I was all alone in my medical office, hours after closing. Inside, the fluorescent lights were harsh and bright, contrasting with the winter dark outside. Only a few years past residency, I wanted nothing more than to be at home, drinking a glass of red wine, eating my first real meal of the day, followed closely by falling into a blissful sleep. Instead, after a swamped day, I was returning phone calls, reviewing test results, and charting. It seemed the paperwork would never end.

I became alert when I heard a rustling in the outer office. I immediately sat up straight, hyper-alert, my mouth dry. Any former fatigue was gone. I was no longer alone. Then I saw him — a stranger in the hall, wearing a dark hoodie and looking very out of place. The front office door was supposed to be locked so how did he get in? I rose from my desk, trying to look taller.

“Who are you? We’re closed. You’re not supposed to be in here,” I said in my most authoritative voice.

“Uh, I’m looking for a job,” he replied. Being nighttime, everything should have been locked up, I thought.

“You’re in the wrong place, Sir! This isn’t a hiring office. Please leave now.” I pointed to the door and stood with my backbone straight, talking tough, in control. But my knees belied my  weakness.

He didn’t leave, instead taking two quick steps toward me and pulled a black gun from his waist. My chest fluttered while my gut gave me the same feeling like I was falling. Grabbing my arm, he pushed me through my open office door. My purse was sitting on the desk amid the stacks of paper and the half-empty cup of cold coffee. “Take it,” I stammered, “just leave.” He gripped my arm tighter, pointed the gun to my head and dumped the contents on the desk. Small change clanked on the desktop. How I wished there had been more money. 

“Come on,” he snarled and grabbed my arm again, this time pushing me toward the small bathroom down the hall in the back of the office. I knew deep in my gut, in the very the synapses of my brain, that he had been through the entire office and knew its layout. And he knew that I was alone. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t just money he was after. In my profession, I have seen how quickly a person’s life can change. I knew that bad things, terrible things, can happen. 

Something I  read once flashed across my mind: Don’t ever let an assailant move you to a different place. Fight to stay where you are. But that advice wasn’t practical when he had a loaded gun to my head and I had nothing but a pen in the pocket of my white lab coat.

He forced me into the tiny bathroom and clicked the door lock. I knew this was bad, really bad, and my options had gone from slim to none. I could feel his hot breath as he leaned close.  The black gun loomed large and to my horror I could see down the barrel to the bullets. He pushed me over the sink. I could see the sweat dripping down his forehead. There was no room to maneuver and the gun was actually touching my head. Every screaming fiber of my being was on high alert. I couldn’t think. I started talking. Rambling actually. Without any strategy except to stall and try to make a human connection.

“Come on, man. You seem like a nice guy. You don’t have to do this.”

“Shut up.” he barked. “Take off that coat and your clothes.”

 I could feel my chest constrict, yet I kept talking. 

“Hey, you must have a girlfriend. Tell me about her.” He pulled at my lab coat.

“What would your mom say if she knew you were here? Think about your mom. You’re too nice a guy.” He pawed at my clothing and broke the button on my pants. 

“If you want drugs, let’s go to my drug cabinet. I think we can find something there.”

As he pushed the cold steel against my temple and tore at my clothing, I tried everything to relate to him and have him see me as a human being, not an object. I was running out of both talk and time and I could see he was amped up and annoyed with my chatter.

“Shut up, bitch. This gun is loaded. Do you get it? Quit talking,” he shoved me hard and ripped my pants down. 

By now I was dripping sweat. I realized my attempt at bonding was failing, despite slowing down the  inevitable. Suddenly my attacker stopped clawing when we both heard muffled sounds a few feet away, just outside the locked door. “Help!” I shouted. The door flew open and two hospital security guards in brown uniforms stood there, mouths agape, eyes like saucers. 

Pop! Pop! A fire-cracker sound reverberated through the air as one of the two men slumped to the floor. The other bolted, running away while the shooter stepped over the fallen guard and disappeared. Alone in the eerie silence, I watched the overhead lights create strange shadows. There was no one left but myself and the young bleeding security guard at my feet. There I was, a traumatized young doctor, partially undressed, my vision reduced to black and white. A pool of black blood slowly expanded under his head onto the ground. My mind was blank. I wasn’t sure who or even where I was.

I caught myself and instinctively kicked into doctor mode.  I knelt down beside the crumpled man, felt for a pulse, and tried to assess the damage. I rolled the heavy and limp young man onto his back so I could see where he had been shot.  His lower face was shredded and pumping blood. I used my  lab coat and the pants I’d been stripped of to apply hard pressure as he went into shock, pulse racing, diaphoretic, color turning gray.

“You’re OK. Stay with me. You’re going to be OK,” I kept whispering. “We got this. Look at me. Look at me.” His eyes saw nothing. 

I caught sight of the other security guard standing at the end of the hall. Unarmed. These young men weren’t trained for armed conflict. He took in the unfathomable scene: a half-dressed young woman kneeling by his friend, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.

“Get help! Call 911!” I hollered. The guard just stood there. 

After what seemed like hours, help finally did arrive. I happily let the paramedics take over. The narrow hall soon filled with police and detectives. Even the hospital CEO showed up. “If I’m ever stranded on a desert island, I want you there,” he said, examining the bloody floor. I managed a weak smile. 

The young security guard was taken to the trauma center and underwent surgery for a lacerated facial artery, multiple transfusions, and jaw reconstruction. Had he been alone, he would have bled out and died. But I had been there, as he had been there for me. After he recovered, he came for a visit. He was even my patient for a time before he moved away. He quit security and went to college instead.

The would-be murderer and rapist was never found. The gun was recovered several weeks later and I had to go to a line-up, but I couldn’t identify the shooter. Despite being hyper aware during the attack, my focus on survival limited my ability to gather identifying information that was useful.  Survivors of trauma may remember vivid sensory-based fragments of an event, but often struggle with small details because the brain’s response during the trauma prioritizes survival over memory encoding.  For a long time after that night, I couldn’t be alone in an elevator with a man because it felt like that tiny bathroom where I had been confined. Even now, decades later, I experience a wave of fear if a man steps into an empty elevator with me.

You never know how you’ll react in a life and death situation and hopefully you’ll never have to. Only when put to the test do you know if you’ll pass. I knew that night that I was a hero. I also knew I was a doctor. I understood viscerally what I have always known intellectually: that life can end in an instant and even the most ordinary events can suddenly become dangerous without warning. We are all vulnerable and face tragedy wearing many different cloaks. How we react can mean the difference between life and death. I survived a potentially lethal assault while reflexively using my professional training to save a man’s life under maximal stress. That night, I felt proud that I passed the test. All while working overtime.

Toni Brayer MD recently retired from a 40 year Internal Medicine Practice in San Francisco, and now specializes in weight and obesity management. She is writing a memoir and focuses time on improving her tennis.