Princess Diana

By TAD BARTIMUS

Contrary to all rationality, millions of us around the world are still achingly sad over the loss of Diana, Princess of Wales. A cynical friend wonders why: "She was just a spoiled, rich woman of bad habits with too much time on her hands," says he. To which I reply: "You don't get it."

I'm not even sure I get it. I just know that I miss knowing she is out there somewhere. I am dismayed that death's bony finger pointed at such a vibrant young mother and said, "You." I am more aware of my own mortality, of the catch phrase "Life is short," because for her. And, silly as it seems, I feel sorry for myself.

Diana -- beautiful, vulnerable, manipulative Diana -- embodied all our fairy tales and nightmares.

Like little girls in all cultures who grew up on fairy tales and nightmares, I believed in my secret heart that the Princess would, in the end, live happily ever after. That's what we're promised from our first "Once upon a time ..." That's what we want to believe, no matter how tough it gets. Diana's death shockingly, violently blasted this myth to smithereens and we don't like it. When we cry for her, we cry for us.

Diana -- beautiful, vulnerable, manipulative Diana -- embodied all our fairy tales and nightmares. She was an adored daddy's girl abandoned by her mother. She was a Cinderella awakened by the kiss of a prince who ultimately rejected her. She had perfect children but when they started to grow up they left her to flail about for a new purpose. She had many acquaintances but few friends, and some of those betrayed her. She was picked to be a queen, then found wanting. When we met Diana she was an innocent upon whom the British Royal family had settled as a suitable brood mare for its emotionally constricted heir. With little education, no allies inside the palace, and a naivete we'll never see again in public life, she took her prince's hand and followed him right off the cliff.

No one ever asked Diana, "What do you do?" In the beginning, her job was just to be. Be beautiful, be sweet, be fertile. She was good at it. But after her sons started school and her husband publicly returned to his mistress just being wasn't enough. With no apprenticeship and no mentor, Diana floundered.

We watched, mesmerized, as she struggled to find herself. There were many bad trips down blind alleys: bulimia, attempted suicide, extravagance. The miracle was that she kept going, slowly making progress until she began to trust herself.

She shed disloyal hangers-on, got healthy, told the Queen to get off her back. She championed AIDS awareness, the homeless, the wretched. She took off her gloves and touched and hugged and laughed. No longer just somebody's wife (then ex-wife), somebody's mother, she had her own reasons to get up in the morning, to get dressed, answer mail, hold meetings. She stopped being a wrist ornament and became a powerful force who shrewdly wielded power and influence. She could raise millions of dollars for charity, change world policy with a well-aimed plea. Despite fierce opposition and no previous experience, she created her own job by reinventing herself as the "people's princess." When she died, at 36, Diana, Princess of Wales, was a full-fledged working woman.

The only thing left are snapshots. Always, there is the smile. And Diana eagerly reaching for her boys. There's the dazzling creature in a blue velvet dress dancing with a movie star at the White House while the man she loves stands with his back turned. Finally, there is a mature, determined woman in simple khaki slacks and a blue shirt, walking through a minefield alone. Reality as metaphor.

I hope Diana had joy in her short life. I hope she got it from her children, from her few real friends, from her sisters and brother, even from Charles. I hope her life as a working woman will be remembered, for it was her own creation, it was pure and true, and it never failed her.

I hope Dodi Fayed was a fabulous lover who made her feel beautiful and desirable and safe. I hope her last vacation, her last evening, was glorious. I hope she was deliriously in love, or at least believed she was. I hope she never knew what hit her. Most of all, I hope that in that last dark tunnel, someone was holding her hand.

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