Her name was Alice Faye Wiggins.
She had black, almost blue, hair and a peachy complexion. She loved to square dance and bake cookies.
She had a soft spot for black-and-white romantic movies. She loved to listen to “Louie Louie” by The Kingsmen.
She was married to Jerry, and they had two children, Michael and Sherry. She lived in a subdivision in Natchez, with flowers in the yard and hot food on the table.
But she was more than that.
She was my Aunt Alice.
She would let me spend the night in an oversized T-shirt. She let me watch The Ewok Adventure a million times, much to the objection of my cousins. During bath time, she would sing to me and press the hand rag on my shoulder, causing the water to tickle my back.
She would fix me late night snacks. She let me have an extra cookie.
She would sing and dance with me in her kitchen whenever my Momma and I would pop in for a surprise visit. She always made me feel welcome in her home even if she was busy tending to her own daily routine. In fact, I don’t remember ever even knocking when I arrived at her house because I knew she would be on the other side with her arms wide open, ready for a hug.
She would take the time to ask me how school was going, what my friends were doing or if I was having any problems with my grades. Even if I was upset about something happening at school, she would always end the conversation with kind words on how I should handle the situation. Her solutions always involved kindness, never anger or frustration.
She spoke to me in a sweet manner and never disciplined me, even when I probably deserved it.
She was my Aunt Alice, and she was a lady.
Aunt Alice was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was a little girl. I wasn’t really sure what cancer was at the time, but I knew it caused everyone to cry when you even mentioned its name.
Aunt Alice had a tough battle with it, but she never let on or let me know how much pain she was in. I never heard her complain.
After her mastectomy, she asked my Momma to come with her to buy a breast prosthetic. I was tagged along for the trip, but Momma tried to explain to me what was happening before we picked Aunt Alice up.
In a child’s mind, I didn’t really comprehend the situation. I was under the impression that Aunt Alice was sick, she had to have surgery and the prosthetic was just part of her treatment.
The notion of femininity and the struggle of adapting with such a life-changing condition never crossed my naive mind.
All three of us were snug inside a small dressing room when we arrived at the store. I sat in a chair in the corner, holding a Barbie doll.
“I feel ridiculous,” Aunt Alice said to Momma.
They were having problems finding the right size of prosthetic so Momma left the dressing room to find an attendant.
Aunt Alice sat down in the chair next to me, holding the plastic, gel-like prosthetic.
And then she just started crying, gripping the prosthetic tighter. I just sat there, unsure of what to do.
And then I will never forget the look she gave me. Raising her head up slightly, she looked over at me and smiled. With tears falling down her cheek, she managed to smile. And I smiled back at her.
“I hope you never go through this,” she said, patting my knee.
I didn’t say a word. I don’t think it was necessary. Even at my young age, I like to think Aunt Alice and me had an understanding.
Momma came back into the dressing room with an assortment of merchandise for Aunt Alice to try on. I can remember grabbing one of the prosthetics and wondering why she was having to go through this. My small mind couldn’t grasp it.
The cancer took over Aunt Alice’s body. I’m not sure where all it spread, but I remember being told it was in her liver when we rushed to the hospital.
And as a few tears hit my hand while typing this column, I realize that she put up one heck of a fight.
The soft-spoken woman gave that cancer a run for its money.
And she did it with a smile.
