Coming To

"Oooh, Oooh, child..."

"...If you're lucky, eventually you realize that the only way things are gonna get easier is if you get up off your ass and make it happen yourself."

I came to that conclusion over the weekend, while lying flat on my back on my bed directly under my oscillating fan. You recall many descriptions of me lying in that position, don't you? In fact, if any compromising photos of me ever turn up on the Internet, that's
what they'll depict: A flop-sweaty, Jockey-drawers wearing Rachel, arms and legs akimbo, deep in the throes of a mind-bending, earth-shattering.....hot flash.


Last week was so bad, in fact, that my blood pressure shot up to 190 over 101 at one point. Deciding it might be prudent to avoid delving the antediluvian horrors of the Kenyan Health Care System while in full cardiac arrest, I sought help. I was given another hypertension medication, and told to go home and rest. Which I would have done, if it weren't for the blasted night sweats and hot flashes. Most times, if you put your hand on my skin, it's like placing it on a dry pancake griddle that's slowly getting warmer. That is, until the sheen of sweat rises, and your skin feels clammy and hot at the same time. And your emotions? Fuh-geddaboudit.


Like I've said plenty of times before, I bore myself when describing my perimenopausal peregrinations, so I won't venture too deep into this train of thought. Just know that for most of last week, I gave myself full permission to marinate like a goat shank in self-pity, frustration and bottled water, using the occasional Double Stuff Oreo f0r fuel. Thanks to recent musings, you already know part of why I've been in the emotional dumpster. Add another upcoming birthday into the mix, and basically, I've been a useless heffalump.


But then, last Saturday morning, something clicked. Right near the tail end of those lost
days of hormonal despair, I flipped past a CNBC International documentary about legendary book and magazine illustrator NC Wyeth and his family. I knew the name, and of course had heard of his equally legendary painter son Andrew, so I decided to watch. (Hell, it was better than logging my thousandth viewing of "Mr. Bean" on BBC Entertainment.) Turns out Daddy Wyeth was a tortured genius of sorts. He always wanted to be known as a great painter, but was largely recognized solely for his illustration work.


That's why he devoted himself to nurturing his children's artistic talents. Especially Andrew; because of his frail health, Andrew was home schooled, his every artistic instinct lovingly indulged. By the time Andrew was a teenager, NC was raving over his skill. Sadly, he was also despairing over what he saw as his own failure to move beyond "mere" illustrator status.


Anyway, two comments from that documentary hit me like a depth charge. First, one of Andrew's fabulously successful siblings, inventor Nathaniel Wyeth, described the day in 1945 when their melancholic father was killed, on a railroad crossing, with his beloved, beautiful, curly-haired 4-year-old grandson Neely on the front seat beside him. Now, the official conclusion is that the car stalled on the tracks in the path of an oncoming train. In fact, the engineer recalled seeing NC Wyeth place his arm in front of the child, as if trying to shield him.


Still, the family knew NC Wyeth was often depressed, even hopeless at times. But even if he was suicidal, surely he wouldn't take that adored grandchild with him?


Would he?


Nathaniel's voice caught as he described the event, and then he was silent for a few seconds. Then he continued, "Sometimes, I think fiction writers are overpaid. Because when you look at real life, my god," he said.


Now, I've done my share of grieving over deceased family members. After all, I was "orphaned" at 44. And I still bear the "Scarlet S's" that all suicide survivors have emblazoned on their souls, thanks to my eldest brother David's choice. And I readily admit I'll probably never get over losing Julie. But can you imagine having to live with even the faintest possibility that your beloved, anguished father may have killed himself and your young child??? (Note: I hate to pile on here, but I also just read that NC and Nathaniel's wife were alleged to be having an affair...could that be why he took the boy with him? GEEZ....)


Anyway, the next 2-by-4 to my psyche came when Andrew Wyeth described how his father's death affected him. He bitterly regretted never doing a formal portrait of his father, and recalled how NC's love and nurturance had shaped him so profoundly. But then he concluded that, if you're lucky, the death of a loved one makes you "come to." It's like you've been existing on auto-pilot before hand, possibly in part because that person loved you so much, or because you depended on them for so much. When they're gone, you're frog-marched towards a more conscious awareness.


When that documentary ended, I took it as more of a sign than all the rainbows I've seen since October 19th, 2007 put together. After all, both Nathaniel and Andrew were quite elderly when they shared those remembrances. Nathaniel lived 45 years after his father and son died so horrifically. "Frail, sickly" Andrew died just 9 months ago at age 91--64 years later. Imagine all those decades of enduring profound losses, and somehow still functioning.


Kinda made me reconsider the whole "Lying On My Bed Feeling Sorry For Myself For Being a Bloated, Hot-flashing, Middle-aged Cry Baby Who Misses Her Big Sister" scenario. After all, the younger Wyeths managed to live up to their father's pride in their talent and accomplishments, to even surpass his wildest dreams for them. They even managed to embody the goal he felt he'd been denied.


So, I decided to use one of Andrew Wyeth's paintings to illustrate this posting. It's called "Groundhog Day," and I remember watching the Bill Murray movie of the same name with Julie once. It reminds me that yes, quite often every day can be a challenge, even a boring burden at times. But as long as you "come to" the next day, you're obligated to venture forth, to at least explore what's gonna happen. And unlike the movie, more often than we're willing to admit, we get to write our own script.

P.S. Okay, I try not to read too much into things, but sometimes, instead of hot flashes, I get chills.......

I just finished reading NC Wyeth's Wikipedia biography. He was born on October 22nd.

He died on October 19th.