Jungle Juice and Awesome Aunts

by Donna Poole

“Please,” John asked, “Stop calling your chemotherapy poison.”

I knew he was right; attitude toward treatment is important, so with the help of a friend I renamed my R-chop chemotherapy “Jungle Juice.” But what’s Jungle Juice without a good Tarzan call, right? I practiced that, complete with chest pounding, until John groaned.

The time came for my third chemotherapy treatment, halfway point, time for a celebration. I had just the perfect one in mind. I’d demonstrate my Tarzan call for the nurses.

“You can’t do that at U of M,” John objected. “Do you want them to kick you out of that place?”

Hmm. Maybe. I dunno. Well, if I can’t do my Tarzan yell inside, I have a surprise for you, honey.

So, as we walked sedately arm in arm, like any dignified elderly couple, through the parking garage into U of M, I let out my Tarzan yell. Twice. John looked for a car to hide behind.

During chemotherapy I offered to demonstrate my terrific Tarzan imitation for the nurses. They chuckled but politely declined.

A voice from the other side of the closed curtain called, “Well, I want to hear it!”

I called back, “A kindred spirit!”

My kindred spirit and I had a long, interesting conversation. She’s only forty and fighting the battle of her life for the next year against a rare, aggressive cancer. We didn’t talk much about cancer though; we discussed life in general, our faith in God, her five horses, and the nieces and nephews she adores. We discussed how important it is to be an aunt, and what a great influence and comfort an aunt can be.

I’ve been thinking about my awesome aunts ever since our talk. My Italian aunts were beautiful. I loved it when great-aunt Julia came to visit Grandma’s house when we were there. Not only did she press a shiny silver dollar into our hands, but she and Grandma had some wum-dinger discussions. Just as their arguments got interesting, they switched to Italian because they could talk faster, disappointing, because we couldn’t understand Italian.

I remember seeing two of my aunts, I think it was Aunt Mary and Aunt Louise, join arms and dance the polka in Grandma’s kitchen. All my Italian aunts talked fast and at the same time, called their parents “Ma” and “Pa,” and always treated them with the greatest respect. At least they did after they were adults!

I wish I’d known my Italian aunts better, but I didn’t talk to them much. Mom always insisted children were to be seen and not heard, so my siblings and I had to sit hands folded at Grandma’s and not talk unless spoken to. That gave us more time to hear the stories. We heard how once our gentle grandpa got tired of hearing my aunts argue about whose turn it was to do dishes, so he grabbed the table cloth, wrapped up the dishes, and threw them all outside where they broke on the lawn. I guess they never argued about dishes again!

In my last blog I told you about Uncle Tom, but I didn’t say much about sweet Aunt Virginia. We kids felt comforted just sitting near her. She was soft, kind, and wore necklaces made of pop beads, large beads you could pop apart and put back together, and she let us play with them.

Aunt Virginia loved to whistle softly. She was a quiet complement to Uncle Tom’s opinionated outspokenness. The only time I ever saw him get upset with her was when they were visiting us. He came into the living room in his t-shirt, and Aunt Virginia said, “Tom, you need a bra more than I do.”

This was the 1950s. People did not say “bra” right out loud. People especially did not tell a man he needed one. It was hysterically funny to us kids, but not to Uncle Tom, and he let her know it.

Mary and I stayed with Uncle Tom and Aunt Virginia a month when Ginny was born. I remember those as days of quiet peace, except for the time I had to rescue my sister from a too bossy cousin. I loved being there; I slept in a bedroom where a fan blew white, billowy curtains behind my bed, a place made for daydreams.

After John and I were married we visited Uncle Tom in the hospital after he’d had a heart attack, and then we went to church with Aunt Virginia. I told her how much she’d meant to me all those years, and how much I’d loved hearing her whistle, and how happy it had made me.

Aunt Virginia looked at me and chuckled. “Donna, I only whistled when I was nervous.”

My aunts were awesome. My kindred spirit on the other side of the curtain in the chemo room is an awesome aunt too. She’s single, with no children of her own, and adorers her nieces and nephews. I’m glad she sent me down this backroad rambling road remembering my aunts.

You may not have had the blessing of an awesome aunt, but if you have a niece or nephew, it’s never too late to be a special aunt to them. Maybe you can even teach them the Tarzan call. Everyone should know that, right?

“Only an aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister, and share love like a friend.” –unknown