The Juvenile's Voice

By Maxine James

A healthy twelve-year-old is suddenly unable to concentrate. Her energy sapped and her body covered with itch, she finally receives the dreaded diagnosis-juvenile diabetes. Shortly after receiving this news, her mother and sister succumb to the disease. Fear grips her heart as she wonders if she will be next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Alive Press
• Release date: Mar 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781486614424

Book preview

Me

INTRODUCTION

This true story tells of my life with diabetes since I was diagnosed with it at the tender age of twelve. I struggled hard to accept the fact that I would live with this condition my entire life. Added to my struggles were the dos and don’ts of managing the diabetes just to stay alive. I was the third and youngest in my family to be afflicted with this dreaded disease.

Fighting with school and diabetes drained me both mentally and physically at times. Fear also swept through my mind after this disease took the lives of my mother and younger sister. I felt enslaved to death, as though I couldn’t escape the fate of dying from this condition. I am writing this book so that others dealing with this condition may gather courage from my experiences.

CHAPTER 1: THE INNOCENT JUVENILE

The previous month had been a splendid one for me. My mother had taken me to the city of Kingston to spend some time with my elder brother to celebrate Easter. Caribbean folks celebrate this splendid season with much baking and eating of sugar buns and cheese, fried fish and bammies (pastry made from cassava), and dancing. Meanwhile, the churches commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

While we were in the city, my mother did spoil me a little. I got away with the kind of eating that was not allowed at home. I could have extra meat on my plate and second helpings. Money was scarce; therefore, conserving and recycling were a part of our lifestyle.

One of my sweet-tooth favourite habits was to combine dried milk powder with brown sugar. I used to dash a tantalizing teaspoon full of it into my mouth as often as I had the urge.

The downside to our visit to Kingston was the bus ride there and back. This was a journey Mama took several times a year, sometimes without me. I was always scared of travelling in motor vehicles because of motion sickness. Travelling on the big country bus usually irritated me. The smell of the bus—cigarette smoke combined with gasoline or diesel fuel—contributed to my problem. Mama was aware of the issue, so as soon as we were settled in our seats, she’d tuck some papers between my blouse and my chest. She’d then place a nutmeg in my mouth, assuming that this would help to prevent me from throwing-up. The only solution we found that did combat my motion sickness was for me to lie on my mama’s lap, which kept my stomach still. I wouldn’t vomit while I was lying down. I felt like my motion sickness had something to do with my brain, my eyes, and my stomach.

Once in a while I’d hold my head up and look out the window to get an idea of where we were. Some sections of the road were bumpy and steep. The uneven surface caused the bus to rock from side to side like a donkey carrying a heavy load. There was a guardrail on top of the bus that ran the length and width of the bus to prevent articles from falling off whenever the bus turned corners or when the road was bumpy.

Two sidemen, the conductor who collected our fares, and the driver worked as a team. I was always amazed by the way the sidemen loaded the bus with the vendors’ goods, such as yams, green and ripe bananas, and various fruits and vegetables. Everything was carefully wrapped with dried banana leaves or other protective materials to avoid bruises or damage and to ensure that they reached the market safely. The heavier and larger goods were carried on the roof of the bus.

Upon arriving at the spot where the goods were stored, one of the sidemen would climb the stairs that led from the backside of the bus to the roof. The other sideman on the ground would pick up the items and throw them one at a time to the sideman on top of the bus, who caught each piece without dropping or missing any. If the goods were too heavy to throw, one would push while the other dragged it up the side of the bus. The sideman then placed them neatly on the roof, leaving space for others.

There were several markets on the route to Kingston. When all were aboard, the sideman on the roof scaled down to the ground or to the doorstep of the bus, where he rode most of the way. The sidemen then slapped the side of the bus twice with the palms of their hands, or one of them would utter a high-pitched whistle, indicating to the driver to move on. As the driver pulled away from the curb, the sidemen jumped on, one to the front door and the other to the back door. If the driver misunderstood and took the banging as an indicator to move on, the sidemen would yell tan-up! In Jamaican patois, this means stand up, wait, or hold on.

Immediately the driver held down the brakes, and the passengers pitched forward. Those who were standing felt the jolt more than those who were sitting, as their bodies pitched forward and sideways while securing a firmer grip on the overhead iron rail. Mama and I pitched forward in our seats as though we were bowing. The sideman on the roof expected the jerk, so he braced himself by securing a firmer foothold. The driver then waited for a proper indication to go. When the bus reached the vendors’ desired market gate, the sidemen reversed their actions and brought the load down from the roof of the bus.

We passed some pastures and fields where cows, horses, and goats were grazing on the hillside. Some were lying down under the shade of trees. When I looked at the animals, they seemed to be moving around, floating away from us, and I felt as though I were riding backwards. I found Mama’s lap immediately as the old country bus rattled along.

