A tribute to Cindy Trathen, by her sister Naomi Friedman
A four-pound preemie, my sister became the darling of the nursery. She screamed and wailed, flailing her arms and legs and putting up such a fuss, the nurse brought her into my mother's room and said, "She's quite a pip." Thus, her nickname, Pip. And what a pip she was.
Her given name was "Harrell," with the accent on the second syllable. She was named after my mother's beloved brother, Harold. Pip was teased constantly about her name, and true to her nickname, insisted on changing it when she was just 10 years old. She put up such a fuss, that "Harrell" became "Cynthia." Her friends no longer were allowed to call her "Pip," but "Cindy" instead. Still smaller than the others, she chose a grown up name that gave her a larger image.
Not satisfied with the golden chestnut color of her hair, at 15 she began experimenting with the various hues Miss Clairol had to offer. It seemed this pip colored her hair weekly. We were always afraid that she would burn it off her head. Actually, we were more concerned because she would closet herself in the bathroom and ignore our pleas for entrance. The response was always the same, "I'm in here." After what seemed like hours later, she would emerge with a new hair color -- which she insisted was her own, natural color.
With the hair coloring came the makeup -- lavishly slathered on her face so that she was, truly, a painted woman. My parents insisted she wear no makeup during the day. In order to override their decision, she'd leave the house for school early in the morning with her makeup kit hidden in her huge handbag. Then, either at a friend's house whose mother was "cool," or in the school bathroom, she'd begin the process of converting herself from a plain Jane into an elegant woman, the made-up look belying her youth. What a pip.
She became knowledgeable in the ways one lies about one's age. She was forever making herself older. To this day, no one really knows her true age.
At 18, she had her nose and chin remodeled by a plastic surgeon in New York. Her hands have always been manicured. Her hair was always "done." It seemed she awoke with her face made up and every hair in place. She was never indisposed. She was always very vain.
All of this vanity and attention-grabbing was what made her a pip. From the nursery where she was born, to the hospital bed in which she died. She overrode the doctors' predictions about her life expectancy many times over the years. She fought to stay alive long enough to accomplish two things, one of them selfless and the other selfish.
The selfless act was in living long enough not to interfere with the things in life those closest to her had to accomplish without being inconvenienced by her death. For instance, she lived long enough so that I could attend my younger son's high school graduation without having to decide whether to leave her or not. She lived long enough for her older son to have a mother as he graduated from high school.
She also willed herself to live long enough so that the people closest to her would be available to attend her funeral. My older son had been touring England and returned the day she died. He was at my side at Pip's funeral. She was his godmother. It was important that he be there, and she waited for his return.
Regardless of her reasons for staying alive as long as she did, she chose to endure the pain and suffering so that she could accomplish that which she wanted. Those were her choices in life and in death.
I read the following eulogy at her funeral.
What is a Sister?
What is a sister? To a first grader, a sister is your big sister: Someone to look up to. Someone about whom you say, "I want to be just like her." Someone to point out to a classmate and say, "That's my big sister."
What is a sister? To an eight-year-old, a sister is someone who can take the place of your mother and boss you around. Although you resent it, a sister also provides the stability and security you need when your mother isn't there.
What is a sister? To a ten-year-old, a sister is someone who has all the privileges you lack, but dream about one day having, yet knowing in your heart that day will never come. A sister can come and go as she pleases. She can wear makeup and go to dances with boys.
What is a sister? To a twelve-year-old, a sister is someone who ignores you when you so much want to be noticed. Someone who brings home the dreamiest boys who, in turn, also ignore you. A sister allows you to handle and try on her high heels, jewelry and makeup, but never lets you borrow them. Ever the enigma, a sister is someone who knows if you have so much as breathed near her closed bedroom door.
What is a sister? To a fourteen-year-old, a sister is someone who tries to boss you around, even when your mother is home, and then has the nerve to try to be your friend. A sister is someone who tells you that only tramps get hickeys. But she never explains what a hickey is or how you get one.
What is a sister? To an eighteen-year-old, a sister is just another human being, a female, nothing special, just a know-it-all, a real pain in the ass, not even competition with the boys anymore. A sister is just someone who floats in and out of your life like a gentle sun shower, unnoticed because you're too tied up in your own goings-on even to recognize anyone else's existence, no less a sister's.
What is a sister? A sister can be anything to anybody. My sister was special. My sister was all those things to me and became, with time and age, a cherished and dear friend. Someone with whom I could share my deepest, darkest secrets and my off-the-wall dreams. Someone who supported me in all my efforts, no matter how outlandish or socially unacceptable. Someone who loved me unequivocally. Someone who, without words being spoken, could understand my pain and joy. My sister was an intrinsic part of my body, my world and my life. She would never share her clothes or boyfriends with me, but she shared with me both her life and her love of life.
It's her love of life that was special about Pip. Everyone she met was touched by her. She was so alive, even in her darkest moments. Those memories of her are still alive and will never leave me.
Her husband's love for her was boundless and it was repaid a thousandfold. Bob's selfless devotion to my sister was renowned. The combination of her love of life and his love for her kept Pip alive for all of us to enjoy. How thoughtful of both of them to be so generous.
She came in like a pip, and she went out like one, too. I miss her so.
This eulogy was the most painful thing I have ever done. But the pain is minor by comparison to the pain she endured her whole life. The pain of being a sickly child, of having a funny name and of being the brunt of jokes, and of not being a "natural beauty." She suffered the pain of cancer and its treatments. But, most of all, she suffered the pain of a life not fully lived.
What she did have that can, perhaps, override the pain of life, was the love of her husband, Bob. He shared her pain because he shared her life.