For Lucille ...

It was a sunny Sunday morning in the month of May when I drove down the 405 freeways towards Laguna Hills California. I had lived in the Huntington Harbor area of Southern California for over ten years and was meeting with my sister and her husband for breakfast. My sister, who was twenty years older than I, had always been the outgoing friendly type who knew just about everyone in her neighborhood.

She and her husband Tom had moved into a senior living community in the Laguna Hills California area and were very happy with their new surroundings. They made many new friends and got involved in most of the community events. One of those friends was Millie Small.

Millie was a retired school teacher. She and her husband Joe were a friendly couple who just happened to have a son around my age who recently moved from Connecticut to be with his mother in California.

Being a hopeless romantic and matchmaker for all of her friends and family members, my sister Grace had decided that this young man and I should meet.

I had often told my sister Grace that unless I found a man with the qualities of my father I would never get married. At the ripe old age of thirty- five, I had an MBA and believed that I would be happy as a career woman who used my education and creative abilities to change the world.

I didn't need a husband. Though I had given some thought to the kind of man I would like.

Wealth and notoriety were not things I needed, I truly loved helping people. The ideal man for me would be someone who was loving, kind, intelligent, and secure in his role as a man and a husband. He would be a man like my father.

Grace and I often spoke about marrying men like our father. Dad would always tell us we were beautiful, and often said that, “The men who take my daughters for their wives will be the luckiest men in the world.”

Our father was a decorated marine officer. He was as tough as nails yet gentle as a lamb. He treated our mother, Grace and myself with love and respect. The security he gave to us, created two young women who were fearless, and determined to be part of the solution in any situation.

I was fortunate to be born into a family that would be considered upper middle class. My parents were able to provide a good home and a good education for both my sister and myself. Both of my parents were successful real estate brokers who felt that spending time together as a family was the most important thing.

My childhood, and even my adult years in my parent’s home were filled with laughter and love. I was always involved in community work, lending a helping hand to those in need and volunteering my time to schools, churches and several organizations that provided service for children and the elderly.

My sister Grace was aptly named. She loved people. She was beautiful and intelligent and attracted people wherever she went. In my family we always believed that Grace’s charismatic genes came directly from our father. She was happily married and felt a special connection to her husband. Perhaps that is why seeing me happily paired became somewhat of a mission for her and why Jack Small became a consistent subject in Grace’s conversations with me.

Grace would say, “Jack is the perfect man for you Lucille. He is handsome, intelligent and very attentive to his mother, and he is also polite and single."

I finally agreed to have breakfast with Grace and Tom knowing that she would invite Jack to join us.

As I drove down the 405 freeway towards Laguna Hills that fateful day I took the convertible top down on my Mercedes Benz and allowed the wind to caress my face blow through my hair. I was happy, hopeful and energetic; my life had meaning and purpose. I was looking toward my future with great anticipation.

When I arrived at my sister’s home I met Jack for the first time. It was hard not to take notice of his six foot four frame, his broad shoulders and his finely tuned shape. He was charming, confident and strong. Having just taken a position as a medical director for a local hospital in the South County region of Orange County California, he was proud and ambitious, and definitely a "take charge" type of a man.

Even at our first encounter at breakfast Jack demonstrated his leadership abilities. When I ordered coffee, Jack told me I should drink tea. When I ordered white toast, Jack told me I should only eat wheat toast.

At that point in my life I was charmed to find a man who cared about what I ate and drink. I believed in love at first sight and felt that I had found true love and a soul mate.

I accepted Jack’s dominance over me as his way of showing me that he cared. I believed I had found the man I had been waiting for; Jack Small became my husband. Five years after marrying Jack I gave birth to a gorgeous baby boy who we named Jeremy. Jeremy was the spitting image of his father in every way. Looking at Jeremy was like looking at Jack twice. Jack was a proud father, but did not participate in the day-to-day activities of Jeremy’s life, choosing instead to immerse himself in his practice.

Jeremy was a showpiece for Jack when he needed to show others his good family man persona.

I referred to my husband and my son as "my boys." My life revolved around my family. My needs and desires were always placed second to the needs of "my boys." I was proud of my accomplishments as a wife and mother. I put my career on the back burner of my life so I could always be available to meet the needs of "my boys." After all, I was raising our son to become a man of quality who would someday be a good husband father.

I was also very proud to be the wife of a successful surgeon and a man who was caring loving and giving when it came to his practice. Caring for his patients was always Jack's priority. He lived for saving lives. If a life was lost while under his medical care, our entire household would go into mourning, and wait for his mood to change so that we could again be a happy family. His happiness and well-being was essential to my son's and my daily existence.

We went on like this for many years, until right around the time of my 58th birthday. That was when Jack began to show signs of anger and discontentment with Jeremy and I. On several occasions I tried to talk with him about the problem but he refused to have even discuss it. Communication between Jack and I was limited to questions and answers only.

At my 60th birthday party, while carrying a platter of cheese and crackers from the kitchen to the patio area where twelve of his friends and associates were gathered I slipped on some wet pavement, fell backwards and hit the back of my head on the steps. 911 was called and I was rushed to the emergency room of the hospital where my husband was the medical director. I was diagnosed at the hospital with a concussion.

I was still disoriented and in pain when my husband walked into my hospital room. Though I was initially happy to see him my joy soon turned to more confusion when my husband came to my bedside, bent over close to my right ear and said, “You are an embarrassment to me. Why did you have to fall when all my friends were at my home?"

Needless to say I was stunned. I remember stammering, "I didn't intentionally slip down the steps and give myself a concussion so that I could be an embarrassment to you."

