My sisters, Mary and Nancy, were down from Chicago to help me celebrate my 63rd birthday in Athens, Ohio. We’d planned a dinner cruise on an Ohio River sternwheeler, a visit to an art quilt exhibit in town here, and a trip to a nearby wilderness zoo where the animals run free and the visitors are in cages.
At about 2 a.m. Saturday morning I began vomiting massive amounts of blood and wound up in an intensive care unit. I didn’t fully grasp at first how much they were struggling to keep me alive. To me it was a blur of beepers and frenzied people out there, remote from me. The second day in the ICU was when I comprehended: I'd lost half my blood. I could die.
I was in the hospital a week after that and coped with the terror by thinking about painting. At home now, Mary remains here taking care of me. And I’m still thinking about painting.
My dream is, when I retire at 65, to paint again, a hobby I haven’t pursued seriously since my 20s. Earlier at age 60 some instinct prompted, "Why wait? Start painting now." I did, and somehow despite the demands of work, life, people, dogs, gardens and the cruel innards of automobiles, I have done about twenty paintings. But I’ve not yet become a painter.
Now during recovery this is what I will do. Not just paint, but become a painter. This weekly blog is to be a journey of becoming. So, how to begin? That’s the easiest question I’ll face in this journey. Begin anything important by cleaning out the refrigerator.
I did. Mary helped me.
Survivor. Acrylic on tile, 12x12 inches, 2005, copyright ptw
