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| Power Style Wellness Connections |
In Case of Emergency
By Mary Cartledgehayes
Do I have everything I’ll need in the event of an
emergency? If you could see my closet, you'd know I
could stand to pare down my possessions. On the floor
are four pairs of sandals, three pairs of black boots (any
minute now I’m going to put them on the hanging shoe
rack for the summer), and five pairs of black heels that I
never wear.
My closet hasn’t always looked like this. My husband, Fred, died in 2000, and for a long
time afterwards, my closet floor was barren. Grief was wreaking such havoc internally
that I needed the externals to be orderly, and so I got rid of all of my footwear except for
a pair of athletic shoes to wear with jeans and a pair of black pumps to wear with
everything else.
Gradually, life came roaring back, and with it came the everyday chaos we’re
accustomed to. For instance, right now on my kitchen counter I can see a can of spray
starch, a pile of newspapers containing articles I plan to cut out (tomorrow, most likely)
to send to my mother, the digital camera, the Tootsie Roll Pop container where I keep
spare change, a blueberry muffin scented candle, a Crock Pot, and — oh, dear — my
driver’s license. (How long do you suppose that’s been there?)
Looking at the counter, I recall the fire drills we had in high school. Remember? The
insistent clanging, the teacher’s demand that we exit the room without collecting purses
or books, and her instruction to remain with our classmates, even though our best
friends were standing just across the sidewalk. Books, purses, and even friendship were
unimportant. All that mattered was that everybody got out quickly, and alive.
Those fire drills served me well in 1997, when, a few days after Christmas, one of Fred’s
and my five children smelled smoke. Running to check, we confronted a rolling cloud of
smoke.
“Outside. Now,” I said.
One son, who happened to have mono at the time, asked, “Can I please go get my
shoes?”
“No,” I replied, waving him and the rest of us out the door.
You think you’ll grab photo albums, but we were lucky to grab the dog. When the fire
marshal allowed us back in several hours later, we saw that only two rooms were
damaged by the flames, but smoke was smeared over and baked into every surface.
Shoes, sweaters, coats, canned goods, my contact lenses, the girls’ doll collections, the
boys’ team pennants, photos, toothbrushes, towels, anything brass or plastic: all ruined.
Knowing how quickly emergencies develop, I’m confounded by the state of my kitchen
counter, where there should be a file of vital information I can grab in the event of an
emergency. The true essential is people. Everything else is replicable. And yet a little bit
of advance preparation saves weeks, if not months, of effort and aggravation when
disaster strikes. Why, then, don’t we prepare?
I think it’s because it’s difficult. We have too many options and too little time. My mental
list of what I need in an emergency begins with my purse, which contains my driver’s
license, keys, and car insurance card. What else might I need, though? Homeowners’ or
renters’ insurance policies. A back-up computer disk with recent work on it — that’s
important. What about 2007 tax receipts? What about my passport, the car title, and
the safety deposit box key (hmmm — maybe that’s a good place for the passport and
car title)? My birth certificate: I’m sure to need it sooner or later. And have you ever
requested college transcripts? It takes forever, especially if you’re like me and attended
five different institutions in four different states. And I need my Rolodex, with all of its
business and personal contact information, plus the old address book that still needs
some addresses transferred. I definitely need my medications and my credit cards —
and an extra-large laundry basket to fit all of these things into.
The possibilities overwhelm me, and so does the prospect of setting aside a mountain of
time to gather the necessities. So what do I do? Nothing. And I’m OK with that. Maybe
Louisville will never have another flood, or tornado, or train derailment, or chemical spill,
or house fire.
Then again, maybe it will. And now that I’ve got you thinking about this topic, I’m going to
conduct an experiment, as a public service. It’s 10:55 a.m. I will now push myself away
from the computer, gather up the documents I need for an emergency file, and report
back to you on the process.
Oh, dear. I hate to tell you this, but it’s 11:04 a. m., and I’m done. I spent five years
brooding about this project, and it took me only nine minutes (actually, a bit less) to
complete it. Five minutes to photocopy my driver’s license, credit cards, social security
card, and insurance cards. Four seconds to decide the Rolodex isn’t critical, because I
can always look up addresses online. Three minutes to write down the names of my
insurance agents and doctors’ along with their phone numbers. Fifteen seconds to fold
the sheets and put them in a bright envelope so I can find them later.
Do I have everything I’ll need in the event of an emergency? No, not in nine minutes.
But I do have the things I consider essential — and a big payoff in peace of mind for a
small investment of time.
