-Christine, I, too, was sexually assaulted --
not 36 years ago, but about 50 years ago.
the molester was our trusted family doctor.
He was the very doctor who delivered me on August 29, 1946.
I'm 72 now.
It was the 60's.
I was ion college.
The sexual revolution was in full swing.
The exact date and year are fuzzy,
but details of the event are vivid, seared in my memory.
Am I sure who did it?
Oh, yes. 100%.
I was a cool college co-ed, but not the cool.
I was still a virgin in the 60's.
I did advance to that so-called "heavy petting" stage,
short of intercourse.
I assumed that would come next.
I went to my family doctor for birth-control pills,
or an IUD, or a diaphragm.
His office was in his home --
a classic Georgetown 19th-century house,
creaky wooden floors with worn velvet furniture.
His office was to the left
of the front door, through double doors.
It was a large, divided room,
divided by a curtain he could draw.
He drew the curtain, asking me to remove
my clothes below the waist.
Here I was, in my 20s.
I had never, ever had a gynecological examination.
I had never even seen exam stirrups before.
It was really odd to spread my legs
and dig my heels into those cold, iron stirrups.
While I stared at the ceiling,
his right index finger massaged my clitoris.
With his right middle finger inserted into my vagina,
he moved both fingers rhythmically.
he coached me verbally in a soft voice.
"Just breathe.
Ahh" -- mimicking the sound of soft breathing.
"You're doing fine," he assured me.
Suddenly, to my shock,
I had an orgasm for the first time in my life.
My body jerked several times.
Then, he leaned over, kissed me --
a peck on my lips --
and slipped behind the curtain to his office area.
I don't remember saying anything.
I couldn't even look at him.
I quickly got dressed and drove home.
At the time, I think I may have told one of my sisters.
I certainly didn't tell my parents -- good heavens, no.
I was actually embarrassed about my sexual naivete.
All I wanted to do was just bury this incident
in my mind and protect my family.
You have to understand -- my mother couldn't read
or write English, let alone drive.
So, from then on, I told her
"Our family doctor lives too far.
We're not going to see him anymore."
Years later, I told my husband.
When did I tell him?
What year? What date?
I don't remember.
You know, I think that doctor died
almost 30 years ago, in his 80s.
But because I knew I was writing this piece,
I found the house on Google Maps.
And seeing it again, it was just like
I was standing across the street.
I freaked out.
I just freaked out.
Christine, I, too, am terrified as I reveal this publicly.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat. Can you?
If you can't, I understand.
I'm really...
I'm really scared.
I'm frightened.
I can't even cry.
Will my legacy as a television journalist
for 30-plus years be relegated to just a footnote?
Will "SheToo" be etched on my tombstone instead?
I don't want to tell the truth.
I must tell the truth.
As a reporter, the truth has ruled my life, my thinking.
I'm writing to you, Christine,
because I know that exact dates, exact years, are insignificant.
We remember exactly what happened to us
and who did it to us.
We remember the truth forever.
Bravo, Christine, for telling the truth.