by Susan Lucci
Patty was friends with a girl from one of her art classes named Linda DePalma, who I then became friends with, too. Linda was a spectacular girl. She was smart and very hip. I always thought of her as our “Cher” because she was and still is the epitome of cool. Today Linda is a prominent artist in Baltimore and is the director of education for the Creative Alliance.
Pat Murphy was another girl I became very close to. Although she was not an aspiring performer, she had a great love and interest in theater. She eventually went on to become a very talented and beloved theater teacher and chairman of the drama and theater department at Piedmont High School in San Jose, California.
When I first met Cathy Gasperina, I was completely intimidated by her. Cathy was chic, smooth, smart, tall, and a beautiful redhead. She was also very sophisticated. I’d heard she had gone to the International Marymount in London and Rome before coming to New York to attend Marymount. From the outside looking in, Cathy represented everything I had dreamed of as a little girl. Much to my surprise, Cathy also turned out to be a lovely human being. She was just a wonderfully interesting individual who went on to teach English literature and become the head of the English department at Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School in Hamilton, Massachusetts.
These four women became my closest friends. I hold each of them very near and dear to my heart. We all grew up together and have shared so many wonderful and, yes, painful moments throughout the years. Patty Depuy was definitely the glue that held us all together. It was really Patty who taught me the value and importance of being a good friend. Although I always had a strong sense and appreciation for family when I was younger, I never understood what being a good friend meant. I was so intent on becoming an actress, going to New York, and getting my career off the ground that I didn’t make the time to nurture those relationships. I was like a horse with blinders on. All I could see was what was in front of me, and at the time that was strictly pursuing my education and a career. Patty called me out one day, saying I was so…independent! That comment really made me stop and think. It affected me to my core, so much so that I’ve never forgotten it. Patty wasn’t paying me a compliment. She had grown exasperated by my inability to treat our or any friendship well. I am so grateful to Patty for her persistence and desire to hold us all together as friends over the years. I didn’t want to be perceived as so independent that I was excluding people or to appear as if I didn’t care about my friends, because I dearly loved them all. I never even realized that I was somehow letting any of them down. It wasn’t intentional or conscious. Patty shook me up and helped me come to my senses. And I am so happy she did because I have cherished all of the good times we’ve shared together over the years since we all met in 1964.
I was very fortunate to pursue my studies in acting at Marymount College because the faculty was truly accomplished. I studied with Mr. Ron Weyand, the head of the drama department, who had graduated from the Yale School of Drama and was part of the Lincoln Center Repertory Company; Judith Propper and Wendy Guillou, both of whom, like so many of the other teachers I met, had studied theater in London; and a host of other faculty members who were affiliated with the William Shakespeare Company, the Alexander technique, and Martha Graham Dance. There were many more rare opportunities to study with wonderful professors who were on staff or came to Marymount as guest teachers and lecturers during my four years at college, too. In addition to being fantastic teachers, all of my professors were still working in their field of specialization. To study acting at Marymount was to pursue the finest education from the very best in the business. To them, acting was all about the art.
As students, we were expected to learn the process and techniques that turn good actors into great ones. We delved even deeper into the inner workings of staging a show than I had before, from building the sets to striking them at the end of every run. We learned a variety of acting techniques that I use to this very day. Mr. Weyand had his class go through one particular exercise that I’ll never forget. He made an entrance onto the stage and then impersonated each of us through movement and actions. The class had to guess who he was. I knew right away when he was me. He sauntered onto the stage, shaking his hips from side to side with a wide smile across his face. Yes, that was definitely me.
Mr. Weyand wasn’t just a great teacher—he was also sensitive to us as people. He impressed upon all of his students that pursuing acting could be a very devastating career choice. He explained that the rejection could be demoralizing, as could the work. He said, “If acting is making you miserable as human beings, then the pursuit is not worth it. And, if you are one of the lucky few who do make it out there, don’t go into that bubble. Don’t allow yourself to become so out of touch or removed from humanity that you can no longer experience and express humanity.” I’ve never forgotten those poignant and impactful words. His stellar advice became my mantra in life and throughout my career.
CHAPTER 3
You’re Too Ethnic-Looking
By February 1967, RG and I had become engaged. Needless to say, my parents were less than thrilled with the idea. I was just a junior in college and had so much life ahead of me. I was so young and headstrong that when he proposed, I said, “Yes!” I loved him very much and thought that was all we needed to make things work.
