10 Things You May Not Have Known About Cindy

1. Cindy wanted to be the next Missy Elliot. Cindy always joked that the best hip-hop songs were the ones that sounded as if a 5-year old had written them. Think about it: “It’s Your Birthday” by 50 Cent. “Drop It Like It’s Hot” by Snoop Dogg. Or, how about this for simplicity: “It’s Hot in Here!“ by Nelly. Cindy was of the opinion that “if they can do it, why can’t I?” She actually kept a notebook on her nightstand so that she could jot down song lyrics as soon as they came into her head. My favorite song of hers was this gem titled: “Do It Like You Do It.”

2. Cindy hated runners. You may not have known this based on her perfect attendance at all my races. But, she hated runners with a passion. She could not stand that the majority of my races were full of gangly white people who stunk up the port-o-johns, gorged themselves on post-race bananas, and would run even during a heat advisory. Nonetheless, Cindy never missed a race of mine, even the ones that started at 6am. This Saturday, I am supposed to be doing the Crystal City Twilighter 5K and it will be the first race in 9 years that I may drop out of (Cindy and I had a great time at this race last year and made plans to run it together the next time). I’ve done three races since Cindy died, but I’ve always met up with friends before and after them. I don’t know anyone doing this race and, maybe I am a wimp, but I can’t go by myself. It’s too depressing.

3. Cindy often dreamed of reuniting Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, and Danny DeVito. I can’t tell you how many times Cindy asked me to brainstorm ideas for a reunion movie for her favorite “Romancing the Stone” actors. She was convinced it would be a blockbuster and that it would remind the world just how potent the chemistry was between Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner.

4. Cindy smelled. Those closest to her may already know this, but Cindy had a funk. She used to refer to this as her ethnic “spiciness.” No matter how much deodorant or Channel Allure she wore, she had a permanent smell. The odor was not always unpleasant, but it was uniquely Cindy’s. The evening before she was taken off the respirator, I remember crawling my way up to our bedroom, kneeling before her pile of dirty laundry, and desperately trying to take in as much of her smell as I could. I grasped every article of clothing one-by-one and held it up to my nose. At some point, my friends Nikki and Tanya discovered me upstairs sniffing all these clothes and I turned to them with eyes full of tears and said, “If you were me, you’d do this too.”

5. Cindy rarely cried. I can count the number of times I witnessed Cindy cry on one hand. One time, about a month before the aneurysm, we went to the movies. I remember staying for the end credits and while we sat, Cindy observed a heavy-set, older woman with a cane trying to exit her row. The stadium theater was packed and no one coming down the aisle stairs was giving this elderly woman room to go. Cindy turned to me repeatedly and said, “Why won’t any of these people let her go?” After the crowd diminished, the woman finally left by herself. At this point, Cindy turned to me and there were tears in her eyes: “Why didn‘t anyone notice her?”

6. Cindy experienced racism throughout her life. Cindy often told me stories about how she got teased as a kid on account of being Asian. She once told me this story about the time she drove back from a concert with an African-American male friend of hers. On the way home, the car broke down. It was a dark, star-less night, and despite their best efforts to wave down a car, no one stopped for them. Finally, after three hours, a cop car drove by. They explained their situation to the officer, but instead of offering to help them, he said there was nothing he could do for them and drove away. Cindy was convinced that, had they been white, the officer would have at least called for help for them.

7. Cindy wasn’t a lesbian. Despite having mostly been in relationships with other women, Cindy did not identify as lesbian. She always said that she “loved the person, not the gender.” At first this bothered me, but the more I got to know Cindy, the more I believed that she truly loved all kinds of people. The only time this affected me was when, after her death, I discovered that her company did, in fact, offer domestic partner health benefits. Cindy never mentioned this to me.

8. Cindy blamed British new-wave rock stars from the 1980s for making us all gay. She specifically pointed her finger at these pretty-boy, eyeshadow-wearing artists: Boy George (Culture Club), George Michael (Wham!), Limahl (Kajagoogoo), and Nick Rhodes (Duran Duran).

