by Kim Ousley
Thump! Gently rolling along the floor, my ball of yellow yarn gets away from me.
Ugh! Now I have to chase this fluffy, unraveling creature.
Grunt! Up I go, with crackling in my knees and other joints. Stretch to the ceiling.
My body lets me know I’ve been sitting for quite awhile, through the soreness and stiffness I feel in my arms, back, and legs. “Get back here,” I whisper loudly. No one is in the room. Just me. I tend to talk to myself after 30-plus years of living single.
Oh, I was married once. An extraordinarily long time ago. Back when I was still naïve and lived a romantic fantasy in my young adult mind; too many fairy tales from television and books back when I was in high school. That marriage lasted three years. I have one child, now grown, from that interesting short chapter of my past life.
Even further into the past: When I was a child, my sweet step-grandmother sat me, a lefty, down on her couch one day to teach me how to crochet. I loved the attention. She had the patience of a saint, trying to help me flip the visual (from righty to lefty) and show me each step to get started. Somewhere along the way, I managed to obtain a ball of soft yellow yarn and a hook from her. I still have that hook.
The softness of the ball of string soothed me. The movements of rhythmic stitches calmed my scattered thoughts and brought focus to my anxious mind. She allowed me to take what I started home with me. I practiced almost nonstop. Unfortunately, my impatient and belligerent twin sister didn’t like that I wasn’t paying my undying attention to her every whim. She exhausted me. I had to hide in obscure nooks and cubbyholes with a book to try and escape her tirade. She loved to be loud, argue, and be right. She was a force of nature. More like a Tasmanian devil some days. I just wanted to find a quiet place to practice my new skill.
Decades later, the practice still soothes me, even when the yarn wanders off on its own. I counted 3, 2, 1, in my head and prepared to swing myself forward to lean down and grasp that rascally ball of yarn back into my snare. Woah! Got up a bit too quick. World spinning. Sit!
Dangit! Now I knocked over my yarn bag and spilled all its contents onto the floor. Clang-a-lang went the crochet hooks. Following behind sloppily and fast were several smaller balls of scrap yarn. It looked like I had put a quarter into the gumball machine and turned the handle only to react too slow to catch anything coming out. Grr! Geez!
Grouchy and grumbling, I braced myself with my hands to push myself up off the spot on the couch. It sits quite low, so I tend to have to gain momentum to get back up. My prosthetic leg, which I inherited after a cancer surgery to remove my lower left leg and foot a few years ago, wobbles a bit as my fake foot hits something on the floor beneath me. Steady there! I already broke my right wrist about four months ago in a fall. I’m not up for another devastating round of surgeries and metal rods in my body.
Whew! Quick save! I looked down to see I had accidently stepped on the wooden handle of one of my favorite hooks. It lay there on the floor, unbroken and waiting on me to pick it up.
Funny thing about prosthetic legs. They don’t have the muscle and bones to help brace me if I feel myself going into a fall or stumble. Nothing but a weighted metal paperweight. Yet I have a fond admiration for this expensive piece of shiny and scuffed parts that make up my life-saving device. My socket has about 50 different types of stickers decorating the surface. Every summer I change them out and have a new set to show off as I strut my leg in public. It has a mind of its own—or rather, a temperament that rivals my twin sister’s some days. Other days, we get along like best friends enjoying a sunny day in the park.
Titanium makes up most of the metal parts, followed by a flexible piece of metal covered by a rubber foot shell. I’m a robot woman; I just need to wear a cape! Kids usually ask questions like “Did it hurt when they cut off your foot?” or “Can you take it off?” No and yes, depending on the circumstances and day and the mood I’m in.
It’s the adults who can be a bit challenging. I see them staring or darting their heads back and forth to get a few glimpses in. Some just stare. I think this summer I’ll write “My eyes are up there” and put a big arrow pointing upwards on the front of my socket. Most of the time I can ignore it and move along. Unless someone approaches and loudly says, “Diabetes”? Um, no, cancer…idiot. I don’t say that last word aloud, but it’s screaming loudly inside my brain.
Back to crocheting. You see, this act of repeating motion to create something from beginning to end has kept me alive…literally. Through every traumatic and dramatic life event, including the day I woke up from my amputation surgery in the recovery room. I was feeling no pain. Morphine drip was keeping me loopy and happy. Below the blanket, there was nothing six inches below the left knee. I asked if I could see it. The nurse, with her gentle gaze and soulful eyes, nodded and said yes. She helped me sit up a bit, then lifted the edge of the blanket ever so slightly, pulling it down slowly until I could see all the bandages holding my stitched skin and bones together. I sat there, staring, not really thinking anything, yet questioning what I should be thinking at this moment.
“Wow…huge,” I managed to squeak out of my throat and lips. Just as gently as she’d lifted it, the nurse tucked the edge of the blanket back underneath me.
“Is my tote bag of yarn anywhere around by chance?” I asked. “I think it’s underneath the bed,” she said, with a look of quizzical interest.
“I need something to do with my hands to focus,” I explained. “It helps me have calm and alertness without the anxious jitters.” She bent down, looked for the bag, and went ahead to lift it up and onto the bed beside me. She smiled, still looking confused a bit.
As I reached into my bag, the line dripping the golden liqueur of pain relief snagged onto the handle a bit, moving the needle in my hand enough to bring an angry twinge. Ouch! Be careful. I don’t want to pull that sucker out.
Ah…here’s the bright yellow skein of yarn and my favorite hook. Pulling out the center piece from the middle of the yarn, I started a chain, bringing an instant sense of relief. My hook started to move like a single chopstick being flipped around, while the yarn started to take the shape of a hat. As each nurse came around to check on me, they all would stop and ask what I was making. Each one admired my handiwork, followed by something like: “I couldn’t do that.”
As I came to the end of the last round, my nurse said it was time to get me moved upstairs to my own room. Good. I was starting to feel tired and feeling the morphine drip wearing off….
I realized I had been daydreaming again. I heard a faint train whistle just outside my window in my apartment. Then I realized I had huge, hot, salty tears dripping down my face onto the hat I was making out of the yellow yarn. Out of my mouth came a soft, guttural cry, full of sadness. More like a moaning of my soul deep within my chest.
I lay down the hook and hat beside me. Then I pray and ask God to heal my memories, so I don’t cry every time I remember. He reminds me that I will always carry this burden. This memory will help me have compassion for others as they go through the hardest journey of cancer, amputation, or chronic illness.
I sigh. Yes, I know….I just wish it still didn’t hurt. He whispers, My child, I will hold you through the pain. You only have to let go and give it to me.
Okay, I say. I close my eyes and picture the little girl sitting on his lap. She’s handing him her broken heart. He tells her thank you, and it’s the best gift she’s ever given him. She smiles, hugs him, and snuggles into his chest. He strokes her hair and sings a beautiful song to bring comfort and a feeling of safety and peace to her. She nods off to a deep slumber in his loving embrace.
Warm, soft, and fuzzy. Just like a ball of yarn. He is making her into something beautiful.
Kim Ousley is a travel writer and Certified Lead Advocate for the state of Indiana. She blogs about travel at Out on a Limb.