Despite their concern, my parents decided to celebrate our engagement anyway. They hosted a lovely dinner party at the Garden City Hotel with friends and family in attendance. As luck would have it, Helmut happened to be at the hotel that night. He was visiting colleagues and having drinks with some friends as well. My mother and I were walking through the hallway when we unexpectedly spotted him. My mother was so delighted at the chance meeting that she invited Helmut to come have a drink to celebrate my engagement. He said he’d be delighted to join us, but he would have to make it dessert since he was meeting people for dinner. By the time he arrived, most of our guests had left. It was just our immediate families sitting around the table. My father was seated at the large round table; my mother was directly across from me with an empty seat between her and my then-future mother-in-law. Helmut walked into the room and confidently sat between the two ladies. When I looked across the table, I noticed a very different man sitting in front of me than the one I had met in the kitchen of that hotel a few years back. For the first time, I saw Helmut in a different light. I suddenly thought he was very attractive. I also thought there was a problem because I shouldn’t be feeling that way about another man. There I was, engaged to be married, and all I wanted to do was get to know Helmut better. That’s when it occurred to me that my parents were right. I probably wasn’t ready to get married. I didn’t call off the engagement, though. No, I let myself ruminate for a while. Maybe this was a fleeting moment, I thought.
Sometime during coffee, Helmut leaned over to my mother and whispered into her ear, “You know, this thing between Susan and this boy is never going to last.”
“You know, Helmut, I think you are right,” my mother replied. “I actually hope you are right. But I can’t say anything to Susan because she is so headstrong.”
Neither said a word to me about that exchange until many years later. As far as I was concerned, I was still engaged and making wedding plans.
While I was studying at Marymount, RG was attending Colorado State University and working as a ski instructor during the winter months. I visited him there whenever I could get away from classes. He’d teach me to ski, which I absolutely loved. I thought it was very glamorous to get on a plane and visit a handsome boy I was in love with, just as I thought it was truly romantic when he would come to New York to visit me. During one of his last visits to see me, he and I were headed into Manhattan for a dinner date. He came to Garden City first to pick me up. It was a typical Saturday night on the Long Island Expressway. Even though there was a lot of traffic, it was moving along well. There were sporadic stops and starts along the way, but nothing of any concern. As we made our approach toward the city, I pointed to
the twinkling lights of the spectacular Manhattan skyline.
“Look at how beautiful those buildings look framed in between those two bridges!” I said.
As one might expect, my fiancé turned to look. He must have become captivated by what he saw because he didn’t turn back to the direction in which we were driving. I noticed that the car in front of us had stopped and I thought RG would surely turn around in enough time to avoid crashing into that car, but he didn’t.
I don’t remember a lot of the details about the crash itself, but I do recall the moments right after impact. I could see the windshield of the car had been shattered although I wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. I was a bit dazed and confused, if not in total shock. I felt something dripping down my face. I turned to RG and asked, “Is it raining?”
My fiancé said as carefully as he could, “No. You went through the windshield.”
“Am I okay?” My fiancé was tentative answering my question.
“I think so” was all he could say.
He wasn’t very convincing.
Since there was a lot of traffic, it took awhile for the police and ambulance to show up. When the first police officers arrived on the scene, they shined their flashlight into the car. I was practically blinded by the brightness, but I remember one of them flinched when he saw me.
I overheard him say, “I think she used to be a pretty kid.” They were speaking about me in the past tense. That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong.
The emergency medical team arrived just a few minutes later. They got me out of the car and into the ambulance, then proceeded to take me to Elmhurst Hospital in Queens, apparently the nearest hospital to where we were. The thing I remember most is that no one would look at me during the entire ride. I kept trying to catch someone’s attention, but the EMTs refused to make eye contact with me. When we arrived at the emergency room, everyone inside was speaking Spanish. I had no idea how I was going to express myself because I didn’t understand a word they were saying. I only knew a few basic words that I learned back in high school, none of which felt appropriate under the circumstances.
Thankfully, I was met by a big, warm-spirited English-speaking nurse who immediately put me into a wheelchair and assured me that I was going to be all right. One of the other nurses must have noticed my engagement ring because she turned to me and said, “Oh, honey, I am sure he will still marry you.” I know she was trying to be comforting, but after hearing that comment, I was beginning to panic. It seemed no one wanted to tell me how badly I had been hurt, but I could tell by everyone’s reaction that my wounds were severe.
The doctor on duty came in to see me. He was direct and to the point.
“You’re going to need stitches—a lot of stitches,” he said.
Since my mother had been an OR nurse, I didn’t want to make any medical decisions about stitches or anything else without her being present. If I was going to be scarred for life, at the very least I wanted my mom to be with me and assess the situation before they started sewing. I called my parents to tell them what had happened. I no sooner hung up the phone than they arrived at the hospital in what felt like a flash. My mother boldly came into the treatment room just as the doctor was threading his needle.
“You haven’t even cleaned her wounds, let alone taken out the shards of glass in her face, and you want to sew my daughter up? What is the matter with you?” My mother scolded the doctor for his lack of professionalism and care. My mother, who also had red hair, pulled a real Shirley MacLaine from the movie Terms of Endearment. No one was going to mess up her kid. She had a loving look of concern for me as she blasted the doctor and then helped me out the door.
“We’re leaving, Susan.” That’s all she said.