9. Cindy's clothes and shoes took up almost every closet in the house. I used to get angry about this: "Why do you have so many clothes, but yet still wear the same hooded sweatshirt and Keene sandals everyday?" She would claim that her clothes were "classic" and that as soon as she lost some weight she would be wearing them again. When I pulled out her Ocean Pacific jam shorts from the 80s and her ginormous fleece sweatshirt from the 90s, I challenged her: "This is classic?"

10. Cindy’s primary care physician broke up with her once. Four years ago, Cindy stepped on a rusty nail on our deck and called our primary care doctor for a tetanus shot. The receptionist informed Cindy that the doctor was no longer seeing her. Having been to this much-loved doctor for several years, Cindy was left devastated and heartbroken (this was actually one of those few times I saw her cry). A couple of months later, I visited the doctor for my check-up and asked her point-blank why she dumped Cindy. She said, “I was tired of watching Cindy kill herself.” Cindy consistently ignored the doctor’s recommendations regarding her weight, her blood pressure, and her smoking. Rising to Cindy’s defense, I explained to the doctor that Cindy had just quit smoking a month ago, that she had started taking her blood pressure medicine again, and that she had bought a blood pressure machine for home. After some additional pleading, the good doctor agreed to take her back as long as Cindy kept to those changes. I promised her that she would.

The Age of Innocence

In the summer of 1993, I proposed to my then-girlfriend while we sat in her car listening to "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots on the FM radio. Although this was well past Stonewall, it was still long before many states would even begin pondering gay marriage. Melissa Etheridge had only just come out in January of that year. Ellen DeGeneres was still assumed to be that straight woman who loved wearing vests. And the only network that would have aired a show like "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila" would have been the Playboy Channel. So yes, in the summer of 1993, I popped the question to, as luck would have it, an extremely Orthodox Jewish girl. Do I even need to continue?

Prior to that evening, my then-girlfriend (I'll call her "FF") and I had not even identified as "lesbians." Like most newbies, we just happened to be two gals that loved each other and that also liked to kiss on the mouth and with tongue. For that entire summer, I lived this secret life and devoted every thought and action to FF. I isolated myself from all my friends and kept my entire family in the dark. FF, on the other hand, did tell her rabbi about me--somewhat. According to FF, the rabbi was really excited to one day meet her Jewish boyfriend, "Jason."

For several months, FF and I continued our charade. It was not until the night of the proposal that I finally challenged the definition of our relationship. Earlier that day, I had received a letter in the mail from the one person that knew about me and FF. In the sweetest letter ever written, Maria congratulated us for finding love and for being a really "cute lesbian couple." I loved this letter so much--I probably read it 20 times. It was the first time someone had referred to us as "lesbians" and I accepted and cherished the label immediately. Unfortunately, I never should have assumed the same for FF.

During my proposal/monologue, I seized every romantic cliche known to man to describe our love and I thought it was going well. FF was holding my hand, her head was on my shoulder, UB40 came on the car radio, and so I decided to read the letter to her. When I reached the end, I was crying. Then, I looked over at FF. She was no longer on my shoulder. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was backed up against the car door. I asked her about five times what was wrong before she finally launched into a tirade about how she was not a disgusting lesbian, how Maria had nerve for assuming that, and how I was crazy and perverted for thinking that we had any kind of future together.

I don't remember how I got home that evening. But what I do remember is the next morning and resolving myself to pulling an Anna Karenina on the LIRR train tracks (Note: I was only 18 at the time and somewhat overly dramatic). I don't know why, but when I arrived at the train station I made a bargain with myself. I said that if I could get my friend Maria on the phone, I would not do what I set out to do. Lucky for me I had a quarter in my pocket and, even better, Maria answered the phone.

In retrospect, the failure of that relationship and the homophobia that I witnessed on the part of FF made me who I am today. I went on to become a big-time feminist, supporter of gay rights, and I always made sure to never ever again isolate myself from my friends and family. Through the years, I have amassed tons of fantastic, close friends, learned to rely on my family's support, and have always made sure to have at least 5 friends that I could count on/run away to if I needed help. After we broke up, I resolved myself to do whatever necessary to become strong and confident because I was never going to endure someone else's homophobia without being properly armed next time.

