On January 20, 1982 I began experiencing severe abdominal pain that intensified over several days. I went to Portsmouth Naval Regional Medical Center in Portsmouth, Virginia, seeking answers and relief. Despite seeing multiple doctors and undergoing numerous tests, no one could tell me what was wrong. On January 22, after spending 12 agonizing hours in the hospital, I was sent home. The doctor who saw me that day told me to just “go home” and mentioned that I was "intelligent enough" to recognize if my condition worsened and to come back the next day.

The following morning, January 23, I woke up in excruciating pain, far worse than anything I had felt before. I could barely move and struggled to make it from my bed to the couch. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I was paralyzed by the pain. Eventually, I managed to reach the front door, where a neighbor found me and rushed me back to the hospital.

I arrived at Portsmouth Naval Hospital at 1:00 PM, but despite the obvious urgency of my condition, I was left waiting for hours. It wasn’t until 10:00 that night—nine hours later—that they finally took me into surgery. During this critical time, my care was woefully inadequate. An E-4, who wasn’t even a doctor, was assigned to insert my IV. She tried and failed four times, leaving my arm bruised from wrist to elbow, before someone else was finally called in to complete the task.

When the doctors finally operated, they discovered an ectopic pregnancy—a life-threatening condition that should have been diagnosed days earlier. They removed my right fallopian tube in an attempt to save my life, but the damage had already been done. The delay in treatment had not only put my life at risk but also took away something far more precious: my ability to have children.

After the surgery, I believed the worst was over. But 11 months later, I discovered that the medical team had made a catastrophic error—they had left a green plastic radiology marker inside my body during the surgery. This oversight led to infections, intense pain, and untold suffering. The negligence of the medical staff had caused irreparable damage, both physically and emotionally.

When I was discharged from Portsmouth Naval Hospital, the conditions were deplorable. I had no bowel function. I had a fever of 100.4°F and significant drainage from my surgical incision including a soak gown from the drainage, yet they sent me home anyway. A civilian nurse who saw me that day couldn’t believe that I was being discharged in such a state. Despite my condition, I was forced to walk around the hospital myself, gathering special permission to be discharged on a Saturday—a day when active duty personnel are typically not discharged. I had no wheelchair, no assistance—just my broken body and a sense of abandonment.

After my discharge, my health continued to decline. I lost 20 pounds, couldn’t eat, and was constantly sick. I had no choice but to seek help from civilian doctors because the military medical facilities either couldn’t or wouldn’t treat me properly. One civilian doctor discovered an infection caused by the surgery and prescribed medication to treat it. But when I returned to the military doctors for a follow-up, they dismissed my concerns. Despite my pleas, they insisted that there was "nothing wrong" with me and told me to stop taking the medication that was, in fact, keeping me from getting worse.

I was honorably discharged from the Navy on June 2, 1982, but there was nothing honorable about the way I was treated. My health continued to deteriorate, and I was forced to leave Virginia to seek help from my family doctor in Wisconsin. It was there, in December 1982, that I finally learned the full extent of the damage done to me.

On December 20, 1982, I underwent surgery to remove the foreign object left inside me during my ectopic pregnancy surgery—a green plastic radio plaque marker that had caused a mass to form in my abdomen. The surgery was supposed to take 45 minutes but ended up lasting nearly three hours. The damage caused by the marker and the sponges left inside me was extensive. My organs were entangled, and the surgeon was shocked by what she found. She told my family that she would testify on my behalf because she had never seen anything like this.

To make matters worse, my medical records from Portsmouth Naval Hospital contained no mention of the sponges or the pathology report documenting what had been left inside me. This glaring omission only added to my frustration and sense of betrayal. How could such crucial details be omitted from my medical records? This lack of documentation further exemplifies the negligence and disregard for my well-being.

The most devastating consequence of this negligence was the loss of my fertility. The ectopic pregnancy, the removal of my fallopian tube, and the subsequent infections left me unable to conceive naturally. I was robbed of the chance to have children of my own—a dream that was taken from me by the very people who were supposed to care for me. The pain of knowing that I will never experience the joy of motherhood is something I carry with me every single day. I still grieve for the children I will never have, for the family I never got to build.

After the surgery, I returned to Norfolk, but my ordeal was far from over. In March of the following year, I was hospitalized again due to infections caused by the sponges left inside me. I was devastated. How could the military I served so faithfully treat me with such disregard? How could they leave me to suffer, to carry this burden, without any responsibility for the pain they caused?

I’m here, sharing my story, because I believe it’s important for you to understand the depth of the trauma I’ve endured. I was a young woman, full of life, serving my country with pride. But my trust in the system that was supposed to protect me was shattered. The negligence and lack of accountability I experienced have left scars that will never heal.