Walking in my shoes : an exercise in insight and compassion.

Imagine...

You go to your Dr. and are told you have growth that will need surgery. It's benign but it should be removed and studied just to be on the safe side. They refer you to a surgeon, say you'll be in good hands. You meet the surgeon, he seems knowledgable, compassionate. On the day of surgery you sign all the waivers and consents, get changed, are hooked up to the IV with assurances of being well cared for and what to expect when you come to. You may be groggy and confused, but we will be here to help orient you, and in a few hours you'll be sore, but doing much better.

Then, right as you begin to feel the effects of the anesthetic taking over, your surgeon closes the door, leans over and says,

I'm going to fuck you so hard you're not going to know what hit you, and the best part is, you're not going to remember a thing.

The lights flicker, a machine beeps, a nurse laughs... you try to say something, move an arm. nothing. nothing. nothing.

You're dreaming. Someone's dropping boulders on you, but just as you begin to feel their true weight they burst into cloth water balloons leaking warm water all over your abdomen, sex and legs. You're at a park... at night for some reason. Or is it day but dark out? A truck rumbles past. Now you're on the truck laying in the back of it swaying with it's motion. It's definitely night and the air is cold. You're feet are cold. You hurt everywhere, especially in the stomach and between the thighs. You are in a mostly white room. Someone is talking to you. Patting your shoulder. You are crying. Another voice says, "Here (s)he is."
The surgeon's face appears. His features are calm and at once reassuring and confusing. "Hi there" he says.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
He pat's your shoulder again. "Well, everything went well. I think we got everything cleaned out. The cyst looks benign, but of course we'll send it to the lab, just to be sure and see if we can find a cause. I'll be back in a few hours when you are feeling a bit better, and keep you updated."

He taps the nurse on the arm with a file, presumably yours, "These guys will take good care of you" and walks out.

You can not keep your eyes open. You struggle to, but everything goes black anyway.

The next time you wake it is to the quiet beeping of your monitors, you're partner is quietly reading on their phone next to the hospital bed. You are wearing a differently colored gown. You hurt. Your mouth is dry. You hear the muffled evidence of the nurses going about there work out in the hall, caring for other patients.

What happened?

Indeed.

The proof is in the following hours, days, weeks, months and years. The evidence is within you, if not within your body, within your soul. For you to acknowledge or laugh off as a strong reaction to the anesthetics and narcotics. The truth is in your recovery and what it takes, in what works and doesn't work.

Who would you tell? Who wouldn't you tell? How hard would you insist if you were told over, and over again, that your experience is common and what you say happened is impossible? That there would be evidence, but there isn't. Would you request a rape kit? What if it came back negative? No one's DNA anywhere inside of you? Security camera footage was not on you much of the time, but also show's nothing suspicious. What do you do the next time you go to your Dr.'s? Was he/she in on it? Was it a dream? What do you do the next time you are told you need anesthesia (of any kind)? What do you do with your new obsession with sleeping with everything that walks? Or your total disinterest in your partner?

How do you proceed with living life?