Threads

I am sitting in the waiting room at Drexel Neurological Medicine again while Ron is in with a doctor; this is the second of a zillion appointments we will  need to have in order to get him into the ketamine protocol at Hahnemann. As usual, I have brought my knitting with me. I have spent enough time in doctor's offices to always have the proper accoutrements with me. I am not good at waiting, but working with the colors and textures takes my mind off of worrying. At times like this, I bless my grandmother who taught me how to use needles and yarn.

I have knit my way through twenty-six surgeries, four severe infections, and at least thirty hospitalizations. If all goes well at this, and other tests, I will knit my way through two weeks of infusion therapy.

I notice that across the aisle from me a young woman is intensely interested in what I am doing. She watches each stitch I make. I have become used to the stares; people who do not knit are fascinated by the process. I offer her a smile.

After  few moments, she walks across the aisle toward me. "My grandmother used to do that," she says. "Is that crochet?"

"No," I respond pleasantly. "Crochet is with one hook. This is knitting, with two needles." I hold up my work to show her.

"But the two points are connected," she says.

"Yes. It's a cable needle to hold a lot of stiches. I'm making a blanket."

"Ah," she says. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand to touch it. "It's really soft," she says. "And I love the colors." Then she sighs. "I wish I could knit."

In the last thirteen years,through twenty-six surgeries, four infections, and thirty hospitalizations, I have heard this lament at least a hundred times. I am not exaggerating. I meet a lot of people in hospitals and doctors' offices. I wait for the next comment, which I know is coming. It always does.
"How did you learn to knit?" I recite my story about my dear Nanny who helped me make a scarf for my dad, about how the first project was a disaster but my dad wore it anyway, about my years knitting sweaters with bunnies for my children when they were little, and about how knitting has helped me keep my sanity in these last very difficult years. I have perfected the story. I tell it in under three minutes.

"I wish," she says with a sigh, "my grandmother had taught me." Even as I tell her that it is not that hard to do, that there are web sites that can teach her how to knit, that it is a meditative hobby that provides comfort in stressful times, my mind is asking this question: Why not?

In our times of economic stress, handcrafts have gained in popularity as we turn to do-it-yourself projects. Knitting is once again a big industry and those of us who were lucky enough to learn the craft have wonderful choices in yarn and needles and patterns. Through such on-line platforms as Ravelry, we have an entire community that shares our passion for the fiber arts.

But many have forgotten the pleasure and peace of making something with their hands. Many have never known it. Yes, you can learn to knit from a book or a web tutorial, but knitting is meant to be shared. There is no better way to learn than to sit side by side with an experienced knitter, sharing not only the art but the threads of our lives.

Before the young woman returns to her seat, I have taken out some spare needles--every knitter carries them--and some scrap yarn and I have shown her how to cast on and begin a simple scarf.  As she makes some awkward attempts at stitches, she shares with me her own reason for being here at Drexel: nerve damage in her leg that will require surgery and therapy. She begins to make some progress on the stitches and is thrilled with her result. I tell her to keep the needles. They are plastic, cheaply bought and made to be shared.

Eventually, she returns to her husband's side and shows him what she is making. He nods and returns to his magazine. She continues concentrating on her work. In a few minutes, the nurse comes to call her into the office. As she passes me, she nods and mouths "Thank you." I probably will not see her again, but I have passed along something valuable. I hope she continues to knit. I hope she uses it to help her recover. I hope she passes it on.

I have worked several more inches on the blanket by the time Ron comes out of the office. This was a sensory test to see just what nerves have been damaged. The doctor has, in effect, made a map to follow. I am shown the schematic that indicates the damaged nerves, all connected by tissue and bones. Our bodies are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I gather up my needles and my yarn. Another hurdle on this journey towards what we hope will be Ron's recovery has been jumped. We continue following along the path that is mapped out, one appointment after another. I have no doubt that Hahneman Hospital will become as familiar to us as Crozer-Chester was. I will knit my way through its corridors.

And as we follow the line set out for Ron,  I will continue to follow the threads of yarn that tie me back to my grandmother, who sat next to me with a pair of needles and brown yarn and said, "Linda, I am going to teach you to knit."

Thanks, Nanny.
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