When Cindy went into the hospital, I immediately drew upon the mental artillery for the courage to make it through the day. And, if not for what I went through in 1993, I may not have had the army of friends that stood by my side at the hospital and afterwards. I'll be honest, in the days after Cindy died, I did find myself making bargains like the one I made the day after the proposal. The trick I found was to dare myself to make it through the day. If I could make it through the day, I would be fine. And I've made it through lots of days--269 of them in fact. But, I am so tired of living day-to-day. I don't know what I am going through right now, but I am so sick of the advice to just get through the day. I can get through the day no problem. What I want to know now is when I get to think about my future again? I'm a 34-year old widow who wants to start her life now.

I Don't Care that Michael Jackson is Dead

Before becoming a widow, I used to wonder what possessed people to reenact Civil War battles or what compelled someone to camp in a "pretend" ditch while reenacting a World War I battle. War is horrifying, rather indescribable, and I would think that the majority of people who went through it for real the first time would not want to relive it. But yet, some people want to know what it "felt" like. How heavy did the clothing feel on their bodies when it was pouring down rain? What was morale like when half the battalion was shot down? Or, more importantly, what did the food taste like?

But now that I am widow, I finally understand the drive to reenact. There is something powerful about not forgetting--about walking over fading footprints. Since Cindy died, I often relive in my mind those 14 days in October. I force myself to remember how soft her palm felt in my hand when we went to sleep at 11:58pm. Who could predict that the aneurysm would burst at 11:59pm? I cannot allow myself to forget that final moment of tenderness between us. I am obligated to reenact that minute in my mind.

I recently looked up an old friend from Cindy and my past. She was someone whom Cindy and I lost touch with, but always thought of over the years. For the last three months, I have scoured the Internet to find out her whereabouts. She was the only person I failed to contact in October to break the news about Cindy's death (I had an old e-mail address for her). It drove me crazy that she had no idea that Cindy had died. I started running by her house in D.C. during my evening jogs in hopes that I would see her sitting in the window and could "bump" into her. Finally, last week I found her on LinkedIn and reconnected with her.

I don't know how to explain the next part (I wonder if other widows have gone through this). But, I was anxious/excited to tell her about Cindy's passing. When I knew that I was going to see her that evening, I was counting the minutes until I arrived at her house and sat on her couch. By that time, it was at least 260 days (or 8 months, 17 days) since Cindy died. That amount of time to me is ludicrous, but also frightening. I don't want anyone to forget Cindy. Soon, we are going to hit the year mark and people will have moved on. How can this be? I still cry about Cindy. So, it felt like I was downing an elixir when I shared the story of Cindy's passing with this old friend of ours. Something about remembering, reliving, and narrating the story of Cindy's time in the ICU and her subsequent death keeps Cindy present--it keeps Cindy's memory alive on Earth. I am so grateful to this friend who probably had no idea that our conversation was a salve to my frantic, anxious mind.

It's no secret that I see a therapist once a week to deal with my loss of Cindy. And each week I tell her the same thing. I can't get through a day without mentioning Cindy's name once to someone else. What's even better is when people initiate a recollection about Cindy to me. I don't feel as guilty when someone else mentions her name first. It's the first and only addiction I have ever had in my life. But, I am concerned that I am going to alienate friends, turn off people who can't "go there" again, or worse, become that Debbie Downer that everyone avoids.

I wish I could just pay someone 50 bucks a week to reminisce with me about Cindy for an hour. What can I say? I miss her. I miss her friendship. I miss her advice on how to not be so "stiff and white." I miss her guidance on how to be more affectionate with my friends. I miss her knowledge of 1980s alternative music. I miss her unconditional support of my career and my writing. I miss her ability to eat any leftover regardless of discoloration and smell. I miss her soft hands. I miss her voice. I miss her generosity. I miss the sight of her holding a baby. Oh boy, do I miss the sight of that. I miss her shouting "People!" through the Barretts mail slot (as opposed to knocking on the door). I miss her presence at my family gatherings. I miss her Sanford and Son car. I miss her little Fred Flintstone feet. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

I want to tell you that after 266 days that it gets easier. And sure, the passage of time helps me move forward with my life. But, it also lunges me into a defensive position where all I want to do is prevent Cindy's footprints from fading.

