Emergency Preparedness

When I was 24 years old, I went to my gynecologist and asked her to kindly remove my hymen. Dr. Edwards looked at me confused for several seconds before responding:

The Kind Doctor (KD): "What . . . You want to me to remove your what?"

I take my legs out of the stirrups.

JM: "I want you to bust out my hymen. Can't you--you know--poke it or something so that it goes away?"

The doctor sits down.

KD: "And why are you asking me this now?"

JM: "I don't want to have it anymore. It's a liability really."

KD: "A liability?!?"

JM: "Yeah, I mean what if I get raped; wouldn't it be better if I didn't have it at all? I'm just trying to prevent a horrible situation from being even that much more horrible."

KD: "Why are you thinking about this?"

JM: "I don't know I just want to be prepared. You know, just in case. Don't other lesbians ask for this?"

KD: "Nope, you're my first."

Needless to say, the kind doctor never had to medically pop my cherry as it was already gone--vanished sometime in my youth. Maybe from sports, maybe from wishful thinking, or maybe from a really long tampon. Who knows?

I have been thinking a lot about this moment because it typifies my former approach to life. Before my world changed forever on October 1, 2008, I lived my life always looking for the emergency exits. Whenever I entered a building, I made sure to note the fire exits. I rode my scooter with my hands cupped over the brakes in case I needed to stop suddenly. I kept a grip on the doors of taxis just in case I needed to jump out when the cabbie tried to kidnap me. I even had an earthquake preparedness kit when I lived in---Virginia (stocked with water, tools, beef jerky, fire blanket, change of clothes, the complete works of William Shakespeare, and iodine tablets).

I convinced myself that with the right amount of preparation, both physically and mentally, I would be equipped and ready for anything. I assumed that if Cindy ever got sick that we would be dealing with a protracted illness (maybe diabetes? maybe lung cancer?). And I was ready to be with her for the long haul (in my mind there was always going to be some version of a "long haul"). This should explain why I was in no way prepared for the ferocious speed of events that occurred the night of October 1.

When she went into the seizure, I knew this was "it." But, I was not prepared. Where was her insurance card? Should I bring a change of clothes for her to the hospital? Why hadn't we done our goddamn advance directives? Why was our last conversation about a f*cking pair of batteries?

When Liz found me in the emergency room standing outside of Cindy's door, I was a frantic, unrecognizable mess. Violent waves of emotion were wriggling their way through my body: unbridled panic, shock, and seething anger at myself for not being more prepared. According to Liz, (I have no recollection of this), I was shouting to the nurses, pacing up and down, and tapping my head. Somehow she pushed me over to the waiting area, smacked me, and then threw my head between my legs. To this day, it amazes me that I have no memory of Liz hitting me.

In the more than six months that have passed since Cindy passed away on 10/14/2008, I have started to accept the inevitable limitations of emergency preparedness. There was no way we could have planned for the aneurysm. People don't just stroll into a hospital and request a cat scan. And unlike taking my temperature to detect a fever, I can't perform an MRI from home. Sure, I may have known where the fire exits were in the building, but what if they were blocked or the door was locked. Me not having a hymen wasn't going to prevent the assault from happening.

On Sunday, I am running the GW Parkway Classic 5K. This is my first race without Cindy there to cheer me at the end. To commemorate the event, I had a performance shirt custom made (shown in the photo at the top of this entry). The shirt reads: "In Loving Memory of Cindy. 1968 to 2008." Cindy had no idea she was going to die at age 40. But, she lived every single day to the fullest, made an imprint on the souls of most everyone she met, and gave herself completely to every friend and family member she had. I should take a lesson from Cindy and not waste my time preparing for the fire.