What me worry- a romance with Alfred E. Newman (from MAD)

What? Me? Worry?

          No one in 1943, a year in the Great War, WWII, when I was born, knew that the worry gene existed. The world was busy with other things. And probably no one knew any genes existed. I thank God I was born and with my birth, as time moved along, worry genes and rumination and over-thinking genes became common knowledge! 

And in the mid-50’s I put a face onto it, this worry thing. I called it Alfred E. Newman, the icon of MAD MAGAZINE, a famous comic book. I hung Al’s picture on the wall in my room and prayed to it each day, praying that Al would take on the worry, not me. It didn’t work. I had to choose other Gods.

          For me, worrying often came with throwing up, getting rid of the worry, I guess. But it was disheartening and I must admit worrisome. But still it continued. It was I guess like purging the problem or as I learned, being in control of something so out of control. That worried me.

          Little me worried about big and little things, getting to school on time and doing well. About friends- yes that was a big one! Did they like me? Did they not? Could I go to their house after school or could they come to mine? Would my grades be good? Would I get enough gold stars? And about the arguments in my family. Who loved who more? Which grandparent made better gefilte fish.  About whether the world would end. Would it be enough to “take cover?” Could I survive burns from radiation. A really worry. 

          But these kinds of worries took a different turn as I began to learn about real concerns like the illnesses that could kill. There were so many and I knew I just could not know them all and that too became a concern. So from the early age, a cough or cold was never just a cough or cold, treatable with Vicks or a vaporizer common in every home. It became a symptom for let’s say polio or TB. Or a disease I read about caused by the tse tse fly. Jerry Lewis’ telethon was dangerous, almost lethal for me, but I was hooked. I gave my allowance to the person on the phone. Once I even spoke to Jerry and even donated more. I worried I might soon become a Cerebral Palsey victim. I gave more money and I prayed again. Pimples could be cancer; coughs definitely travelling in the lungs, and rashes, something akin to a plague. My bones might twist; my nose fall from leprosy, I could be bald, get alopecia, and even more.

          While my friends were kissing idols(in their minds -Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter), I was kissing Banting and Best for their diabetes work. And Jonas Salk. I knew all about him and his contribution to the world. Oh, thank you for my polio shot. Thank you too Lister, Marie Curie, every scientist, and the Department of Health.

          As I grew up, certain illnesses became less worrisome I thought because I would outgrow them. But new ones came like MS. I could live forever in a wheel chair. Cancers began to haunt me as society learned more about them. And there were many and some were silent and some relegated only to Ashkenazim Jews, and damn, I was in that category.  Heart attacks and strokes were part of my everyday vocabulary. To deal with this, I concentrated on eating good foods, the best deodorants, getting enough sleep, fresh air, and in my way before it became vogue, good clean products and exercise. But still I worried. And worried.

          And my worries soon took a new tack. I began to expand my range of worry, getting more and more skilled in the practice. I added to the mix, worries about you and others. Would what could befall me, could befall you, and then strike someone I cared about? It was too hard to bear. After all, there were billions in this world. 

          Maybe when boys and dating entered my life, worry took a new and healthier turn. I had to use my energies to become gaw-jus and sexy; sickness could not be in the picture, well, not as much maybe. But I would get smarter then, too; I could read more. Understand more. Articulate more. There were more cures for things I learned. The world allowed me to find out more. 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.

          I worried less about the me when I had kids- Did they have anything wrong? What could befall them? New illness became available to them. While parents were thinking about the best schools for their progeny, I was thinking of the best doctors. I reserved in advance the dates for vaccines and other shots.

          I had elderly parents to worry about too. Would they fall? Would they be able to count their pills? Would they get enough to drink? And I worried they worried about me.

          Now, sometimes worrying is good. The Cuban Missile Crisis, other political dangers like wars, who was running the governments, they were ok to worry about. And I could work on making those things better. I could worry less if I wanted to. Therapy was known to me; medicines could help. I could drink myself free of worry or smoke a joint. But to think about every kvetch, well that was becoming debilitating. Yet often in some form, 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? What? Me worry? Why waste all that energy when maybe one day later, one week later, the things causing all that angst is gone or at least if there, treatable. Or maybe something

worse comes along to preoccupy me. 

          I am on a perpetual quest to figure it out. Alfred E. Newman has long gone from my life. Medicare has taken his place.

          (And most worrisome as I write, 2020- the threat of this virus- I cannot even begin to write about that worry now). But soon I will. Soon enough.