Archive for June 21st, 2013

“The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.”
William Wordsworth, Great Narrative Poems Of The Romantic Age

The trip to Northampton Massachusetts was wonderful. The weather was perfect for a driveThe destination was Webs Yarns. I needed a change of scenery and browsing time in a quality yarn store. There are no yarn stores near me anymore so 100% of my purchases I make online. This week I just felt the need to squeeze yarn. Round trip, it’s about 5 hours of driving.  It’s the longest I’ve driven since the mastectomy. I was tired when I got home and unwound.

I bought yarn for the afghan I want to crochet. I believe every afghan has a story behind it that gives it meaning and this is no different.  The first thing I wanted to do after I learned I had cancer was grow things. It was January and winter here is not conducive to outside gardening. I planted seeds in pots, glass jars, and started terrariums all indoors. It was like an itch that no matter how much I scratched wouldn’t stop. The second obsession was the desire to crochet myself an afghan. I still have the afghan my grandmother crocheted for me 50 years ago. I have it wrapped in acid free paper and stored in a cedar chest. It is still in wonderful condition and I cherish it so much. But I couldn’t get to it without a lot of moving things around. You know how it is when you store something for safekeeping and it’s suddenly years later. Still, I wanted to crawl under that afghan and soak up the comfort I knew would come from it.

I spent the entire night after the operation in the hospital listening to sleet drumming on the windows and thinking about the afghan I would start and hopefully live to finish. You see, my grandmother had breast cancer too. The afghan she made for me was one of the last items she crocheted. While she survived the cancer, the lymphedema prevented her from ever crocheting again. My doctors had assured me that mastectomy and lymph node removal would not mean the end of my knitting or crocheting. So I thought about the afghan I would make and the socks I would knit, designing and redesigning them in my head, while the sleet fell against the window and tried not to think about the part of me that was now missing or the microscopic cancer cells that escaped and were travelling through my body.  Every afghan has a story.


The hydrangeas are beautiful this year.


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