Bea lies in bed, sedated, feeling no pain.
Due to the general euphoria after World War II, we baby boomers were raised under extraordinary circumstances. Well-meaning parents misled us into thinking life was like a fairy tale. They did their best to shelter the pastel-colored nurseries of America and downplayed the possibility of nuclear war. Consecutive scientific breakthroughs created the illusion that civilization had won out in the battle with germs. Baby boomers grew up bubble-children, in glorious ignorance of pain.
But pain is a part of life.
Bea had her share. Sibling rivalry, sexual abuse, blame at the death of a little brother, estrangement from brother Hunter due to schizophrenia. My mother gave up her first love because of parental disapproval. Breakup with beau Bill Whitney must have been painful. She had an abortion, then lost her job at CBS. Finally, she married a man who had lived through Revolution, as damaging to the psyche as the Holocaust, although the annihilation of the Russian aristocracy received no media coverage. Despite all this, Bea bought into the dream that life was a garden party without ants. She bit off big bites and chewed hard. Anything was possible if you just tried. I marvel at her consistent optimism. It certainly brightened my world.
I am glad the morphine keeps her protected, but I miss her already …