Mugged In Chicago

"I love The Local Tourist and recommend it often!" M. Sullivan, Friends of the Parks, Chicago

Mugged In Chicago
Home Again
Recovery and Thank You's
The Healing Process
Bedside Manner
A Love Letter (of sorts) To The Windy City
Back to Normal...almost

April 18, 2006 - Mugged In Chicago

Well, it happened. I was mugged.

After four and a half years in Chicago, and several late night walks, bus rides, cab rides, I suppose I thought I was immune to the potential dangers of a large city. Plus I have that Pollyanna silver lining "everybody likes me" mentality that refuses to believe that someone would actually, intentionally, hurt me.

Boy, was I wrong.

Last Saturday I went to a friend's birthday party at a bar at Diversey and Ashland. Since many of my friends are in the restaurant industry it didn't start until 11pm and lasted until 2am.

I left shortly after 2am to catch a cab back home. Alone. Yes, I know, that was my first mistake. My second was that I'm impatient. I don't like standing around waiting for a cab. So instead of going back into the bar and calling for one, or waiting in front of the bar, I started walking down Diversey.

Now don't for one second think that I am blaming myself in any way, shape, or form for what happened that evening. The fact that I was a woman walking alone on a Chicago street late at night did not justify the brutality that ensued.

Much of it's a blur. I vaguely remember someone approaching me from behind. I know I was hit and kicked in the face. I scrambled frantically for my belongings; I ran into the street. I screamed "help me, help me" over and over in the rain while cars drove by and I cried and waved my arms and desperately begged for help. Finally, someone stopped and asked me if I wanted to be taken to the hospital. I told him no, the police station. He drove me there. I took a picture of myself in the lobby, but since there was blood running down my face I've been advised not to post it. The police took my statement, swabbed under my fingernails, and called an ambulance.

They took me to Illinois Masonic Hospital, where they cut off my shirt because they couldn't lift it over my head. I stayed in the emergency room for hours while they asked me what happened, performed two cat scans because I couldn't lay still during the first one, kept me isolated in a neck brace and had a detective question me.

Finally I was admitted to a room. I say finally, but anyone who's ever been in an emergency room or even watches E. R. knows that a visit is an exercise in patience. Because I was the victim of a violent crime and had been hit in the head they were extremely cautious. I had a neck brace until about 9 the following night until they could be positive I had no broken bones.

My injuries were concentrated in my face. Concentrated is putting it politely, because the only other injuries I received were a defensive wound on my left arm and a couple of scratches on my hand. But my face - both eyes were swollen, my right jawbone was swollen, my lip was bruised, and there was blood around my nose and ears. My face is unrecognizable.

The next two days I spent in various states of sleep. Friends visited; I annoyed the nurses with my frequent requests for ice bags. For 24 hours I couldn't eat or drink anything, but morphine does an excellent job of dulling the need for nourishment. (I am NOT a fan of morphine. I don't understand how anyone can do that recreationally. It seeps into your bloodstream and immediately sends you to the land of Morpheus - and you want to stay there.)

When I started packing my things up Monday night I noticed that the metal clasp on my purse was broken in half. I said "Yes" because I knew that I had fought my assailant.

That may not have been the smartest thing to do. A friend of mine asked me why in the world I fought back. Initially I joked by saying "I'm Irish, a redhead, and a Taurus." Then I explained that I had seriously thought about my response and my pride in it. I've always wondered how I would react if I were ever attacked. I'm proud that I didn't act the helpless victim. I would rather look at my bruised face in the mirror and know that I stood up for myself than meekly let some stranger abuse me and walk away. When I explained that, he said "I get it."

There's very little chance that my attacker will be caught. I didn't get a good look at him, and like I said, what happened is a blur. I was hit in the head a few times. Incredibly, he missed the digital camera, the MP3 player, and the $20 in cash. Instead he took my cell phone (which was found on the street the next day and returned by a good samaritan), my drivers license and my debit card. The detective implied that it wasn't just a robbery since he didn't take much of value and the damage was only inflicted to my face.

