ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

Letter to my Mother’s
Disease
Amanda Kennedy
Dear diabetes,
I’m well, thanks for asking.
I’m not going to ask how you’ve been because I don’t care.
I wish I’d never met you.
You’ve robbed my mother of her sight. Not all of it, mind you, but
enough to suck some of the sweetness out of life. I can picture her,
many years back, sitting on the couch next to dad, crocheting a toy or
blanket for one grandkid or another. Now she just sits on the couch,
staring ahead at a fuzzy pattern of shapes and colours, hands idle in her
lap.
Thanks to you, my sister and I have now inherited the abandoned craft
supplies. The crates of fabric from under the stairs went to my sister
who sews. My daughters and I happily received boxes of wool, knitting
needles and crochet hooks. Yes, the cats do love chasing the wool but I
am also relishing the chance to teach my daughters to crochet.
Mum, like her mother, was always happy to let us kids have a go at craft.
I can still see Nana sitting in her floral chair by the window so she
would catch the natural light, knitting needles in hand. Somehow, she
was never short with me as she attempted to figure out what on earth
I’d done with the wool. It usually involved a drop stitch or three. So I’m
not being sarcastic when I say thank you. The craft supplies that have
been passed on to us means that we, too, allow our children to play
around with creating.
The ability to have a go and accept failure is something my mother
encouraged in me from a young age. She is not the type to take the
pencil out of my hand to draw something for me. She would suggest I
walk around it, pick it up and get to know the thing I wanted to draw.
Her time at art school in the 60s was not wasted. Her paintings and
sculptures filled the house. But once again, thanks to you, diabetes,
now she can’t even paint. The half-finished canvases rested against
a wall in the garage, blank faces poking out under a layer of dust and
cobwebs, until they too came to live with me.
As a child, I remember my grandfather had a shed that smelled of wood
shavings and engine oil. His tools hung neatly on shadow board which
lined the walls. I recall stories of Papa making a home brew system
from discarded fuel tins. My mother inherited her ingenuity from her
father. She also inherited his diabetes, developing it late in life as he
did. So damn you diabetes for cursing my Papa as well.
While you reduced my mother’s sight so that she can no longer drive,
you you did not succeed in curbing her independence. My mother
simply upsized her phone’s display and downloaded a public transport
app. So once again, I must thank you. Thank you for nudging her into
the modern world. Buses, trains and trams have now replaced her car
but she will not be hobbled. We are both viciously independent people
and though you may try, you will not limit our wanderings.
It’s not just diet and insulin production you impact. You affect the
eyesight, feet and healing ability of people who get too close to you.
The strong genetic link looms over my life so I’m actively working to
remain free of you, damned diabetes. I exercise regularly so that you
can’t catch me. I eat well, so that you’ll not join me at my dinner table. I
have inherited many things from my mother – my body shape, my love
of creating and my independent streak. But I will not inherit diabetes. I
will not inherit you.
ReadFin Literary Journal 61