Stop for a minute & think: If some stranger walked into a 13-year-old girl’s bedroom & proceeded to put their hands up her shirt, wouldn’t that be a crime?
Why was it lawful for a complete stranger to do that to me in a hospital in 1997 just because I had cancer?
The horrible feelings I suffered through –
- HUGELY violated,
- Humiliated &
- Lower than dirt,
caused me to write this therapeutic poem. The person didn’t even bother saying anything to me, not 1 single little word to introduce herself or tell me what she was doing, before taking the liberty to lift up my shirt & help herself right up my red tee-shirt.
The scarring memories are forever seared into my brain. This brings me not only frustration, but deep sadness when I think about all the horrific things like this I’ve been put through. I wrote the words of this poem on October 14, 2007, 10 years after this incident occurred, because it still to this day weighs heavily on my brain when I think about it. To both the left & right of the date I drew sad frowning faces.
“Warning: Broviac Violation”
Thinking back to ’97, which is quite far,
It’s the time that left me with a permanent scar.
To explain my current measure of modesty best,
Begins when a central line, a Broviac, was put into my chest.
Not even knowing the people who caused me this great hurt,
Each one on their shift helped themselves up my shirt.
It all began right after Broviac surgery, when I didn’t yet have on a bra to wear,
Jennelle, whose name is spelled wrong here, put her hands up my shirt without a care.
Get a clue – I was a 13-year-old girl and starting to fight cancer was rough,
Especially being treated as disrespectful stuff.
I’ll never forget the feeling in my head,
When she looked up my shirt as I lay in my hospital bed.
The nurses failed to consider my age & me as a person,
And my level of extreme anxiety at the time they caused to worsen.