St. Patricks Day - Independence Day for My Daughter

The following may be triggering for some. Proceed with caution.

On St. Patrick’s Day morning, in the year 2000, my little daughter came into my bedroom and said, “Mom, I need to talk to you.” Something about her tone and body language told me that this wasn’t a conversation that could take place with me putting my make-up on while I listened to the news. I walked over and turned off the television and sat down next to her. She said, “We watched a video at school about a girl whose uncle touched her in special ways, and our teacher said we should tell our parents if that ever happened to us. You told me I could tell you if anyone touched me in my private places and someone did, so I wanted to tell you.”


I felt at that moment like my brain was a tablecloth that had been shaken out and folded back up. The first words out of my mouth were, “Grandpa got to you.”

“No, not Grandpa; it was Dwayne. I didn’t want to tell you, but I knew I needed to. Can I still go to school today?”

I put my arms around her and pulled her close to me, pulled her into my lap and held her while I tried to wrap my brain around this information. I was both relieved and saddened that it wasn’t my dad that had done this awful thing - relieved that she had been safe from dad but saddened that another person had thrown his life away. I knew it was important for me to not ask too many questions and to refrain completely from leading questions. She didn’t need anymore junk in her head than what was there. I asked, “Where did he touch you?” She put her hand on her groin. “Over or under your clothing?” I asked.

“Under.”

I hugged her closer. I had to engage my brain. I couldn’t think clearly. I knew I couldn’t go to work and that until I figured this out, she would not be going to school. As I struggled to maintain a hysteria free demeanor, I called our friend and told her that Elizabeth would not be over that morning. She asked, “Is she sick?”

“No, but I can’t really talk about right now. Something has happened. I’ll call you and let you know when I can.” I answered.

I called work and told my co-worker that I wouldn’t be in. She asked, “Is everything okay?”

“No,” I said as my surface cracked and a ragged sob came out.

“What happened?”

“Someone hurt Elizabeth. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call your Bishop,” she replied. “Don’t worry about anything here. Call us if you need anything. We will keep you both in our prayers.”

I had to pull it back together. I felt like I could cry for a million years and the pain would still be there. I was shaking so badly. I called the Bishop. His sweet wife answered the phone and informed me that he was at work. “Do you know if he has any openings this Tuesday (I knew Tuesdays were the days he met with people from our ward)?” As I said this I wondered how we would survive until Tuesday.

“Let me give you his work number,” she said. I think she could hear the distress in my voice. I will always be thankful for her discreet handling of our trauma that day. She didn’t ask any questions, but somehow she knew that I needed to speak to her husband right then.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I call him at work?”

“Yes,” she answered.

When our Bishop answered his phone, he was greeted by a mother in full despair and near hysteria. I told him what Elizabeth had told me. He was a new Bishop and hadn’t dealt with this type of situation yet. He said, “Give me ten minutes. I will find out exactly what you need to do. Will you be okay for ten minutes?”

“Yes,” I sobbed.

Elizabeth and I cuddled and cried on the couch while we waited for his call. I made sure she knew that I loved her and that none of this was her fault. I also told her that I would never let him hurt her again. I still didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t know what the extent of the abuse had been - I just knew from my own experience that I would do everything in my power to handle this situation the right way. I wanted her well. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I had made because of what had happened to her. Before this morning, I thought that living through my own abuse was the worst thing, but I was wrong. Knowing my daughter had been molested was the worst thing. I thought back to the night when I had come from seeing Grandma at the hospital. I had walked into Elizabeth’s room and felt thankful she was untouched by this horror, but I was wrong – even then she had already been abused, and I felt sick to the depths of my soul. I felt sorrow for her and sorrow for the young man whose choices had put us in this situation. He was my son’s best friend. He had eaten dinner more often at my house than at his own house. We had trusted him. He had kept my son safe when our home was burglarized. He was the same age as my son – even born during the same month. He had just turned twenty years old. Both he and my son were serving missions for our church. We had to get Dewayne out of the mission field before he hurt anyone else.

There may be some that say, “You shouldn’t have gotten so upset. You should have kept it together. I would have been less traumatic for her if you had stayed calm.”

To those I say, “You try looking into the face of your beautiful child who has just revealed to you that she has been molested and not weep. Even Jesus wept.”

To be continued.