Remembering Cathy

Cathy

Happy birthday to my big sister Cathy. She would have turned sixty-eight last week, but we lost her to a brain tumor back in 1993.

Once I decided to transition, I knew that Cathy’s only child, my niece Kelly, needed to be one of the first to hear the news. I was confident the announcement that her uncle was really her aunt would be received well; her beliefs and values and love of family would have made anything else impossible. Still, it turned into a moment more powerfully loving than I could have anticipated.

Kelly told me how happy she was for me and how happy she knew her mother would have been. Then she added: “And she would have been proud to call you sister.”

I cried for half an hour without stopping. I don’t think I have ever cried that long in my life. They were tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of mourning for Cathy and my parents. . .cleansing tears.

I didn’t get to begin living my truth until I was fifty-eight years old. I try not to dwell on what my life might have been like had I been born with a mind and body that were in alignment, but I can’t help going down that path sometimes, and wondering what it would be like if Cathy had been able to grow up with her baby sister.

I vividly remember so many things about her: she was naturally beautiful, but still spent what seemed like an hour in the bathroom every morning perfecting her makeup. She had a gorgeous singing voice. She was smart. (She finished fourth in a high school graduating class of 400). She had great artistic talent, especially in drawing and painting. She was a great cook. She was curious (One of the family stories is that when she was about four, and I hadn’t arrived yet, my parents woke up to find her missing, causing momentary panic, until they found her rummaging through a neighbor’s garbage can.)

She loved her home and her family. She loved The Wizard of Oz. I think “There’s No Place Like Home” could have been her motto. Remember when the yearly showing of the film on CBS was a big deal? We’d pop popcorn twice a year—for the Thanksgiving parades and this film. When Dorothy said goodbye to the scarecrow (“I think I’ll miss you most of all”) she always, without fail, cried.

It’s almost become a cliché to recall a person’s brave fight against cancer, but hers was truly brave, and amazing. She was told that the survival rate for a glioblastoma beyond one year was essentially zero, she lasted for five years and ten months, and had a pretty good quality of life for most of that time. I think wanting to be there for her daughter and wanting to make sure Kelly had good memories of her, was the fuel that kept her going.

Despite the unfairness of what she was facing, Cathy rarely complained. I’m sure she wondered about that, but I think she came to terms with it with the words she chose to have engraved on the container that holds her ashes: “Faith begins when there are no answers.”

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Tags: featured, sisters, Transgender

Category: Transgender Body & Soul