Over the next few days I'll be writing about my recovery and my experiences. I'll have pictures of my face to chronicle the amazing healing process. I'll also be writing about what I've learned about what to do if you're ever robbed. In the meantime, if you have ANY information about what happend around Diversey and Ashland between 2 and 2:30am on April 16, please contact Detective Ekerman at (312)744-8263.

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April 19, 2006 - Home Again

After two days in the hospital and two days at my parents' house in Lisle, I am now home. I wasn't sure how I'd feel before I walked in the door. I'm an extremely independent person and crave alone time like some women crave shoes, but I still wasn't sure if I was ready. I'd just had the most violent experience of my life, and it happened when I was alone doing one of those things independent women do (namely, looking for a cab alone after a party).

I especially was unsure because right before my dad and I left the suburbs I, for the first time, looked at the bra I'd been wearing on "The Night". It was torn down the middle. Not cut by the hospital, like I assumed my shirt had been. Torn. For the first time I acknowledged that my attack might have been an attempted rape, and I was shaken to the core. I almost changed my mind about going home, but I was NOT going to let something that might have happened deter me from asserting my strength and independence.

I did, however, change my mind about something else. As soon as I was cognizant after the attack I knew I wanted to be hypnotized. My good friend, Teresa Hill, is a certified hypnotherapist. Even though my memories are a blur, there are impressions and I know more details are floating around in my mind (like what the Hell this *&^hole looks like). I was ready to access those memories as soon as possible, and we'd planned on doing it tonight. Until I saw my bra and what it implied. For that, I know I'm not ready.

The mind is an absolutely incredible instrument. My memories, my impressions from that night are of a fairly slight man filled with anger, and of my own rage at being attacked, and of my subsequent frustration and disbelief when cars passed me by as I screamed for help, and of my gratitude to the young man who DID stop, and to my relief when I was in the safe environment of the hospital. Each impression is a fuzzily-expressed emotion and not a specific occurrence. It's like my mind is allowing my body to focus on healing. Once the external is fixed, then I can work on the internal. And I am going to listen to its wisdom.

Writing about my experience is, admittedly, an exercise for the internal. It may not be bringing those memories to the surface, but it is providing an outlet for my frustration, fear, anger, hope, and thankfulness. I'm fortunate that I have this venue, but with places like MySpace and TLT's forum and countless other spots, anyone can reach out after being victimized and speak to the world. I hope people do. This afternoon a friend of mine told me he'd called his 24-year-old sister in Princeton, NJ. He told her to read my blog. She called him back and said she would never, ever leave a bar alone again. I don't mean to sound like a cliche, but if that one young woman avoids what I experienced because I told my story, then it's worth it.

Each day now I watch in awe as my body heals. My eyes open a little wider, the swelling goes down a little more, and more areas of my face turn red, purple, yellow, and other similarly unnatural colors as the deep bruising comes to the surface to be whisked away by time. I wish I could do the genie-head-bob and fast forward to tomorrow to see how different it will look then. (Yes, many people think there's something wrong with me.)

The most frustrating injury is the one to my left eye. The cornea is scratched, deeply enough that my eye is filled with blood and I have to keep it out of the sun. So, today I bought an eyepatch. It's black (of course) and looks like a cone-shaped Madonna bra. Dad suggested I put a tassel on the end, and I just happen to have a pair of earrings from the 80s that will do just the trick. I also have a pair of Jackie-O sunglasses picked out by the good friend who drove me all the way from the hospital to my parents' home in Lisle. But that story's best left for tomorrow...

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April 20, 2006 - Recovery and Thank You's

I decided that today's post needed to be a little more uplifting. So I'll start off with Day 5's picture. Now granted, I still don't look pretty and the only reason someone would buy me a drink would be out of pity, but the improvement is amazing! The swelling is going down, and more of my natural skin tone is coming through the reds and purples. Tomorrow I'll show the progression from day 1.

In the meantime, I have several "Thank You's" I need to offer:

Thank you to Michael Guzman (whoever and wherever you are), who stopped to take this panicked, bleeding woman in the rain to the police station.

Thank you to the nurses and doctors at Illinois Masonic, who were kind, patient, and gentle and brought me enough ice packs to build my own igloo.

