Being ill will humble you faster than anything. There is no self-importance when you are unable to get out of bed. When you are forced to rely on others for basic human needs you realize how breakable and vulnerable you really are. So, the best thing that ever happened to me was my inability to help myself, though at the time I could not see it that way. The accident that caused my disability was dreadful, and the polio took its toll on my child body. These misfortunates very nearly killed me. But the human spirit knows when it must go on, and if it must, it will quickly heal.
As an adult I experienced debilitating pain. Many times, I was tempted to give up; to refuse surgery and to live in a wheelchair. But I was jolted back to reality each time by my art. It had a life of its own. There was always something to say. Had I been the sort of person without a definite opinion, I might have resigned myself to the fate of an invalid. I thought often of that word as meaning "not valid," as having no meaning, no weight or effect, and wasting this life was not an option. I instinctively knew that life was precious-it was worth something, and I could not be wasting my precious time.
I wished to bring a child into the world because it would be another way, other than my art, of leaving my signature. Children are our immortality. But it was not destined to be, and each miscarriage carried away a piece of my heart. Then I would throw myself into my art as if each piece were my gift to the world, a colorful and daring child that bore my name alone. It was as if each time we tried to create a little "us" God said, "No." I could not comprehend why I was being denied the most fundamental function of womanhood, which is to bear a child. I did not understand why I had suffered the polio that withered my leg, and why the accident had pierced my uterus. My life was plagued with questions of why. But "why" is the only dumb question, dumb because God never answers "why" with any response other than, "Because I said so." God is omniscient and can see the entire timeline. God sees our destinies from beginning to end, yet God does not owe us any explanation. We shake our fist at God when we suffer, but it is allowed no matter how horrific. And I came to believe that only souls who needed to evolve quickly would be born on this planet of unspeakable beauty and incomprehensible pain. It is not God's punishment or wrath which chastises us. It is our own soul's desire for growth. And while growth is the evidence of progress, it can be a struggle, and heartbreaking to grow.
Strangely, my biggest pain was not the illness which restricted me. You can suffer a physical malady while still finding the good in living. But when you suffer mentally, when you are crushed like a flower psychologically, these stripes make a powerful and permanent imprint. The words spoken in haste or misdeeds done may fade with time, but like a scar you forever carry the mark. And when you touch it, though the trauma has long passed, the pain is newly awakened. It is said that there is no worse pain than a broken heart, and I found this to be true. I would have rather died a hundred physical deaths than to walk about aching on the inside because it infects your mood, your productivity, and your zest for living. Shakespeare was correct to write Romeo and Juliette as a tragedy, for true love torn asunder can make the lovers despondent unto death. They would rather die together than be separated. More than a romantic notion, it was a reality of my life.
For those struggling with a broken heart, I offer only this: you must come to care about yourself again. When you love someone or something completely, you put them first, and yourself last. You will deny yourself happiness, sleep, proper nourishment, and even hope. You will punish yourself in these ways because grief always punishes us, it never rewards. Thought I, a hunger strike will hurt only myself. When I became emaciated, a doctor friend stepped in and had a nurse force-feed me a liquid diet. I was so despondent that I would rather die, and to die by starvation, a long, torturous death. But nobody would allow me to die. Death could not kill me, nor did heartbreak. I thought of myself as an invincible woman not because I chose it, but it was forced upon me. And in time I felt that I had meaning and purpose again, that my happiness was not dependent on anyone, not even God. God and I became partners; we each did our part. I prayed and had faith, even if it was a private and silent faith, and God kept my broken heart beating.
Until the pain reduced me to a wheelchair and then bound me to the bed. I painted a final portrait of brightly colored watermelons, so unlike the serious abstracts I had become known for. I wanted to leave the world a reflection of simplicity and purity, and what could be more wholesome than Mexican watermelons? I left a spot of joy behind, an oasis of fruit. Then the pneumonia worsened and because I was bed-bound there was no escaping it. It gobbled me up just as the pain medication did. My story, my talent, my broken body and my marred heart was swallowed up before I could turn fifty. Being broken my entire life was not my choice but a consequence of coming into this world where dreams are shattered so that we might learn humility. And Frida did.