Raped by a nurse!
Cheryl in happier days
Wednesday 4th June 2008
Settling on the hospital bed, I looked around the airy, pastel-coloured room.
'It's nice, isn't it?' my husband, Kim, 46, said.
'Sure,' I replied.
But I could think of places I'd rather be. Out to dinner with Kim, shopping with our daughters, even at work in the off-licence…
Not that I'd been able to do any of those things lately, what with the crippling stomach pains and nausea I'd been suffering.That's why now, in April 2003, my GP had sent me to Ashtead Hospital, near my home in Surrey, for tests.
'You'll be yourself again before you know it,' Kim said, getting ready to leave. Suddenly, I felt sad. I didn't know when I'd see Kim again. Although the hospital was only a short drive from our home, it wouldn't be easy for Kim to visit.
As well as looking after our daughters, Laura, 12, and Jane, 10, and working for BAE Systems, he'd another obstacle to overcome. He was in a wheelchair. Just before we'd married 16 years earlier, in June 1987, Kim had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) and since 1998, he'd been using a wheelchair full-time.
I had no idea how long I'd be there, or even what was wrong. I'd started getting terrible stomach cramps three months earlier, in January 2003. If I wasn't hunched over the loo, vomiting, I was doubled over in pain.
'I don't know what's causing it,' my GP had admitted, so she'd referred me to Ashtead, and now, I was in for as long as it took.
It was a private hospital, but we were covered for health insurance by Kim's job, so it hadn't cost us a penny. After Kim had left, I was given blood tests and, in between, I killed time watching telly or reading magazines. But that night, I couldn't sleep, so a nurse gave me a standard 10mg dose of Temazepam — a strong sleeping pill and muscle relaxant — to help me drop off.
When I woke up the next day, I felt a bit dozy and weak, just like the doctors had warned I would. I watched telly and read, only occasionally disturbed by nurses coming to check on me.You never seem to see the same one twice, I thought. Sure enough, at 10pm on 4 March 2003, my third night in the hospital, yet another new face came in to give me my Temazepam. He was a male nurse, about my age.
'How are you feeling?' he smiled.
'Tired,' I replied.
Once I'd swallowed the tablet, he left, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke up, it was pitch black. My limbs felt like lead and I couldn't open my eyes, but I could feel my bed sheet moving above me. I was awake, but I couldn't move. Then suddenly, I felt a weight on top of me, someone's skin pressing against my stomach, then lower down. My heart banged with terror....
But when I tried to scream, I was too knocked out from the sleeping tablet to even open
my mouth. Panic coursed through me. Wake up, Cheryl! You need to wake up! But the drugs were too strong. All I could do was lie in helpless silence, until I somehow managed to open one heavy eye.
There, at the foot of the bed, was a tall, broad silhouette. It was too dark to see who it was, but I could tell it was a man. Seconds later, he was gone, and I heard the door click shut.
Although I was groggy, I knew I'd been sexually assaulted. I have to get help, I thought, desperately trying to move. But it was another 30 minutes before I was strong enough to reach over and press the button to call a nurse.
One came in quickly, a female nurse, followed by the man who'd given me my medication earlier.
'What's the problem?' she asked.
I paused. I couldn't tell her with a man in the room.
Suddenly, I noticed my blue pyjama bottoms had been pulled off, and were scrunched up at the foot of the bed. Oh God…
Just then, I realised the male nurse had disappeared.
'I think I've been sexually assaulted,' I croaked.
Saying it aloud released a rush of emotion, and I burst into tears.
'You've had a bad dream,' the nurse smiled. 'Go back to sleep.'
'No!' I protested. 'I've been attacked.'
She called the night duty doctor.
After asking me some questions, he patted my hand.
'It's probably the sleeping pills,' he said gently. 'They're very strong.'
Hot, angry tears streamed down my face. It was 2.30am — an hour-and-a-half since the nurse had first come in.
'I'm telling you,' I fumed. 'Somebody attacked me.'
The questioning went on and on — different doctors asking me if I was sure, telling me to
go back to sleep. Why wouldn't they just call the police?
Finally, at 4.30am, I lost it.
'Look,' I said. 'If you don't call the police now, I will.'
Thankfully, the ward sister called them, and within an hour, two male officers arrived.
As soon as I saw them, I crumpled into tears.
'It wasn't a dream,' I said between sobs. 'I was assaulted.'
'It's OK,' one of the officers said softly.
I was given a dressing gown and taken to another room. There, I went over everything again, desperately trying to piece together the hazy events. In yet another hospital room, I winced as a police doctor took swabs to gather my attacker's DNA.
'Was I raped?' I asked, hesitantly.
The look on his face said it all. When he said I'd need pregnancy and HIV tests, I broke down.
'I want to see my husband,' I sobbed.
Finally, at 10am, nine long hours after I'd been raped, I was taken to see Kim, who'd been
at the hospital since 5am.
'What happened?' he asked, as I fell into his arms.