Thank you to the lady in the hospital room with me, who had already been there 9 days and didn't complain once about the many visitors and frequent phone calls (with my oh-so-peppy "If I were a rich girl" ring tone).

Thank you to my brother, Adam Carter, who was in Indianapolis, and was in his car and on his way to the hospital within 10 minutes of my mother's panicked phone call.

Thank you to Lorne Richman and Joanna Jackson, my managers at Sullivan's Steakhouse, who both called me personally to tell me to take as much time as I needed, and to let them know if I need anything at all.

Thank you to Elizabeth at Sullivan's for getting the word out because that was one of the only numbers I had memorized.

Thank you to Jamie for racing to the hospital as soon as Elizabeth called her and for bringing me soup because I couldn't eat anything else (picture someone who's just had botox trying to hold onto solid food) and a hair piece so I could pull the mangy nest out of my face.

Thank you to the friends who have contacted friends who have contacted friends, until I've heard from people reaching from Norway to Hawaii.

Thank you to Jamie, Abby, David, Karl, Jennifer, Sarah, Chris, Brady, Jillian, Jessica, Rachel, Stef, Mike, Jenn, Robyn, Teresa, Janet, Christi, Kristen, Breena, Kelly, Keith, Niki, Nichole, Katie, Miltie, Kristine, Anita, Lisa, Melissa, Phil, Becky, Luca, Leyla, Kelly D, William & Juzt Nutz, Justine, Jim, Gayle, Heidi, Malcolm, Kelly M, Jill, Shane, Deena, Will, Tim, Tony, and if I forgot anyone I'm so sorry!, for your offers of love, friendship and support. I truly am a LUCKY woman!

Thank you to Karl and Jennifer for picking up my phone from the man at Shell Gas Station, and to Karl for giving him $20 (I owe you a couple drinks).

Thank you to the man who worked at the Shell at Diversey and Damen for picking up my phone, going through my phone book and calling "Home" "Sullivan's" and the last person I'd called in an effort to find me, and who (according to Karl and Jennifer) was genuinely surprised to be given $20.

Thank you to Miltie for picking me up at the hospital and taking me to Walgreen's to get my prescription filled, and dealing with the scornful looks as people assumed HE was the reason I looked so bad (including the pharmacist, who asked me in shock if I was OK while glaring at him), and for picking out my Jackie O sunglasses to cover my eyes, and for driving me all the way out to my parents' house in Lisle, then turning around and driving all the way back to the city.

Thank you to the pharmacist at Walgreen's who gave me six, count 'em, six ice packs for my bruises when she packed up my Darvocet.

Thank you to Teresa for staying with me my first night back home, sharing Japanese food, wine (who needs Darvocet?), home-made brownies, and conversation until 2 in the morning, and then walking along the lakefront this morning and taking me to Trader Joe's for cheap cheese and (more) wine.

Thank you to Nathan at Trader Joe's, 3745 N Lincoln, who gave me a dozen red tulips.

Thank you to my dad for taking me to the store to pick out an eye patch and make-up to cover the bruises and driving me back into the city when I wanted to go.

Thank you to my mom for working from home on Tuesday, knowing inherently that I wanted my mommy.

Thank you to my parents in general, for offering me shelter, safety, and boundless love. Thank you also for resisting your protective instinct and understanding that I am now ready to be in my own home as I recover and begin to face the demons.

And finally, thank you for reading this series of postings and forwarding them to anyone and everyone you know. I offer my experience as a cautionary tale, and I sincerely hope it will help others avoid this kind of situation.

Tomorrow, in addition to showing the series of photos documenting the healing process, I will be posting information I've learned in case you are a victim of a crime. In the meantime, be nice to each other. Ya just never know...

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April 21, 2006 - The Healing Process

One of the good things about being a woman is makeup. Normally it could be considered an inconvenience. It seems like it would be much easier to just head out the door without worrying about foundation, blush, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, etc. This week, however, I am darn thankful for those various liquids and powders. Without them I wouldn't want to leave the house. With them I can venture out into the world and look somewhat normal, unless you peek a little too closely. Then I look like a Tammy Faye protege.

