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Cinderella(continued) Together, we examined each wig, laughing at their silliness. One wig with huge round blonde curls was named "The Dolly", while another, waist length, long and black, was "The Elvira." The idea of any sane woman spending $100 for any of these wigs was outrageous. Who could possibly believe that, in spending $100 for a dishwater blonde bob named "The Sharon," one could immediately transform into the Basic Instinct vixen? I wanted to tell her that this was a waste of time. She shouldn't be spending so much on a horrible looking wig. The whole world would still know her secret, because no wig could hide her missing eyelashes and eyebrows. Would she then spend another $20 on peel-on brillo for eyebrows and sparkling plastic strips for eyelashes? I was ready to grab her skeletal arm and push her out of All That Sucks. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I stared at Cindy as she adjusted "The Bettie" on her head. The black locks fell gently on her shoulders, and the curled bangs hid dying, peeling layers of skin on her forehead. As she watched herself transform into a version of the pin-up model Bettie Page, she grinned. She turned and asked, "What do you think? Does this look amazing or what?" All the words that I wanted to say dissolved in my mouth. I didn't see a pathetic customer spending money on a useless contraption supposed to enhance lost beauty. I saw a thinning, pale young woman with sunken cheekbones and chapped lips. Her honey-brown eyes twinkled, and her wide smile revealed perfectly aligned white teeth. Her frail body was hidden underneath her trench coat, and the wig only made her head seem smaller. For a second, Cindy looked healthy and confident. She wasn't a victim of fate. She was the wild child, the one with the untamed spirit I envied. She was beautiful in all aspects, because she was my cousin, my blood, a book whose chapters I'd only just skimmed. "You look amazing!" I gleefully responded. After paying for "The Bettie," we rode on a taxi to Columbia
Presbyterian Hospital, where she had an appointment. Unlike my past
visits to doctors, waiting for Dr. Ross took merely two minutes. "Miss
Echevarria, you may step inside," the perky receptionist said.
Together, we walked inside the doctor's office, where the usual aroma
of rubbing alcohol and Lysol flared in my nostrils. Sitting on a torn
leather chair, I watched Dr. Ross massage Cindy's bruised lumps, take
her temperature and ask questions, such as: "When was the last
time you had a fever?" or "Have the medications prevented
any coughing with blood or phlem?" Unlike the receptionist, Dr.
Ross didn't pretend to be overly joyous at having another customer.
His role in attending Cindy was much simpler than mine. He had no emotional
attachment to my cousin. Cindy was just a faceless patient with a tragic
disease. I was the relative who didn't know what could happen to my
cousin. I didn't know whether I would be preparing a victory dance in
her honor or reciting my final goodbyes. Dr. Ross then stated that he
would be back in a few minutes, but Cindy was to take off her blouse.
Once he left, Cindy whimpered, "Steph, please help me." I
stood up and walked in front of her. I unbuttoned her crisp white shirt
and placed it next to the trench coat. Her naked chest revealed a thin
layer of skin failing to shield away bone. The cancer was quickly eating
away Cindy's flesh, revealing a preview of what was soon to come. Cindy
looked down and saw that her once C-cup breasts were now barely A's.
She sighed and said nothing. I didn't know what else to say. Instead,
we silently waited, until Dr. Ross returned. She laid on her stomach, showing off a curved spine pressing against
her skin. It was ready to pierce out of her, attempting to escape from
the war inside. Dr. Ross revealed a four-inch needle and pushed it right
down in the center of her back. He looked at me and told me to hold
onto her hands. I followed his command. "Breathe Cindy. You're
doing just fine," he said. The needle continued to push down and
enter weak muscle. Cindy moaned from the multiplying pain. Her body
twitched and shivered. I held tighter onto her hands, hushing her. She
began to cough, and blood dribbled from her lips. I couldn't control
the tears that were ready to fall down my face. She resembled a rabid
dog, foaming and howling from pain, while being put to sleep. Although
my hands were clutching her trembling hands, I wanted to let go and
pull the needle out of her body. I wanted to slam all the medical equipment
on the floor and scream at Dr. Ross. Couldn't he see that Cindy was
in unbearable pain? Of course he knew. He knew that all he could do
was provide any medical assistance that could somehow aid in Cindy's
internal battle. It was her disease, her cancer that didn't give a damn.
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