Before I could open my mouth to speak again he bent close to my right ear and in the most callous tone of voice whispered, "Shut the hell up and don't say a word."

At that point I was thoroughly confused and afraid. My son, who was a grown man at the time, walked into my hospital room looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "Mom, I am sorry. Dad did not mean what he said."

I was admitted to the hospital for three days, my husband never returned to visit me. I told myself that the stress of my husband’s job was getting to him and that I should give him some space and time to work out whatever it was that was bothering him. For two weeks my husband only spoke to me when he absolutely had to. I spent the next four weeks making excuses in my mind as to why my husband had become so angry with me.

After six months of minimal verbal communication and no physical communication with my husband, the tension inside our home became unbearable. I sought help from a marriage counselor, and a minister. Both gave me the same advice: I needed to talk to my husband and find a resolution to our problem.

Two days after meeting with the marriage counselor and the minister I prepared my husband's favorite dish. After he finished dinner I asked him if I could talk with him privately in our bedroom. His response was, "There is no need for talking ... I just want to be left alone."

Based on my faith and my belief in the goodness of people I decided that the vows that were made on the day that I married my husband should be my reason for sticking with my marriage. I hoped and prayed that my husband would find his way back to me.

For the next five years of my life my husband physically and mentally abused me.

I was hit with closed fists and open hands on my face and on my body. I suffered broken bones including my collarbones, both arms and legs. By the time I was 67 years old I had been to ten different hospitals for various broken bones and on my battered body. I often said I know what it felt like to be a boxer, except they got paid to have their heads beaten in.

Because of his knowledge of the hospital systems he transported me to different hospitals so that my injuries could not be tracked.

At 70 years old I was diagnosed with arthritis and short-term memory loss. The doctors believed that over the repeated concussions could have attributed to my short-term memory loss. The doctor who gave me the diagnosis of Dementia (short term memory loss) instructed my husband to hire a in home care attendant to assist me with my daily living needs and to supervise my ambulation as I was also considered a fall risk.

At my husbands request a young woman came to my home to interview me and to assess my needs, this woman showed such kindness, patience, and care that I was very happy to have her in my home. She was very through in her questions, yet compassionate; she stirred something inside of me that made me feel safe and free. For the first time in more than five years I felt as if I could talk to someone about my years of physical and mental abuse.

I began by telling her my life story. I told her that I learned to love as a child, how to give as a woman, how to obey as a wife, and how suffer in silence for the sake of my child.

You see, my son, who was the only witness to the abuse inflicted on me by his father, had become dependant on his father for money to maintain his drug and alcohol addiction. Somehow in the midst of it all I truly believed that I was doing what was best for my son by enduring the pain and humiliation of being physically beaten and degraded on a daily basis by my husband.

Even though I had lost all my dignity and my belief in myself as a human being, I was still able to hold onto my motherly instincts. I wanted my son to get off drugs and alcohol and complete his education and believed that his father held the key to that. I believed that by allowing my husband to take out his aggression on me, he would provide our son with the educational opportunities that Jeremy needed to become a successful person.

That belief ended three days prior to Joy (the assessment person) coming to my home when my son hit me in my face with a closed fist. It was at that moment that it became clear to me that my silence about the abuse that I was taking from my husband was the biggest mistake of my life.

Children live what they learn. My son, who was taught to love and respect his parents, was also taught to abuse and neglect his mother. My son learned both concepts from both parents, but he chose to follow the example of abuse demonstrated by his father.

One day after one of my daily beatings my son spoke out aloud and said, "My father is the strength of the family."

In my son's eyes I was weak and no longer represented a human being, I also realized that I had let my son down, and had done an injustice to my husband by not stopping him the first time he whispered in my ear, "Shut the hell up."

As I sit back and draw on my long-term memory, which is still very active and accurate, I can see clearly now that my husband was an angry man. Jack had issues because his biological father abandoned him when he was only twelve years old.

I realize that I may not have been able to resolve his problems but I could have stopped his abusive behavior and eliminated many years of pain and suffering if only I had done the right thing. So I did. At 75 years old my husband, the prominent surgeon, was sentenced to five (5) years in jail and ten (10) years probation for holding my hands over an open flame and causing third degree burns on both hands.

At the same time my son was also arrested and convicted for abusing me. He was later placed in an alcohol and drug addiction treatment center.

My son's wife Jess, who was also abused by my son, was finally able to break her silence. She spoke about the years that my son would cry himself to sleep because of the beatings that I was taking from his father. She said that my son grew to hate me for my weakness, for my fear of fighting back, and for accepting my husband's cruelty.

Today I celebrate my 89th birthday. My son Jeremy has remarried. He has been clean and sober for the past seven years. He and his wife have a baby girl that they named Joy for the woman who changed our lives.

It was Joy who opened the door to a world of freedom when she gave me the courage and the strength to change the things I could change, to accept the things I could not change, and to recognize my strengths and my weaknesses.

I have taken full responsibility for my errors and forgiven myself for my foolish decisions. Most of all I celebrate the passion and patience of Joy who held my heart and hands has she slowly walked with me down the dark and winding road of abuse, neglect and even abandonment, back into the light of truest love and happiness.

Today I also made a promise to myself and to my world: I will no longer hide in shame by accepting elder abuse as my own personal embarrassment. I will speak out so that others like me can know it is never too late to break the cycle. It is my hope and prayer that my grand children and great grand children should only read about elder abuse in history books.

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ELDER ABUSE IS A CRIME PUNISHABLE BY LAW.

The only cure for elder abuse is reporting it and convicting those who are guilty

Lucille Small was born in 1918 and died in 2009. She lived an extraordinary life. May her message touch your life. And may she rest in peace.