My stories are a mix of fiction and non-fiction. Some of the fiction from when I was young came from my brother, Jimmy. He came to conclusions based on observations. Or maybe he thought making up stories for me was somehow entertaining.
A few years ago, while sitting around the table at my sister’s, I asked my mother why she thought none of us had diabetes. She seemed surprised and asked why we would.
“Well,’ I said, “They say it skips a generation. Rob’s grandfather had diabetes and he does, but his mother doesn’t.”
And she replied, “but what does that have to do with you?”
“Well, grandma died from complications of diabetes so shouldn’t one of us have gotten it by now?” I asked.
“Your grandmother died having a fit in a mental hospital!” she exclaimed.
I looked at my brother, who was choking on his coffee, and asked “Why did you tell me that?”
He diverted to my mother. “Didn’t she have her leg amputated from complications of diabetes?” he asked.
So, this bit of fiction was one based on his observation, which makes sense. Your grandmother dying from having a fit in a mental home was probably not a subject that came up very often.
My mother explained that our paternal grandmother was a hypochondriac. She was sure she had cancer and the doctors were lying to her. When they found nothing wrong with her, she took to her bed, resigning herself to her imminent death. She developed such a serious bed sore, an amputation was necessary.
Of course some things are genetic. I’m not a hypochondriac, but sometimes Rob tells me he thinks I’m becoming a little “diabetic”.
My Father’s Mom