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Cinderella Cinderella, my only female cousin from my mother's side of the family,
was everything I wasn't. At 5'9" and a half, she made my 5'2"
height seem even smaller. Her skin was soft and ivory with wide hazel
eyes and shoulder length jet black hair. Known as "the wild child"
by relatives, Cinderella snuck in boys from Slipknot concerts, while
her mother worked. Cinderella partied every Saturday night at Webster
Hall, without calling home. Cinderella didn't want to get married or
have children after college. Cinderella always painted her nails midnight
black. Cinderella had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma cancer at twenty-two years
old. She was the family tragedy, the girl no man could ever desire because
she was disease-ridden. The family claimed she wouldn't live pass thirty.
She has cancer, a ladder leading down to Hades' gate. Her mother Christina is my mother's younger sister. When both women
lived in their native Santo Domingo, they both shared secret crushes
and dreams of living in "Nueva York." However, once the sisters
came to New York City, their lives separated. Both became busy with
husbands, housework and children. Due to this separation, Cinderella
and I never met. Of course, the sisters always kept in touch. Their
evenings consisted of watching soap operas and then calling each other
on the telephone. For hours, they spoke of their daughters. While my
mother bragged about my excellent grades, Christina complained of Cinderella
's teenage behavior. All I knew of Cinderella was what my mother had
passed onto me. Although I was warned to never become like her, I yearned
for her untamed spirit. I wanted to dance the night away, pierce my
navel and wear red lipstick. I wanted to cover my room with posters
of rock stars and strut with stilettos. I had never met her, but I was
already jealous of her. I wanted to be the girl I only saw in photo
albums, the girl everyone in the family spoke of. Since I couldn't be
her, I wanted to at least meet my unknown cousin. Yet, it was this disease,
this cancer, that would eventually unite us. I wasn't sure whether to be the optimistic one, the one who would cheerfully
say, "Don't worry, the doctors will find a cure and everything
will be swell again." I could easily had been like everyone else,
wearing black garments all day and crying in front of her. I could easily
had been part of the early rehearsal of Cinderella's funeral, anticipating
for her departure. I simply didn't know how to react because she was
merely a myth. I knew nothing of "Cindy," as she preferred
to be called. Yet, if I didn't shed any tears for her tragic news, then
I was an emotion-less monster, who couldn't even feel sympathy. Television
commercials on cancer claimed that somehow, we are all touched by this
particular disease. Somehow, we know someone who knows someone who's
related to someone else who has cancer. Yet, what is our role when a
relative, one you know nothing about, becomes a cancer patient? Cancer
patients are often those who must pay a price for life's sweetest seductions;
sunbathing on the beach, smoking a Marlboro or drinking Southern Comfort.
Therefore, perhaps I wasn't supposed to feel sorry for her because she
must have had brought her demise upon herself. Then again, if a woman
has breast cancer, is it her fault for being a woman and bearing breasts?
Placing so much importance on how I was supposed to react made me feel
selfish, but you must understand, first impressions are always important.
Cinderella's ill health had led me to attend the awkward family gathering
held at her mother's apartment. Knocking quietly on her burgundy door,
Christina's usual shouting of "Esperate! Wait!" wasn't heard.
Instead, the door creaked open, and there stood Christina. She wore
a black velvet skirt with a matching high collar, long sleeved blouse.
She muttered, "Hello" and let me in. The living room, once
the center of joyous family reunions, was silent. Entering the apartment,
I saw everyone dressed in black velvet, while covering their faces with
white handkerchiefs. In a single line, all nine relatives sat on the
plastic covered couches and mourned. We were all gathered here not for
a baptism, graduation or a wedding. On such happy occasions, our roles
were simple. We drank, became drunk, ate, laughed, danced to salsa and
ended the night with someone starting a fight. Instead, we were all
united under this cramped apartment because one of us, Cindy, might
die. Her disease would have robbed me of having a bond with my estranged
cousin, the rebel who wanted to attend Columbia University and become
the first female lawyer in the family. We could have been best friends
and shared Marilyn Manson CDs. We could have read Anne Rice to each
other or fought over who gets the last Country Club soda. Any possible
time we could have had together was limited because no one knew what
the following day would bring. Cancer patients aren't suppose to live
healthy, long lives. They're supposed to lose all their hair, suffer
agonizing hours of physical pain and wither away. Cinderella wasn't
supposed to live happily ever after. Cinderella was supposed to die.
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