As you can see from the pictures below, each day there's been steady improvement. I still look like a racoon, and a friend kept calling me "Demon Eye" last night, but my face is slowly returning to normal.

It's difficult to tell in the pictures, but besides the obvious discoloration my entire face is basically yellow except for my forehead. I also have bruising on my neck, like I was punched there also.

Physically I've been amazed at how little pain I've experienced. Right now I have a slight ache, and my balance is a little off, but other than that I feel pretty normal. I haven't taken a Darvocet since Tuesday (so yes I have a stockpile and no I won't share!) and haven't needed so much as a Tylenol.

Emotionally I'm still numb. As I mentioned a couple of days ago, I'm avoiding dealing with the mental aspect until I'm physically healed. Last night I met a large group of my friends out. One, I didn't want to be alone yet, and two, I wanted to show my face and let them know I'm OK. However, there were times when I would have to walk away and just stare out the window. Today's my dad's birthday and we're going to dinner, so once again I'm gussied up and coated with makeup and shaky as Hell. But I'm going, putting on a brave face and toting a bag filled with supplies to keep the bruises covered throughout the evening.

I mentioned yesterday that I would include some information I've learned in case you're a victim. Everyone knows to call 911, but listed below are some other numbers to be aware of and actions to take:

Illinois has a Crime Victims Assistance program (800-228-3368) for victims of violent crime. This offers compensation for medical bills, counseling expenses (which I have a feeling I'll need since I keep avoiding the emotional part of this experience), loss of earnings, replacement costs for clothing used as evidence, and several other expenses incurred due to the crime. To be eligible you have to report the crime within 72 hours, file a claim within two years, and of course, not be a party to the crime.

If your drivers license is stolen, call Illinois Drivers Services at (217)782-7044. They'll ask for a copy of the police report and you must request a stop on your drivers license. When you get a replacment you'll have to bring more pieces of identification than normal, obviously.

You should also contact one of the major credit bureaus to let them know there could be possible identity theft. I called Equifax's Fraud Alert division at (800)525-6285, but you can call any of the three and they'll notify the others.

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April 25, 2006 - Bedside Manner

There's definitely something to be said for "bedside manner."

My visit yesterday to the Trauma Center was decidely untraumatic. I was in and out within half an hour. My visit to the Chicago Eye Institute was a completely different experience.

As I walked through the hospital to the Institute I felt a level of confidence that surprised me. I strode through the maze-like corridors and smiled as people looked at my uncovered bruises. Even though they'd never seen me before, I knew I looked so much better that I didn't feel the urge to look down and avoid eye contact. And since I was in a hospital the looks were of sympathy and understanding rather than just curiousity. In the elevator an elderly lady with bright orange pants, a chartreuse top and a white floppy hat kept trying to catch my eye. She looked at me fondly and I could practically hear her say "Oh, you poor dear," even though she didn't utter a word.

Then I walked into the Eye Institute. I felt the hackles rise on the back of my neck and unease course through my body. Although I hadn't literally returned to the scene of the crime, the phrase definitely seemed appropriate. Sitting in the waiting room I remembered distinctly what it felt like a week ago. The orderly had wheeled me to the far side of the room so that I was facing away from the other patients. I appreciated that he knew I wouldn't want to be placed in the center of the room for all to see. (Especially when a little boy walked by, grabbed his mother's hand, and asked what happened to the lady.)

But I still had to sit there, with my face swollen and wearing two hospital gowns (one worn correctly, the other worn backwards to cover my derriere), clutching my ice pack as it slowly melted. Then my friends Melissa and Phil came in. Again I watched as someone who cared about me saw me for the first time. The shock and sorrow and anger and disbelief all came together in one expression, and I wanted to both hide my face and let them know I was OK. So, as I'd done every time a friend came to see me, I made jokes about my condition in an effort to put them at ease.

They stayed with me for about half an hour, leaving briefly to get me a Diet Coke. Melissa laughed when she asked me if there was anything at all they could get me and I said "would you mind getting me a Diet Coke?" All I wanted was a Diet Coke. (Or a shot of whiskey, but I didn't think the hospital would have that in the gift shop.)

