The Assault
It all changed on October 20, 2024, just past 0400.
I had just finished drawing routine labs from a patient without issue. As I prepared to scan their wristband, they looked at me and said, “Thank you,” while beginning to shift in bed. They removed their oxygen and announced that they wanted to go to the room next door.
Calmly, I explained that it was nighttime and that another patient was already in that room. Still, they insisted and began scooting down the bed. I pressed the staff assist button, and within moments, two nurses arrived to help. Together, we tried to reorient the patient as best we could. They had managed to sit upright on the edge of the bed, and I noticed their oxygen saturation starting to drop.
“I need to put your oxygen back on to help with your breathing,” I told them gently, turning to reposition the high-flow tubing on their nose. I had fixed the cannula in this patient’s face already tonight without any issues.
Then, before I had the chance to place the oxygen back on their face, it happened.
A sudden, violent blow slammed into the back left side of my head.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
I was struck four times in total. The force of the hits knocked my glasses off, sending them flying across the room. My head twisted violently to the right. My vision blurred.
Disoriented, I didn’t even realize I was being physically and verbally assaulted. The patient shifted their blows to my left arm as both nurses fought to restrain them and stop the attack.
The patient shouted profanities while continuing to hit me and shove the other two nurses, who were struggling to control them. The patient was much larger and stronger than any of us. In the chaos, I activated the Medical Response Team (MRT) and called for security.
A wave of disorientation washed over me. My head pounded. Time and space began to blur. When the MRT arrived and asked who the primary nurse was, I looked around the room, confused, momentarily forgetting it was me.
When someone asked if I had messaged the doctor, I froze.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, struggling to open the hospital’s messaging system.
The MRT nurse must have recognized my distress. She stepped in, contacted the physician, and obtained orders on my behalf.
“I… the patient hit me in the head,” I managed to say.
That was the moment it became clear to everyone: this was not a behavioral outburst.
This was an assault.
The two other nurses confirmed what had happened.
The nursing supervisor entered and began standard orientation questions: name, date of birth, and current location. The patient answered each one correctly. Despite this, they continued to scream, lash out at staff, and demand to leave AMA, against medical advice.
Security stood in the doorway as we tried to get the patient safely back into bed.
It took more than four nurses to restrain the patient.
The Moment Everything Stopped
As I answered the MRT nurse’s follow-up questions, I realized I was struggling to make sense of anything. I couldn’t tell what the patient was angrily yelling or what the medical team was saying.
For a moment, I saw mouths moving, but the words were meaningless.
My ear rang.
The world steadied again, and then I heard it.
One word. One last hateful slur hurled in my direction:
“Cunt.”
I will never forget the MRT nurse’s eyes as she locked them with mine, steady, unwavering, and fierce.
“You need to press charges,” she said.
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