Au Revoir April

If I let it affect everything, it's gonna own everything. I don't deny or pretend it's not there, but if I don't allow it to be bigger than it is, I can do everything else.

Michael J. Fox

After Cindy died and I was on sabbatical from work, I spent most of my days in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC. Walking into the various rooms with the multitude of paintings and photographs of people, I felt simultaneously alone and crowded.

I must have visited the "American Presidents" collection at least a dozen times (each time trying to guess the President in the portrait without reading the adjacent signage). One photograph in particular resonated with me even though I have seen this photo many times before. This iconic photo was the one of Jackie O at the swearing in of Lyndon Baines Johnson on the Presidential airplane. Anyone who has witnessed the death of a loved one can sympathize with the expression on Jackie O' face. Her face reveals at once complete shock and resignation.


I know that when I was alone with Cindy witnessing her body and mind succumb to the aneurysm, I was an utter mess. I kept begging her to respond to her name. I said I love you over and over. I touched her hand and told her that it was going to be okay and to just "hold on." The thoughts in my mind were traveling at supersonic speeds and my eyes darted left and right. My shaking hands were barely able to operate a cell phone.

I wrote in my last blog entry how Liz had to punch me across the face to calm me down. I now know that had Liz not done that, I would never have been able to resign myself to doing what needed to be done. When I look at that photo of Jackie O, I wonder who slapped her across the face so that she could do what she needed to do at that moment.

In addition to the Presidential photos, I also always made sure to walk through the "Twentieth-Century Americans" collection. I received hope and comfort from the faces and stories of some of the strongest and most courageous people in my lifetime. Interestingly, out of all the portraits in this collection, the photograph that I spent the most time absorbing was the one of Michael J. Fox (shown above).

I think what amazed me was how the quote that appeared to the left of the photo neatly summed up my philosophy on widowhood. I re-read this quote when I visited the Portrait Gallery on Cindy's birthday on March 29th. I expected this quote to serve as my mantra for the coming month.

However, April has been my worst month this year. On April 4th, I moved out of the old house entirely (I packed up almost 8 years worth of possessions in 48 minutes). On April 14th was the 6-month anniversary of Cindy's death. At midnight on Tax Day, I remembered all the years of watching Cindy start her taxes at 11:30pm the day they were due and then racing to the post office to get them in on time. One year Cindy even sweet-talked a grumpy postal clerk to "turn back" the date on his postmark stamp since the time was 12:03am and her taxes were technically late. Then came Easter and Passover--holidays that I vividly remember celebrating with Cindy. On April 26th, I did my first race without Cindy cheering me on at the end and taking pictures.

April has been a particularly wet month with bouts of crying in the car, in the shower, at work, before meetings, during meetings, on my runs, and even once during a meditation class. I was bawling yesterday just five minutes before entering a party for one my clients, a candy association. Cindy would have loved the mounds of candy and chocolate given to us at this party. I felt as if I were in "Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory" (one of Cindy's all-time favorite movies).

The problem is that I never know when these crying spasms are going to occur. Recently, I compared my widowhood to being afflicted with a chronic condition like colitis or irritable bowel. You just never know when your body is going to need to give itself over to it. And I accept it. I accept that this is now a part of my life. Like Michael J. Fox and his Parkinson's, I don't pretend it's not there. And like Jackie O, I resign myself to doing what I need to do.

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.

Happy Birthday Cindy (A Nocturne in E Minor)

Tonight I sit at the computer like a pianist in front of her instrument. I crack my knuckles and roll my neck around my shoulders in preparation for the solo performance. I raise my hands high above the keys as if I am about to commence a dramatic Mozart concerto, but at the last moment I shift gears and opt for a pensive Chopin nocturne instead.

Although the distance between blog entries increases, I am not without moments and thoughts that imprint my widowed soul. In the past couple of months, I have been on the receiving end of some anger-filled sentiments and doubts about my grieving process. Many times I have wanted to run to the blog and slam my fingers on the keys as I rail against those who truly know nothing about my experience.

But, if there is one thing that I have learned from the last five and a half months, it is that people experience grief in a variety of ways. Bereavement is a subjective experience complicated by the passage of time. On the one hand, our wounded bodies appreciate the blunting that naturally occurs as the distance from the death increases. But, on the other hand, our minds agonize over losing the vividness of our memories of the deceased with the passing of each day. I am sure this contradiction causes some mourners to respond with anger and frustration.