Melissa and Phil left and Lisa arrived to keep me company until I was finally able to see Dr. Lopez. All in all I waited about two hours. In a wheelchair.

So I shouldn't have been surprised yesterday. Since my Trauma Center visit was so quick I got to the Eye Institute half an hour early. And waited. Around the time of my appointment I saw the technician, who scared the bejeesus out of me with her pursed lips when I told her I was seeing double out of my left eye and she couldn't get me to 20/20 no matter which lenses she tried. Then she sent me back out into the waiting room.

And I waited. And waited. After an hour and a half tears started to well up and I started to panic. At an hour and forty-five minutes I asked the woman at the discharge counter when I would be seen because I was starting to have an anxiety attack. She told me to ask the technician. Who I didn't see for another half an hour.

I thought, "OK, here it is. I've been wondering when the fear is going to hit me." Just having that thought seemed to galvanize my emotions and I started to get angry. I know, that's a defense mechanism, but it worked. I decided I would wait until I'd been there two and a half hours and then I was going to huff out of there and insist they give me another appointment with another doctor. So of course they called me back at precisely the time I was going to make my dramatic exit.

As I waited for another 20 minutes in the examination room I paced and fumed and paced and fumed. Then Dr. Lopez came in. I don't know if it's from years of experience at keeping people waiting, but darn that guy is charming. He immediately said I looked so much better, that I was a beautiful young lady, asked how my father reacted when he saw me, told me he'd talked about me to his wife and daughters just the night before. He looked at my eye, told me I'd be just fine and it would heal perfectly and he wanted to see me in a week.

I actually walked out of there smiling. Smiling! Knowing that I'd just been manipulated by a pro!

When the discharge nurse asked me if I wanted a morning or afternoon appointment next week I smiled as I said morning. She actually smiled back and said "We'll make it morning, but you'll be here until the afternoon anyway." And I returned her smile!

As I left the hospital I just shook my head. I had to appreciate what they had done. Boy, were they good. But next week I'm bringing a book, a pillow, and a Diet Coke.

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April 26, 2006 - A Love Letter (of sorts) to the Windy City

Thursday is "newsletter day." That's when I send out my weekly newsletter with events for the upcoming weekend. I started working on one of the regular features today, namely the quote about Chicago that appears at the top of the newsletter. I generally try to tie it into the rest of the edition, whether there's a corresponding event or it's the starting off point for a series of really bad puns.

Tonight as I tried to choose the appropriate sentiment to kick off this weekend I realized that I am pissed off at my beloved city.

See, I know that because these are some of the quotes I wanted to include:

"There's only one thing for Chicago to do, and that's to move to a better neighborhood." Herman Fetzer
"A facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade, every type of dubiousness." E.M. Forster
"I have struck a city - a real city - and they call it Chicago. . . . I urgently desire never to see it again. It is inhabited by savages." Rudyard Kipling, 1891
"Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years." Carl Sandburg, in Harry Golden, Carl Sandburg, 1961

Whoa.

The quotes weren't the first indication that things are off in my relationship with the city. Tonight I'm actually going on a date in the suburbs. Not even the suburbs, really. I'm driving out to Hainesville. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a city gal, and the idea that I would drive out to the suburbs for a date can only mean a couple of things: the guy must be REALLY special, and/or I'm stomping off in a temper tantrum after a fight with my first love, Chicago (I'm hoping it's mainly the first. I may, or may not, let you know. Carrie Bradshaw I'm not.).

Now, I suppose it's understandable. I was viciously attacked 10 days ago, for heaven's sake, and I still have a blood-red eye and bruises that require a degree in cosmetology to cover up. A year and a half ago my trusty little Toyota was totaled by a hit and run driver. The license plate, which was actually left in the middle of the street, was registered to the same make and model of car that hit me, yet Chicago Police couldn't find who did it. On top of that, I've given my replacement car the nickname "One-Armed Bandit" because somebody sideswiped the mirror last August.

I have every right in the world to be ticked. But I don't wanna be (I say in a high-pitched whiney voice while stomping my foot).

