On November 21, 2004, my sister Carla, at 58 years of age, died of breast cancer. My sister was a beautiful woman who rejected her own beauty. She had a passion for conversation and loved to give advice whether you wanted it or not. She wove her husband and three sons into a tight-knit family structure, believing that they would never leave her. Eight years prior to her death her husband Larry died of leukemia. Before her husband died, Carla had a will to live. Afterwards, she slowly slid into a depression. Therapy and medication weren't able to help, nor did her affinity for shopping or her supportive family.
For the past two years my sister hid that she had breast cancer. She blamed her ill health on a car accident. She disregarded medical intervention, refused to get a mammogram and sought treatment that kept her in denial of her prognosis. By the time she allowed an oncologist to examine her it was too late. The family was shocked by the revelation that Carla was going to die.
As my sister lay dying I cried out to the heavens. How could this happen? I stared at her swollen face aching to receive an answer. Carla remained silent, entering into another realm of existence. My mind's eye wandered through menageries of memories: Carla and I dancing on the front porch of our Brooklyn home; playing tag; dressed in frills and lace; fighting over a dress, a brush and our parents' attention. We were sisters through and through.
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