She and my father drove me as quickly as they could to Nassau Hospital, a private facility near our home in Garden City. My fiancé was sitting in the backseat with me, holding my hand while my mother and father were in the front. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of my mother turning around and looking at me with tremendous worry in her eyes. I still hadn’t looked in a mirror, so I was oblivious to my real condition. Strangely, I wasn’t in any pain. I don’t know if I was in shock or if the trauma had been so severe that I was just numb. I kept saying, “I’m fine. I am going to be fine.” And I believed every word I was saying. Something kept telling me that I would get through this. I wasn’t worried or upset. I was calm and oddly at peace. I remember trying to make everyone else stop worrying, too.
Thankfully, when we entered the emergency room at Nassau Hospital, it wasn’t very busy. I was taken immediately to an examination room. A very kind doctor spoke with my mother for a few minutes and then quickly began to examine the wounds.
“You are quite right, Mrs. Lucci. There are a lot of shards of glass in her skin, very close to her eye and under her chin. And it looks like your daughter has fractured her nose, too,” the doctor said.
My nose had blown up and swelled to more than twice its usual size, to the point where my face was beyond recognition. I never loved my nose in the first place, but now I was sure it was going to be a mess. My entire face was already black, blue, and green from the bruising. The doctor explained that I was going to need reconstructive surgery. He offered to call a plastic surgeon. In those days, plastic surgery was still a very scary and unknown proposition. The only images I had ever seen were in the movies of people coming out of the operating room wrapped up in bandages, looking like mummies. Although my mother probably knew better, she declined his offer to call the plastic surgeon. I’m sure she reasoned that it was better to act fast than to wait for his arrival, since enough time had already passed getting me from one hospital to another.
I ended up on the operating table for four and a half hours so the doctor could remove even the tiniest pieces of glass and take his time meticulously stitching me up. I don’t recall exactly how many stitches I needed, but I ended up with several above my right eye and under my jaw, too. As luck would have it, my surgeon that night was a resident in plastic surgery. He was young, fearless, and caring—three traits you want in a skilled surgeon. Perhaps it was divine intervention that I ended up on his table that night. If I hadn’t, I was told the glass could have traveled and cost me my eyesight. I know I would have been permanently disfigured and left with irreparable scarring. I was told that I would probably lose part of my right eyebrow from the damage and that it would never grow back. And, although I still have a scar just above my right eye, thankfully it’s only visible to those who have ever done my makeup or can get close enough to see it.
I am most grateful to that doctor for the way things turned out. It took me more than two months to recover from the accident. I spent the bulk of that time recuperating at my parents’ home in Garden City. Whenever I’d get a bout of cabin fever, my mother usually offered to take me to our local Lord & Taylor for lunch. Everyone knows that a little shopping is always a good prescription when you’re feeling off, right? When we ventured out, I occasionally forgot that I had still had bandages on until I’d notice someone looking at me or a mother telling their child not to stare. I must have been a pretty scary sight and probably should have stayed home, but I felt cooped up and wanted to get out. We’d inevitably bump into someone from our town and they never quite knew what to say. It was uncomfortable for everyone.
I remained bandaged for most of my spring semester at school my junior year, so I didn’t attend any of my classes until the end of that semester. One of my school chums told me that Mr. Weyand was doing his best to prepare the other girls in my class for my eventual return. He reminded them that when I did come back to class, it was surely going to be an adjustment for us all. I think Mr. Weyand was trying to warn them that I might not be the same girl I used to be and they should only be pleasant and supportive.
When I finally returned to class, I had started to heal better than anyone expected. My scars weren’t as noticeable as we anticipated. I believe wholeheartedly that
it was all due to the wonderful and meticulous attention I received from the resident surgeon who stitched me up.
I spent the summer of 1967 working as a waitress at the Garden City Hotel again. I began bumping into Helmut on a fairly regular basis. He had a German girlfriend who was one of the hostesses at the hotel. I loved to stand off in a corner and listen to the two of them speaking German to each other. Even though I didn’t understand a single word they were saying, I thought they sounded so sophisticated and smart. By this time, RG had moved to New York. Once we started living in the same city, we spent a lot more time together and I realized we really weren’t suited for each other. A girl knows when something isn’t right. I loved RG, I adored his family, but we weren’t meant to spend the rest of our lives together. I was convinced that it was time to break off our engagement. It wasn’t just because I was so attracted to Helmut. There were lots of men I was meeting whom I found myself attracted to. Also, I realized that I wanted to be free to pursue my career after I graduated. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it would be a lot harder later on to get out of a marriage that wasn’t working than it would be to call off the engagement now. It would be better to bite the bullet and let us both go free rather than potentially be miserable or make a truly regrettable mistake. Although I knew it would hurt RG, it was the right thing to do. I gently broke the news to him that things were not going to work. He accepted what I had to say and we each went our own way.