I repeated it all again.
'The hospital staff think I was dreaming,' I said. 'You believe me, don't you?'
There was a pause.
'Y-yes, of course I do,' he stammered.
But there was doubt in his eyes. He must have been talking to the doctors, I thought bitterly.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, as the police took DNA from all the male staff and patients who'd been in the hospital the night before. I was just desperate to go home.
'We need to keep you in for one more night,' doctors said.
'I don't want to stay!' I shrieked.
I'd been raped here, for God's sake.
But they insisted. So while Kim went home to look after the girls, a friend stayed the night with me.
Even so, I didn't sleep a wink. The next day, I was discharged.
'I don't want the girls to know,' I told Kim.
Keeping it together for them was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Kim tried to comfort me, but deep down, I was furious at him for believing the doctors over me.Terrified of strangers, I quit my job and spent my days hiding away. I wouldn't answer the door or even pick up the phone. Why? Because he was still out there. And I didn't even know who he was.
My mind was a jumble of faces I'd met during my brief stay. Was he a patient? An intruder?
In the meantime, the police were wading through the DNA samples. And finally, three weeks after the attack, my liaison officer had news.
'We have a match,' he said. 'His name is Zamokwakhe Jali.'
I looked at him blankly.
'He's a nurse.'
The faces of all the male nurses who'd treated me swam through my mind.
Which one was it?
'Jali is on holiday in his native South Africa,' the officer said. 'He'll be arrested as soon as he gets back.'
Sure enough, on 18 May 2003, Jali was arrested at Heathrow Airport. He was charged with rape and remanded in custody. But even that didn't steady my nerves. I felt like I couldn't trust anyone.
'Shall we talk about what happened?' Kim asked in bed one night. 'Maybe it will help.'
I shook my head. I knew he believed me now, but I was still scared to open up. I'd let myself be vulnerable before, and look what had happened. And, if I'm honest, I still hadn't forgiven Kim for doubting me.
Things got worse a few days later, when police revealed Jali was the nurse who'd given me the Temazepam the night of the attack. Had he planned it as he watched me swallow the pill? My head was all over the place.
'Are you OK, Mum?' Laura and Jane asked that night.
I realised I had to tell them. As I blurted the words out, I could see the horror in their eyes.
'Oh Mum,' they cried, distraught.
Jali hadn't just wrecked my life, he'd hurt my kids, too.
I needed justice, but the run-up to the trial on 10 November 2003, was still terrifying. I didn't even know what Jali's plea would be until I arrived at Kingston-upon-Thames Crown Court, Greater London.
He can't deny it, I told myself. They have the DNA evidence.
But my nightmare came true, as I arrived at court with Kim, and my parents, Ted, 60, and Ruth, 58.
'Jali's claiming you begged him for sex because Kim has MS,' my solicitor told me.
Outrageous! I waited anxiously for half-an-hour, before being called into the courtroom to give evidence.
I sat behind a screen, so I didn't have to look at Jali, and for three-and-a-half hours, I recounted that horrific night. Worse still were the questions of the defence solicitor.
'Would you say you're satisfied with your sex life?' she said.
What business is it of yours? I wanted to scream.
The questions got more personal, more embarrassing.
'Tell me,' the barrister asked. 'Do you masturbate?'
My cheeks burned. My parents were having to listen to this… Jali had taken so much from me already. Now his barrister was trying to rob me of my dignity, too. I was furious but, determined to have justice, I answered calmly. Back home, though, I crumbled. Alone in the living room, I poured 30 painkillers into my hand.
I want to die.
'Oh Cheryl!' Kim gasped, when I confessed what I was thinking. 'What's that monster done to you?'
We spent that night talking. And this time, I didn't hold back. I told Kim how angry I'd felt in court, how hurt I'd been that he hadn't believed me…
'I just listened to what the doctors said,' he told me. 'As soon as I saw the state you were in,
I knew you were telling the truth.'
I had to forgive him.
'We'll get through this together,' he promised.
Finally, five days later, a police officer called. Jali had been found guilty and sentenced to seven years.
I collapsed on the settee. The jury hadn't believed his wicked lies.
That was four-and-a-half years ago, and I've battled hard to get my life back ever since. It's not easy, especially knowing Jali has since been released. In March, he was deported back to South Africa. I still suffer flashbacks, hate large crowds and I'm terrified of hospitals. I only trust my GP, and with her help, I've finally got to the bottom of what was causing the problem that first landed me in hospital. A simple dairy intolerance. Despite everything, I've got through it with the help of friends, family and, most of all, Kim.
We're about to celebrate our 21st anniversary and are very happy. That's something Jali could never take from me.
A spokesperson from Ashtead Hospital says: 'The hospital staff were appalled by this inexcusable breach of patient trust. We're glad the excellent work of Surrey Police helped bring the culprit to justice. Our thoughts are once again with the victim. We hope she's been able to move on from this terrible incident.'