A Learn To Knit Story
“Ok, so you want to learn?” I was sitting in the “Quiet Room” of Jacksonville’s Mayo Clinic chemotherapy floor, whispering to my sister. My athleisure apparel paled in comparison to her pin-up modelesque attire, complete with victory curls and full, red lip. She looked gorgeous, and way out of place for a chemo ward, and my lack of makeup (and really, general effort for my appearance) looked like I should have taken tips from her. Clearly, we looked like quite the pair.
Our mom was in the chemo room with our dad; he was receiving one of his many rounds. A quick look around at the plush lounge chairs draped with warm hospital blankets and the morning light pouring in from all those windows, it was obvious how many people were silently (on the outside, at least) awaiting the same treatment. Sadly, almost every chair was full.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” Jenn whispered back.
“You won’t. I won’t let you.”
“Alright.” I shifted the bright green and gold blanket I was knitting onto her lap, arranging my yarn bag between us on the floor. Jenn grabbed the needles and braced out her elbows like she was going to use them as weapons.
My sister is, well, determined. She does everything her way, sometimes the hard way, and always 100%. In this case, 100% meant that knitting was the equivalent to pile-driving and the needles were John Deere grab handles.
“Ok, let’s lower your arms, soften your hands. You’re not about to dig a hole or tenderize meat,” the whispers continued, but the giggles were starting. “So the whole movement of knitting is to get the stitches on the left needle onto the right one.” Immediately, Jenn’s right elbow jabs me in the bicep as she quickly and forcefully starts stabbing the right needle into the left one. Reacting to save my stitches, I grab her hands, forcing her to stop. “You don’t even know what you’re doing yet!” my big-sister whisper-yell perfected.
The giggles turned into full on whisper-laughs, akin to the kinds of laughs that happen in church when you’re supposed to be quiet, making it even more difficult to do so. I had flung myself over Jenn’s body and was still gripping her hands, while her curls bouncing atop her shaking shoulders made me realize just how ridiculous we actually looked.
In the next moment of self awareness, we both leaned back and quieted our laughs, but then looked up and realized - for better or worse - the entire Quiet Room occupants’ eyes were on us, holding back church-whisper-laughs themselves.
There was clearly a learning curve to Jenn’s introduction to knitting, and at one point my Dad came out from one of his appointments and commented that it looked like she was trying to render a side of beef. This, of course, created more giggles from us and cued the same from what had naturally become our studio audience of cancer patients. Jenn eventually softened her hold, relaxed a bit, and did learn how to knit. And being super creative and artistic, she picked up the skill quickly. In fact, her stitch tension was irritatingly awesome after only a couple of days. But I just chalked that up to her really good teacher.
Fast forward to many years and many babies later and Jenn doesn’t knit as much as she once did. In fact, knitting opened the door to crochet for her, of which she has a raw talent. But I often look back to this story (and it comes up often in family gatherings where retelling of funny stories at others’ expenses is the norm) and think about how much joy that moment created - and not just for us, but for those around us. Our knitting antics and poor attempt at being quiet in the Quiet Room brought smiles and laughs - and basically an in-person 90s sitcom vignette - to a room full of cancer patients awaiting their assumedly dreaded chemo appointments.
All from knitting. What a special craft this is we share.
