Answering My Own Questions

It Could Have Been Prevented — So Many Times

If the system had treated my injury like an injury instead of an inconvenience.
If someone in that emergency department had paused for just five extra minutes — to honestly assess me, not just with a checklist, but with care.
If trauma-informed care were the norm, not the exception.
If nurses were not expected to be invincible.
If women were not so easily doubted.
If people of color were not assumed to be exaggerating.

If “I was hit in the head multiple times” had been met with action instead of dismissal.

It could have been prevented if hospitals had protected their own staff — if they had treated injuries as the occupational hazards they are, rather than disruptions to the schedule.

If underreporting wasn’t a survival strategy.
If there was real accountability for workplace violence — instead of silence, paperwork, and policy theater.

But I was left to fight for my own care.
I became my own advocate, my own case manager, my own voice.

This never should have been necessary.
This should never have been allowed to happen.

Why It Was Wrong

It was wrong because I was hurt — and treated like a hassle.
Because I said my head hurt, that I had been hit multiple times — and the response was so casual it felt rehearsed.

No scans.
No monitoring.
No real concern.

It was wrong because I was a patient — and a liability risk — in scrubs.
Because I was a woman. A Hispanic. A nurse.
And somehow, all three identities made it easier for me to be ignored.

It was wrong because I knew something was off. I said so. But I was still sent home with an ice pack and a vague note.

It was wrong because the system is built to operate on urgency — but only for certain bodies, certain voices, certain narratives.
Because it chose to protect its protocol over a person.

Because if someone like me — trained in medical care, fluent in medical language, and visibly injured — can be dismissed, what chance does a non-clinical patient have?

It was wrong because I became the evidence of what happens when healthcare stops caring.

How This Was Allowed to Happen

It was allowed to happen because silence is easier than change.
Because I’m a woman.
A person of color.
A healthcare worker.
The very trifecta least likely to be believed when we say, “I’m hurt.”

It was allowed because healthcare workers are trained to endure when they’re injured.
The instinct isn’t to treat them — it’s to tell them to tough it out.

It was allowed because systems often reward speed over precision.
Because asking questions takes longer than handing out an ice pack and a generic discharge note.

It was allowed because workplace violence has been normalized in healthcare — to the point of invisibility.
Because staff injuries are often viewed as staffing problems, not as human beings in crisis.

It was allowed because everyone was too busy, too burned out, or too indifferent to stop and say:

“This should not happen here. Not to her. Not to anyone.”

What Could I Have Done Differently?

It’s a tricky question — and honestly, it’s not entirely fair. But it’s one I’ve asked myself countless times.

Looking back, I know this: I did the best I could with the information, energy, and trust I had at the time.
I reported the incident.
I told the truth.
I sought care.
I followed the system the way I was trained to.

The real problem was never what I did or didn’t do — it was that the system was not built to protect me.

But if I had to answer honestly, knowing everything I know now, here’s what I might have done differently:

Documented everything immediately. Not just the incident report — but photos of my injuries, a detailed journal of symptoms, names, dates, and quotes. Not because I should have had to, but because the burden of proof often falls heaviest on the victim.
Demanded a scan. I would have explicitly asked for a CT or MRI to rule out fractures or bleeds — even if it meant waiting longer or risking awkwardness. I didn’t know then that concussions often go unrecognized unless someone insists.
Asked for an advocate. A representative, an ombudsperson, or even a colleague I trusted — someone who could have helped me navigate the reporting process and reminded me I was not alone.
Followed up sooner — and louder. When I felt dismissed by the ER, management, and HR, I wish I had written letters, filed complaints, and spoken up more forcefully. But when you’re injured and traumatized, “loud” is the last thing you feel.
Given myself more grace. I thought needing rest made me weak. I thought being foggy meant I was broken. I now know that healing is not a sign of weakness. Fighting for your health in a system designed to overlook you is a full-time job — and I did it anyway.

But I always return to this:

The burden to “do something differently” should never fall solely on the person harmed.

Yes, I could have documented more.
Yes, I could have spoken up sooner.
Yes, I could have demanded more.

But maybe — just maybe — the system should have done its job better in the first place.

The Truth We Can’t Ignore

Because if we don’t name these failures, they’ll keep happening.
If we don’t question this broken system, it will keep breaking people.
And if we don’t hold it accountable, more nurses, more healthcare workers, more women, more people of color will be dismissed, ignored, and left to advocate for themselves in moments when they should be cared for.

I survived. But I should not have had to fight this hard just to be seen.
And I will not stop speaking up until no one else has to.