I was six years old.
I was in a hospital room in the children’s ward of Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx, in a bed, after a surgery.
I was the only patient in the room at the time.
My dad was on his way in to see me, but had not yet arrived.
The nurse entered on the right.
She checked my temperature.
She left.
A man entered.
He wore a white coat like a doctor. He moved quickly and quietly to the left side of my bed. To this day, if I had to, I could pick him out in a line up. I will never forget his face: wire framed glasses, beard, moustache, small round face, slight build, thin, five and a half feet tall, eyes darting left and right before they settled on me.
“I need to check,” he whispered.
He lifted the bed sheets, and put his left hand under my robes and began to fondle my penis and testicles.
His own right hand was in what appeared to be his pocket.
Then he groaned.
I was in a hospital room in the children’s ward of Montefiore Hospital in the Bronx, in a bed, after a surgery.
I was the only patient in the room at the time.
My dad was on his way in to see me, but had not yet arrived.
The nurse entered on the right.
She checked my temperature.
She left.
A man entered.
He wore a white coat like a doctor. He moved quickly and quietly to the left side of my bed. To this day, if I had to, I could pick him out in a line up. I will never forget his face: wire framed glasses, beard, moustache, small round face, slight build, thin, five and a half feet tall, eyes darting left and right before they settled on me.
“I need to check,” he whispered.
He lifted the bed sheets, and put his left hand under my robes and began to fondle my penis and testicles.
His own right hand was in what appeared to be his pocket.
Then he groaned.







