The author is trying to finish the sweater for his son.
Our son Abe was taught the basics of knitting by Hannah when he was 5 years old. Abe told me to sit with him while he taught me his new skill after I came home from work. A ball of lavender yarn attached to one of the needles was held out by him. He began to knit using his own set. He said, "Run through the front door,peep through the window, and off jumps Jack."
After demonstrating the stitches several times, he said, "Now it's your turn, Papa." He offered helpful advice when I tried to do something. He whispered more pointers to me while sitting on his other side. I was able to knit a scarf after receiving more lessons from them.
I became proficient at knitting. I knit hats for immigrant children and many pairs of socks. A single pair can take a long time. A pair of socks can cost me $20 in yarn and $6,000 in labor.
Knitting became a way to keep my hands busy after I was diagnosed with brain cancer. As I recovered from brain surgery and went through six weeks of daily radiation, I knitted dozens of cotton dishcloths for my friends and family. The stitches made me feel connected to those who cared for me.
I was given a year to live when I was diagnosed. I felt as if I had exhaled for the first time in a long time after my post-radiation mammogram showed that my cancer had not advanced. I knew the cancer would kill me when I was in my 50's, but I began to believe I could live a few months longer. I cast on a scarf for my mother, which took about a week to knit, and then a shawl for Hannah, which took a bit longer.
After being home with us during and immediately after surgery, Abe returned to college. The highlight of each week was being updated on his classes and social life. Thinking about my son made me sad. I knew I wouldn't be dancing at his wedding. He wouldn't graduate from college.
I had knit for other people and I wanted to do the same for him. It could take me a full year to knit a sweater large enough for Abe to wear. I wouldn't allow myself to think about a project of that size because I thought I wouldn't have that much time. I chose a pair of gloves with a cable on the back. I was happy with how they turned out, but they weren't up to my standards.
Hannah and I went to a yarn swap after I finished my treatment. At the end of the event, a woman approached our table and began talking with me. She wanted to know what I would do with the beautiful undyed wool. I told her that I wanted to knit a sweater for my son, but I didn't have time.
She returned with enough wool to make a sweater. She said for you. You will try, just promise me. She told me that she had traveled a hundred miles to find a good home for the yarn. I cried when I told Hannah how much yarn I had been given.
The author's son taught the author to knit using acorn-capped needles.
I pulled out the needles I would need after I found a sweater pattern that worked with the wool. I went to bed with visions of Abe wearing the sweater I finished.
I couldn't start the next day. I don't think I should cast on when I know I'm leaving Abe incomplete. The yarn stayed in the bag.
I talked about my fear of failing to finish at the next meeting of my cancer support group. Members of the group shared stories of their own challenges due to the knowledge that they were likely to die. I was not the only one afraid of starting a new thing. I understood that starting the sweater would be a personal commitment to not give up before I needed to. I promised the woman who gave me the yarn that I would try.
I cast on that night and thought about my time with Abe, receiving knitting lessons from him, listening to him play violin and guitar, sharing a love of Shakespeare, and hugging him before he left.
When a friend or family member is diagnosed with an advanced form of cancer, they are often told to be positive and to stay strong. These comments are not comforting for me. They highlight our culture's denial of death.
When I was diagnosed with brain cancer, I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop it. The thought of leaving the people I loved left me devastated, but I decided to confront my condition honestly and openly. I had a limited amount of time to think about what I wanted to do with it. Rather than making a bucket list, I decided to continue working and spending time with my friends around our backyard fire pit, as well as enjoying many evenings with Hannah reading aloud to each other while we knit together on the couch.
I finished the sweater before my cancer came back. When I had a second brain surgery, I had to put it down. I am tired at the end of the day but I am knitting again. It's difficult to manipulate the knitting needles because of the tress in my hands. The sweater is almost complete. I want to finish it and give it to Abe when he comes home. I'm sure he can knit the final stitches himself if I can't finish it. He will know that my love for him helped me survive even while I was dead.
David is a family physician and a health policy researcher who is living with terminal cancer. He and his wife are writing a book together.
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