault. I had three hospitals within 15 minutes from my apartment, and it still took at least 6 hours for me to obtain care. I can’t begin to imagine the struggle less privileged survivors face attempting to access care.
I’m not sure what the answer is; although there are resources in place to help survivors navigate accessing care, the solution is imperfect, especially since many are still in a deep state of shock when they’re seeking care. But with an already overworked medical system, educating all hospital staff how to respond to calls from sexual violence survivors seems too good to be true.
What I do know is that I wish it was okay to talk about r*pe kits. I wish someone would have warned me there might be a ring light in the exam room. I wish someone told me I was fully within my rights to not speak to the police. I wish it didn’t happen, but more than that I wish that it never happens to anyone again.
And the other thing I know is that I am so grateful for the humanity, kindness, and empathy I was shown through a seemingly unsurvivable night. I know that there was a glimmer of hope despite the pain.
And I hope that if I share my story, it might help future survivors access medical care with less pain than I did.