I DO love this city, and the main reason has been shown to me over and over again in the last week and a half. Yes, we have great architecture, restaurants, nightlife, sports, the lakefront, the river, history, festivals, music. But the main thing we have is character.

This character is exhibited in many different ways. Chicago has Midwestern approachability. If a tourist is stopped in the middle of a sidewalk with a map, or even looks a little confused, someone will stop and help. Chicago has pride - whether it's in our sports teams, or to wear our Second City nickname like a badge of honor even though it was meant to be an insult. Chicago has talent. Have you ever been to a play or heard a local band or laughed at a comedy club?

Chicago has kindness. People here, in general, actually, genuinely care about their fellow human being. Now I know that's a blanket statement, but it's what I've seen in the last ten days. Complete strangers have reached out to me as if I were someone they've shared countless memories with. People that I've only had email contact with through the site have reached out to me from around the world. And people that I actually do know have extended such heartfelt condolences that I'm at a loss as to how to pay them back.

No matter how hurt I've been by a few individuals, I cannot let that color my attitude towards the city, or of society as a whole. One person hurt me - how many more have helped?

I have an idea tomorrow's quote will be more along the lines of this:

I adore Chicago. It is the pulse of America. Sarah Bernhardt

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April 28 - Back To Normal...almost

Music can either reflect or influence a person's mood. This morning, for example, I woke up early with the determination to resume my normal life and start running again, but I wasn't happy about it. I headed outside and tried to find Disturbed, Papa Roach, Godsmack - angry music. I couldn't find any of them on my MP3 player (no, I don't have an IPod) and I didn't want to spend the whole morning looking, so I just let it pick its own.

It, apparently, decided it didn't want to reflect my mood, but influence it. Maybe I'm reading too much into the random choices made by an electronic device. If I am, I don't suppose it really matters. It worked for me.

1. "Karma", Alicia Keys: "What goes around comes around." Darn skippy.
2. "Bounce", Sarah Connor: "I ain't goin' take this no more." Mess with me, will ya?
3. "It's Raining Men", Geri Halliwell: Now what woman wouldn't start smiling when this song comes on? I especially like the line "Kick off the roof and stay in bed." (Sorry, Mom)
4. "I Will Survive", Cake: That one's pretty obvious
5. "It's My Life", No Doubt: Ditto
6. "Stayin' Alive", The BeeGees: Geez, I get it already!

By the time that song wrapped up I was smiling and happy. The complete turn-around in my emotional state within 30 minutes made me think about the fragility of moods and how they can be influenced so easily, if we let them. That's why I wanted to listen to angry screaming music originally: I wanted to wallow in my own negativity even while doing something that I knew would make me feel better. But because of some technological glitch (or subconscious user error) I was forced to listen to music that, combined with the sunshine, the skyline, and the endorphins, brought me home damn glad to be alive.

I AM glad to be alive, and I know that I'm lucky and it could have been so much worse, and I've actually learned and grown from this experience. Early on in this series of postings I mentioned that writing about the most horrific night of my life is an exercise for the internal. And I have found that by doing so I am taking control of my emotions and of my life. The simple act of articulating emotions and thoughts during a traumatic time helps to understand them and decide which direction they'll take in the future. As a writer, I also feel that I have the responsibility to chronicle my experience and my recovery.

But every story runs its course. This morning's emotional discovery made me realize that it's time to let go of the "Mugged In Chicago" series. I will continue to keep you posted on my recovery, but in bits and pieces and interspersed with other Chicago stuff. Frankly, seeing that heading in every posting for the last week is getting to be a bit maudlin!

I will, however, be instituting a weekly column of sorts called "Life In Chicago." I'm working on the finer points and will let you know. As I mentioned Wednesday I'm not Carrie Bradshaw, so it's not going to be a "Sex & The City"-type column detailing my various romantic exploits (although, if you're curious, I will say that I'm most likely heading back to Hainesville and Hainesville might be heading to Chicago once or twice. So I guess it wasn't just the city.)

Thank you for your support during this journey. I hope NONE of you have to go down it yourselves, but if you do feel free to reach out to someone who's been there.

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