It must be okay, he’s a doctor
Boys will be boys. I’d already had a broken elbow when I was in kindergarten. Being a father myself, I know that accidents happen and they usually result in the inevitable trip to the emergency room.
But this time, it was really serious. I was carrying empty bottles to the place where they got recycled. I’m sure I was not paying attention when I tripped on the curb and fell to the pavement, my right wrist slamming into the broken bottle that had fallen from my hand.
I was bleeding quite seriously. I ran into the closest store where the owner wrapped up my wrist in a towel and we waited for the ambulance. The next half-hour or so was a blur; I lost a lot of blood but I was conscious and remember the ambulance ride to the hospital.
I was eight.
I laid in the emergency room, with one of those curtain things drawn around my bed. Somewhere in the distance I could hear my mother crying. Then I was left alone for a while, until a man appeared and walked over to the left side of my bed, closing the curtain behind him. He had a long white coat on, and a stethoscope around his neck, just like a doctor on TV. He asked me a question in a thick accent and I had no idea what he was saying, so I just shrugged.
He undid my pants and started fondling me. I remember telling him I cut my wrist, as if to point him in the right direction. He said something back to me but again I didn’t understand. I figured, well he’s a doctor, he must know what he’s doing.
I don’t remember how long this went on. I do know that his hand was warm and he was touching me all over down there. Mostly I could see his dark face standing over me, that was the image burned into my mind.
I had surgery later that day that saved my hand, thanks to the skill of a kind woman doctor who talked to me and my parents and put us at ease. I stayed in the hospital for three days.
The “other” doctor came back to my room, once again I saw that face standing over me, but this time my memory didn’t register what happened. I also remember my family coming to see me, aunts and uncles too. I didn’t tell anyone what happened with the doctor, though by this time I pretty much realized he was doing something he shouldn’t have been.
I’d love to tell you that that was the end of it, that my life went on normally, happily ever after, yadda yadda. My nightmare is not knowing how many other kids he did this too, and the guilt of not having said something to someone, anyone, about what he was doing. As an adult I became promiscuous with both sexes, ruined two marriages and many relationships. I’m now getting the help I need for sexual addiction.
Say something. Please.
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