Metaphorical knittingWednesday, April 02, 2014
The first thing I ever knitted was a pink scarf. It was a long, straggly mess, full of holes and imperfections. I was so proud.
One day last year, a Monday, I put my pink scarf in a bag with some circular needles and carried it with me. In a quiet waiting room, I slowly and deliberately pulled it apart. Line by line, stitch by stitch, I dismantled everything I'd made. The wool lay in scrawled loops across my lap, like a child's scribble.
Then I wound it back up into a fat, pink ball and began to knit again.
I knitted and I waited. Round and round my needles clicked, building row upon row of neat stitches. No holes. No imperfections. Not this time.
I knitted under the sympathetic gaze of the heavily pregnant nurse who checked me in.
I knitted with Fin beside me, his arm resting on the back of my seat. His fingers played a restless rhythm on the NHS regulation fabric.
I knitted as the woman sitting across from me began, quietly, to cry.
I knitted right up until the moment they came for me. Then they took me along a corridor, put me to sleep, and helped my body finish what it had started, in waves of pain and despair, five days before.
It had been nothing, really. Just a faint line, an outline on a screen. Except that it was everything. And it was over.
In the days that followed, I kept knitting. In tears, in silence, in mourning for the future that wasn't coming, I kept knitting. It gave me something to do. It gave me comfort. It gave me, eventually, a perfect, hole-free pink snood.
Then Smidgen ate it.
Just five more months of knitting, and waiting, to go.
Let's hope Smidgen doesn't eat the baby.
Images: 1. The ill-fated snood. 2. Hat pattern by Purlbee, washi tape download by Pugly Pixel. 3. More successful snood, more successful bump. Touch wood.