From the beginning of my journey, I explained that I faced two options for dealing with Cindy's death: 1) despondency or 2) self-preservation. I chose the latter. At some point during my travels in the desert in November, I realized that celebrating Cindy and honoring her legacy gave me a purpose to my own life. Some may see this as a temporary crutch, but I see it more as one tool in the widow's toolbox for working back towards a meaningful life.

Cindy wanted two things in life: she wanted people to be kind to each other and she wanted people to be happy. And for those that Cindy left behind, particularly those who were with me for those 14 days at the hospital, she would demand that we continue living and that we remain kind, not just to others, but to ourselves as well. Each day that I can make another person smile or each morning that I can wake up and feel thankful for my life is a gift that I can give to Cindy.

Today would have been Cindy's 41st birthday. This time last year I threw her the biggest party our house had ever seen. When I began the party planning for her 40th birthday in January 2008, I thought for sure that Cindy would want to micro-manage each and every detail. However, out of love and respect for me (or due to the fact that she was on her feet and in demand 16 hours a day), she did not interfere in my work. In fact, she had a huge nursing exam the day of the party and had not slept more than two hours the night before.

Friends from high school, college, work, and all over attended the party, appeared in the photo slide show, and/or contributed to the memory book I compiled for Cindy. I remember, at one point during the slide show, a photo of Cindy and me appeared on the screen as Queen's "You're My Best Friend" played in the background. Everyone watching did a collective "Awwww" and I thought to myself that this must be what it feels like when you kiss the bride at your wedding.

Cindy always appreciated artistic pieces that were "bookended." She loved stories that established themes at the beginning of the story that were then re-invoked at the end of the story. Or, the musical composition that echoed measures that were introduced to the listener at the beginning of the piece. Something about completing a full circle gave Cindy peace and tranquility. I should then feel blessed that in my lifetime I have had the opportunity to not only organize a celebration of her birth, but a memorial to her life and legacy.

The Kindness of Neighbors

Throughout this experience, there have been a few constants. One of those constants is the kindness of my former neighbors, the Beckers. Chris Becker (shown above) is one of my scootering buddies. We took this photo last year at the Scootergate rally in D.C.

Cindy always had such a soft spot for Chris. She loved that here was a guy who was constantly working on his scooter, laying stone in his front yard, repairing a deck, and yet still was "man" enough to wear blue nail polish on his toes. Whenever she spotted the light on in his garage, she would shout, "He's up! I'm going to say hi." Then, right as she was about to open the door, she would stop herself. She did not want Chris thinking that she was stalking him from our front-door window. I failed to convince her that Chris would not think she was a stalker, so for a long time she admired him from afar.

Her attitude changed after Chris and his wife, Leslie, gave birth to their son Henry. Now that there was an adorable baby boy in the mix, Cindy could no longer hold back her affections for the Beckers (because we all know how Cindy could not resist babies). If she spotted the Beckers outside, she would say hello to Chris and Leslie and play with little Henry.

I often wonder if I will ever see anything as naturally beautiful as Cindy holding a baby or playing with a kid. I know that must sound really corny, but the connection she instantly made with newborns, toddlers, and children was unlike anything I had ever known before.

Since Cindy's death, the Beckers have been very helpful to me. During a sad moment outside the old house in February, Leslie immediately came over to see if I was okay. She probably did not know this, but her sympathetic face was exactly what I needed at that moment. Sometimes I struggle with a sense of marginalization, so having her witness and acknowledge my grief rescued me from that erasure. Just this month, Chris gave up his morning to help me fix my scooter. Watching him tinker with my Vespa reminded me of Cindy and how happy she would have been to be standing in my boots at that moment. I have no doubt that if Cindy were here today, she would have managed to insert herself more into the Becker's life and have become Chris's best bud.

Experiences like this continue to remind me about the enormity of my support network. I think I was even telling this to my mother on the phone this weekend, despite losing a great friend and love, I have yet to feel utter loneliness. My friends, family, co-workers, and even my neighbors ensure that constant.