By Mary Cartledgehayes
Do I have everything I’ll need in the event of an
emergency? If you could see my closet, you'd know I
could stand to pare down my possessions. On the floor
are four pairs of sandals, three pairs of black boots (any
minute now I’m going to put them on the hanging shoe
rack for the summer), and five pairs of black heels that I
never wear.
My closet hasn’t always looked like this. My husband, Fred, died in 2000, and for a long
time afterwards, my closet floor was barren. Grief was wreaking such havoc internally
that I needed the externals to be orderly, and so I got rid of all of my footwear except for
a pair of athletic shoes to wear with jeans and a pair of black pumps to wear with
everything else.
Gradually, life came roaring back, and with it came the everyday chaos we’re
accustomed to. For instance, right now on my kitchen counter I can see a can of spray
starch, a pile of newspapers containing articles I plan to cut out (tomorrow, most likely)
to send to my mother, the digital camera, the Tootsie Roll Pop container where I keep
spare change, a blueberry muffin scented candle, a Crock Pot, and — oh, dear — my
driver’s license. (How long do you suppose that’s been there?)
Looking at the counter, I recall the fire drills we had in high school. Remember? The
insistent clanging, the teacher’s demand that we exit the room without collecting purses
or books, and her instruction to remain with our classmates, even though our best
friends were standing just across the sidewalk. Books, purses, and even friendship were
unimportant. All that mattered was that everybody got out quickly, and alive.
Those fire drills served me well in 1997, when, a few days after Christmas, one of Fred’s
and my five children smelled smoke. Running to check, we confronted a rolling cloud of
smoke.
“Outside. Now,” I said.
One son, who happened to have mono at the time, asked, “Can I please go get my
shoes?”
“No,” I replied, waving him and the rest of us out the door.
You think you’ll grab photo albums, but we were lucky to grab the dog. When the fire
marshal allowed us back in several hours later, we saw that only two rooms were
damaged by the flames, but smoke was smeared over and baked into every surface.
Shoes, sweaters, coats, canned goods, my contact lenses, the girls’ doll collections, the
boys’ team pennants, photos, toothbrushes, towels, anything brass or plastic: all ruined.
Knowing how quickly emergencies develop, I’m confounded by the state of my kitchen
counter, where there should be a file of vital information I can grab in the event of an
emergency. The true essential is people. Everything else is replicable. And yet a little bit
of advance preparation saves weeks, if not months, of effort and aggravation when
disaster strikes. Why, then, don’t we prepare?
I think it’s because it’s difficult. We have too many options and too little time. My mental
list of what I need in an emergency begins with my purse, which contains my driver’s
license, keys, and car insurance card. What else might I need, though? Homeowners’ or
renters’ insurance policies. A back-up computer disk with recent work on it — that’s
important. What about 2007 tax receipts? What about my passport, the car title, and
the safety deposit box key (hmmm — maybe that’s a good place for the passport and
car title)? My birth certificate: I’m sure to need it sooner or later. And have you ever
requested college transcripts? It takes forever, especially if you’re like me and attended
five different institutions in four different states. And I need my Rolodex, with all of its
business and personal contact information, plus the old address book that still needs
some addresses transferred. I definitely need my medications and my credit cards —
and an extra-large laundry basket to fit all of these things into.
The possibilities overwhelm me, and so does the prospect of setting aside a mountain of
time to gather the necessities. So what do I do? Nothing. And I’m OK with that. Maybe
Louisville will never have another flood, or tornado, or train derailment, or chemical spill,
or house fire.
Then again, maybe it will. And now that I’ve got you thinking about this topic, I’m going to
conduct an experiment, as a public service. It’s 10:55 a.m. I will now push myself away
from the computer, gather up the documents I need for an emergency file, and report
back to you on the process.
Oh, dear. I hate to tell you this, but it’s 11:04 a. m., and I’m done. I spent five years
brooding about this project, and it took me only nine minutes (actually, a bit less) to
complete it. Five minutes to photocopy my driver’s license, credit cards, social security
card, and insurance cards. Four seconds to decide the Rolodex isn’t critical, because I
can always look up addresses online. Three minutes to write down the names of my
insurance agents and doctors’ along with their phone numbers. Fifteen seconds to fold
the sheets and put them in a bright envelope so I can find them later.
Do I have everything I’ll need in the event of an emergency? No, not in nine minutes.
But I do have the things I consider essential — and a big payoff in peace of mind for a
small investment of time.