Sole Survivor interiors 5-5x8-5

CHAPTER 6

The Hospital

Wade and his crew barely had time to call the emergency department to announce what they were hauling in before we arrived at the hospital.

"EC5 en route to your location with a female, age twenty, multiple scalp lacerations, obvious facial trauma, puncture wound to the neck. Victim of sexual assault. Patient is immobilized on a longboard with a C-collar. IV established with normal saline. EKG and blood pressure are normal, pulse rate of 70. ETA less than five minutes."

Just inside the sliding glass doors a doctor and several nurses were waiting for us. The paramedics briefed the staff and then made their way toward a computer station to fill out reports. ER doctors tended to the numerous cuts and gashes in my face and bandaged the puncture wound in my

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neck. My left eye was swollen shut and I had three gaping wounds in my scalp that took sixteen staples to close.

I drifted in and out of consciousness in those early morning hours. One minute I'm in the ambulance joking with Wade about getting fast food, and the next, I'm begging the ER doctor not to shave my head. Then, I'm lying behind a curtain while ER nurses are cutting off my clothes. I remember regretting they had to cut off my brand-new corduroy pants. I loved those pants. But my clothes were no longer my own--they were evidence in a growing police file, along with my Birkenstocks, my favorite shoes.

The nurse examiner explained that she was going to conduct a sexual assault forensic exam, better known as a rape kit. She and the nurse who accompanied her were incredibly sweet. One of them asked for my parents' phone number so they could notify them as quickly as possible.

"Oh, don't bother them, it's so late," I said. "Don't worry about how late it is," the nurse replied. "We need to call them." But I couldn't seem to think of my parents' phone number. I was too groggy and disoriented, and my broken jaw was so skewed that I found it hard to talk. For the next hour, my body was a receptacle of forensic evidence to be scoured and cataloged. The exam was intrusive and uncomfortable and at times it hurt like hell. I gave brief, strained answers to the nurse examiner's questions about my personal background and medical history, as she swabbed for fluids, collected samples, and combed for hairs and other traces of evidence. I shut out the pain and embarrassment by remembering that every ounce of DNA they found would bring us closer to identifying the rapist.

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"Oh, why do I have to do this to her!" said the examiner, as she plucked out a tuft of pubic hair.

I winced and drew in a sharp breath. "Do you want to take emergency contraception?" the other nurse asked. "Yes, please." There was no question. Anything they could do to help me get past this horror, I wanted them to do it.

???

Not long after I arrived at the emergency room, two plainclothes detectives from the Lexington Police Department stopped by to introduce themselves.

One of them walked up next to my bed and said, "Hello, Holly. I'm Detective Craig Sorrell. I'll be handling your case."

I turned to look at Detective Sorrell, noting his brown hair and kind face, and then in the same instant, I threw up all over him. Projectile vomit. I had no idea that was about to happen, and I certainly wouldn't have done so if I could help it. (I threw up repeatedly for at least an entire day--from the shock, from the pain pills, from who knows what.) Detective Sorrell was incredibly understanding. I like to think it broke the ice.

When the call came in around three a.m., Detective Sorrell had been home in bed after an evening out with the homicide department to celebrate their sergeant's retirement. Sorrell's evening had paralleled mine, swinging from a party to a crime scene and ending in the ER. He and his colleague, Detective James Curless, kept our initial

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interview short and to the point. I was exhausted and in incredible pain--and obviously quite sick to my stomach--but I managed to tell them the basic details of what had happened, along with a general description of the perpetrator. An officer from forensics snapped photographs of my head and face, and we wrapped up the initial meeting.

"We'll let you rest now," said Detective Sorrell. "We'll be back later today to collect the rape kit and set up a longer interview. That okay?"

I nodded, then asked, "Can you make sure someone calls my dad?"

Somehow one of the nurses obtained my dad's number and called to tell him what happened. It was a call no parent should ever have to receive.

While my parents were en route from Evansville, my best friend Annie arrived at the ER. When she came around the curtain and saw my condition, she couldn't hide the astonishment on her face.

"Holly, how are you feeling?" Her voice was soft and tentative.

I felt bad that she had to see me so battered. I wanted to diffuse the tension and defend against the heavy emotions flitting just below the surface.

I screamed out, "I feel like shit!" She laughed with relief, and I smiled back as best I could with a jaw that jutted sideways. Annie came over and wrapped her arms around me. "The whole thing just feels like a bad dream," I said. Annie told me how someone woke her up in her room at the Kappa house and said the police were downstairs asking about me. Two uniformed officers questioned her

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aggressively, because no one knew at that point who might have had a reason to hurt either Chris or me. In the end, they offered her a ride to the hospital in the back of their cruiser. Annie sat with me all day, watching over me while I slept and nurturing me by tickling and scratching my back.

Mom and Dad were by my side within a couple of hours of getting the call. My father is an accomplished private pilot with his own twin-engine plane, so rather than the typical three hours it takes to drive from Evansville to Lexington, my parents were able to get there in a quarter of the time. When they walked into the emergency room, Detective Sorrell greeted them and briefed them on what he knew of the attack so far.

"I have to warn you," Detective Sorrell said, "she looks pretty bruised up, but she's going to be okay."

My parents came up to me in a curtained cubicle where I'd been waiting since the ER staff took me for an MRI. Dad would later say that I looked like a mass of blood lying on a gurney, and he wouldn't have recognized me had he not known already who I was.

I felt a wave of relief to see them. My dad rarely shows his emotions but I could tell he was broken up seeing me like this. In my typical fashion, I wanted to break the tension.

"Dad, this really sucks." Through my one open eye, I could see him trying his best to smile. As I drifted in and out, my parents met with the doctor who told them the results of the MRI--my left eye socket was fractured and my jaw was broken, but overall I'd be okay.

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