Despite the note of caution posted on each window, advising riders to keep their heads and hands inside, there were times when I sat up and had to hold my head outside the bus window. Against my will, almost as fast as a bullet, I’d empty the contents of my stomach while the old Leyland chugged along. Mama always gave me the window seat. I found the bus seats uncomfortable, especially when going on a long journey; I don’t know how Mama tolerated them.

One month later, Mama and I returned to our house in the country. When we got home, I felt like a little princess among the other girls in our hamlet, because not many of them ever got the opportunity to visit the big city.

While in Kingston, Mama and I would also visit my eldest sister, while my brother, Nathaniel, would be busy with his job working as my wealthy aunt’s chauffeur. My sister had more time on her hands, because her husband had hired a live-in helper for her. My sister and her husband were beekeepers. They sold honey, honeycomb, and wax for their living. The business was quite successful.

Sometimes Mama would leave me at my sister’s place for a day or two. The first time she did this, I cried until Nat had to drive her back the two miles just an hour after he’d dropped her off. Nat was not pleased when he got the call that he had to repeat his journey twice in one day. I was not aware how attached I was to Mama until then. My sister was not pleased that I refused to stay with her, but I didn’t know her very well. Yvette, her daughter, who was two years my senior, enjoyed my company and wanted me to stay. Lloyd, her eldest child with whom I grew up, was another familiar face, but I didn’t really know my sister. I seldom saw her.

While I was in Kingston, my sister took Yvette and me to the kids’ show and to the National Pantomime where live plays were performed. I always enjoyed the plays and just being in the theatre. The Ward Theatre was huge and was chosen specifically for the showing of the National Pantomime each year. As I sat in my seat taking pleasure in the cold air that the air conditioner was puffing out, I imagined myself swinging on a rope like a monkey from the high dome ceiling, from one point to the next above the rows of purple upholstered theatre chairs. I didn’t share this with anyone, but I told them about the play and other activities.

My friends listened attentively as I told them about the indoor plumbing at my sister’s and brother’s homes, and how there were no out-houses and no one went to the river for a bath. The laundry room, kitchen, and bathrooms were under the same roof, and my sister had an electric oven in the kitchen. One did not need to go down on one’s knees to wash and polish the floors. There were large supermarkets in Kingston where one walked in and chose what one liked, instead of asking a shopkeeper to do the serving. My sister had a swimming pool in the back of the yard. If it wasn’t covered, lots of mango leaves would fall in. Some actually did fall in while they were swimming. Yvette and I sometimes took the stairs to the top of the flat cement roof, where we’d play.

My sister at times would come to see Mama and me at my brother’s home, which was about two miles from her house. She always brought fruitcakes and banana fritters. The fritters I did not care for, because after eating them I would have heartburn at night.

If it was Christmas, I would return home with lots of toys and new clothes. Once my sister made me a matching yellow knitted bag and hat. When I got home, most girls wanted one like mine. I, of course, asked my sister to make me some more so that I could give them to my friends, but she ran out of the material with which she’d made mine.

A few weeks after I arrived home from my delightful holiday in Kingston, I figured that something unusual was happening to me, or had already happened. One bright, clear, sunny morning in early May of 1972, I awoke and strolled lazily outside. I was the last person to get out of bed that morning.

I hadn’t had a restful sleep the night before. I had lay in bed, listening to the sound of dogs barking, both near and far away. I’d heard the leaves on the trees rustling in the night breeze, dried leaves tumbling over stones and whirl-pooling against big rocks and each other. I’d heard ripe mangoes leaving their branches, tearing through the green leaves of lower branches, and landing on the ground with a thud. It was a wonder, listening to the stillness whenever the wind and other sounds of the night paused.

Mama had a bankra (a softer and more refined type of basket) hanging on a hook above our heads in the living-room. We had no cabinet in which to store our goodies; therefore, the bankra was our overhead pantry. At night, however, the mice would share our pantry with us, as if they were the ones who did the shopping and baking.

Often when I couldn’t sleep at nights, I’d quietly get out of bed and give the bankra a sudden wild, but firm, shake, which sent the mice scampering with fright. Sometimes the mice were so frightened that one would jump from the bankra onto my hand. My scream would disrupt my father’s sleep, and in anger he would shout at me, Gal, why are you not sleeping?

At night when it rained I would lie in bed with my face towards the ceiling, listening to the raindrops piercing the zinc roof, and imagining that the drops were a steel band. Daybreak was usually the time sleep came upon me.

May was an exciting month for me, because I knew that my birthday was coming up soon, but on the morning of May 5, I woke up feeling unlike myself. I was sluggish, weak, sleepy, and thirsty … and my entire body was itching.

It was no ordinary itching. It was the type of itching that bit into me and made me want to scratch deep beneath the surface of my skin. I felt like I was scratching my skin and it had water on it, although my skin was dry. I needed more than my ten fingers to