On healing
During the winter of 2012-2013, my father was dying. He had been Stage 4 with Prostate Cancer for about 4 years at that point and things were drawing to an end. My father was a religious man so he didn't fear dying, but he was a stubborn man and felt that he still had things to do. His doc said he wouldn't see Christmas, but he said he didn't want to mess up anyone's plans and so he would wait. I mentioned a stubborn streak, right? Between December 7th of 2012 and January 3rd of 2013, all of his 4 children plus applicable spouses, 12 grandchildren plus applicable spouses, and 6 great children came to see him. At one point almost all were there at the same time. Then the holidays ended and everyone drifted back to their lives to wait out the inevitable.
My eldest sister, my brother and I worked out a schedule to have one of us with my mom at all times. Dad was at home and Mom needed help. There were hospice nurses, but they come and go and his care needed to be around the clock. When it was my turn to spell my brother, I packed up a bag of projects that were top of my list to finish. A cabled sweater. A filet crochet camisole yoke. A pair of socks. And I drove back to Oklahoma. At that point, dad was in a hospital bed in the living room and Mom and I basically lived in that room. We watched tv and worked on hand work and cared for Dad. He didn't want to go so he fought Death. And fought. And that stubborn Norvelle streak showed up in force. But on January 16th, Death claimed him anyway. And it was ugly and brutal. And it changed me in ways I never knew possible.
I stayed with Mom for another 8 days until everyone could get there for his service. We ate at all Dad's favorite restaurants in town. Planned his service. Wrote the obituary. And all the while, I had my trusty handwork. We had his service. And then it was time to come back home and settle back in to life. There is no room in "real life" for prolonged grieving, so I packed all my grief into that bag of handwork and once i got home, I never touched those projects again. I wanted to. They were things I looked forward to creating. But I just didn't. It wasn't conscious, I just over looked the bag time and time again until I could forget about it and everything it now symbolized.
2 years, 7 months and 6 days passed.
Friday, I picked up my knitting bag. That green cabled sweater with only a partial sleeve knitted. I really want to wear it this fall. I texted a good friend of mine to strongly encourage me to get it out of the bag. And to maybe knit a row or two. It was scary. It seemed like every stitch brought back those ugly memories and brought them clearer and clearer into focus. But I didn't stop. Maybe this is how I will heal. Maybe when I'm done with the sweater, my heart will be able to look past those horrible memories to the good ones and I'll be able to see my dad smiling and making stupid Dad jokes instead of what I see right now. Maybe it will be after the camisole. Maybe the socks. Maybe never. But I have to try. I owe it to myself. And to my dad. And to that stubborn streak I inherited
My eldest sister, my brother and I worked out a schedule to have one of us with my mom at all times. Dad was at home and Mom needed help. There were hospice nurses, but they come and go and his care needed to be around the clock. When it was my turn to spell my brother, I packed up a bag of projects that were top of my list to finish. A cabled sweater. A filet crochet camisole yoke. A pair of socks. And I drove back to Oklahoma. At that point, dad was in a hospital bed in the living room and Mom and I basically lived in that room. We watched tv and worked on hand work and cared for Dad. He didn't want to go so he fought Death. And fought. And that stubborn Norvelle streak showed up in force. But on January 16th, Death claimed him anyway. And it was ugly and brutal. And it changed me in ways I never knew possible.
I stayed with Mom for another 8 days until everyone could get there for his service. We ate at all Dad's favorite restaurants in town. Planned his service. Wrote the obituary. And all the while, I had my trusty handwork. We had his service. And then it was time to come back home and settle back in to life. There is no room in "real life" for prolonged grieving, so I packed all my grief into that bag of handwork and once i got home, I never touched those projects again. I wanted to. They were things I looked forward to creating. But I just didn't. It wasn't conscious, I just over looked the bag time and time again until I could forget about it and everything it now symbolized.
2 years, 7 months and 6 days passed.
Friday, I picked up my knitting bag. That green cabled sweater with only a partial sleeve knitted. I really want to wear it this fall. I texted a good friend of mine to strongly encourage me to get it out of the bag. And to maybe knit a row or two. It was scary. It seemed like every stitch brought back those ugly memories and brought them clearer and clearer into focus. But I didn't stop. Maybe this is how I will heal. Maybe when I'm done with the sweater, my heart will be able to look past those horrible memories to the good ones and I'll be able to see my dad smiling and making stupid Dad jokes instead of what I see right now. Maybe it will be after the camisole. Maybe the socks. Maybe never. But I have to try. I owe it to myself. And to my dad. And to that stubborn streak I inherited
Thank you Deb
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