What, me worry? My SUPERHERO

MY(SUPER) HERO

What? Me? Worry? 

          I was born in 1943 in New York City housing projects with that worry gene- no one knew about genes then- but do not know why me. Maybe it was the threat of the big war. Bomb shelters and signs for them all over. Ration cards talked about. Maybe it was because my father was drafted and my family constantly worried about him being sent overseas. Maybe money and poverty. Maybe who knows why? As a tiny thing, I’d sit and twirl my curly hair and suck my right thumb for a comfort that didn’t come. I couldn’t even talk yet. I just pulled my hair hard; I just had a sore thumb.

          In the mid-50’s I put a face onto my worry, Alfred E. Neuman, later spelled Newman. Mad Magazine’s, so popular and acceptable icon, then. He was a cover-boy; he even was designated to be a write-in for president (wow- there’s something to really think about in this political climate!). Alfred. E. Newman, spaced teeth, reddish hair, not good looking, became my new superhero. I hung his picture on the wall in my room, my side, not my sister’s; she thought it ridiculous; and bowed down to it each day, praying that he would take over the worry, morph into it, not me. It didn’t work. I still worried. I had to choose other Gods. I’m still searching.

          For me, worrying often came with feeling helpless and nauseous, throwing up, then feeling purged, getting rid of the worry, I guess. I bit my nails. I had to hide my hands. I scrunched up my face to make it seem unlikely I was concerned. But it was disheartening, kind of disgusting, and I must admit still worrisome for me. And still the worry continued. And lingered. I even tried exorcising it by writing it down and crumbling the pages and tossing them away. I made up songs about it.

          Little me worried about getting to school on time and doing well. I’d set out my clothes and wake up before the sun. About friends- yes that was a big one! Would I be liked? And about the arguments in my family. Which grandma loved you more?  I worried about being fat. And acne. No superhero could resolve those battles. 

          But these kinds of worries took a different turn as I began to learn about real concerns, like illnesses that could kill. So from the early age, a cough or cold became a symptom for let’s say polio or TB.  I didn't go near dirty water. I never walked under a ladder. Jerry Lewis’ telethon was lethal but alluring- I could soon become a Cerebral Palsy victim and therefore made the required phone call on my dial phone and promised money from my meager allowance to continue research and I prayed. 

          While my friends were kissing (in their minds) Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter and Tony Curtis, dancing to The Hop and doing the Twist, I was kissing Jonas Salk. Or Sabin. I was revering Lister and Madame Curie. Oh, thank you for my polio shot. Oh thank you for teaching me about washing hands.

          As I grew up, certain illnesses became less worrisome I thought because I outgrew them. But new ones came like MS; cancers began to haunt me as society learned more about them. Parkinsons was not so far away. Maybe dementia. Even osteoporosis was treacherous. A cold could be anything. A pimple, the end of the world. I concentrated on good wholesome foods, the best deodorants, in my way before they became vogue, good clean products and exercise. And yoga. And meditation later on. But still I worried.

          I think when boys entered my teenage life, worry may have just for a minute taken a new and healthier turn. Being liked was important. I had to use my energies to become gaw-jus and dress well and do well in school; sickness could not be in the picture, well, not as much maybe. And I could never reveal to a date my superhero fetish, my overwhelming worries. My love for Alfred. 

          Travelling was important to me and could offer excitement and wonder and I just couldn’t wait to do it, but it could also cause me to contract Ebola, SARS, Dengue fever. Ticks. Chiggers. Even a mosquito bite could prove to be lethal. My medicine bag weighed more than me.  

          And soon in my ever aging life, my worries took on a new look. I began to expand my range. I worried about you and others. Would what could befall me, could strike someone I cared about? It was too hard to bear. I had aging parents, family, and friends. I’d marry and have children. E-GADs! Did I have enough in me to worry for us all. Was there a way to share it?

          But as I aged I got smarter then, too; I read more. There was more to read. And accessing information was easy. The world allowed me to find out more; it encouraged me. It frightened me more. But in many ways it felt hopeful. And a little freeing. My superhero was slowly becoming un-heroic, impotent.  Again I'd have to seek new gods. And still I would check every ache, every pimple, every droopy eye, or bruise. At any minute whatever ailed me could turn lethal. And there was of course a dangerous world out there.

          Now, sometimes worrying is good. I came to that realization at some point in time. The Cuban Missile Crisis way back when deserved thought, other political dangers, they were ok to worry about. Who would be President.  Bombs, radiation. Falling off a cliff on a hike. Drowing in a resort pool. Missing a flight.

           Now a COVID virus. A real worry. For me for the world. I worry about quarantine. I worry about elevators and laundry rooms and shopping- grown up worries.  I worry if I will be alive to see the end of it and forge a new beginning. Maybe the biggest worry for me ever. 

          Everything I’d kvetch about and share- debilitating, time-consuming. I know that. But that continues today. I must admit, with the little white pill every morning, I worry less, or less intensely. And still I do not understand it all. Why worry? Why waste all that energy when maybe one day later, one week later, two years from now, the things causing all that angst are gone or at least if there, treatable.

          And now there are fewer days in front of me than in back. I am 77. 

I am on a perpetual quest to figure it out.

          Alfred E. Newman has long gone from my life. 

          Medicare has taken his place.