When my daughter Savannah was 13-months old she developed severe idiopathic thrombocytopenic (ITP) and needed an emergency blood transfusion. She – thankfully – survived, but I, no surprise, came down with a bad cold while she was in Pediatric Intensive Care (PICU).
“Why are you sick?” the haughty Indian resident examining my daughter during her morning rounds asked. Her indignation seemed to imply that I somehow violated an unspoken hospital rule that states kids can be in dire straights moms but must remain steely strong.
I learned to knit shortly after my daughter was born and soon became addicted, as it became my coping mechanism for dealing with all her medical issues. Like a mad woman on deadline, I furiously stitched my way through those countless doctor appointments and hospitalizations. At that time, I wasn’t as concern about finishing my the scarf or hat I was knitting inasmuch to trying to alleviate my stress and redirect my thoughts.
Looking back on those early years I can recall several occasions when doctors, noting my fragile emotional state, asked if I wanted “something.” I always refused. What got me through those long, lonely nights sitting in emergency rooms and waiting for tests results wasn’t prescription based, but some good yarn and needles.
In today’s New York Times there’s a great piece by Jane Brody on the health benefits of knitting. As a knitocholic who can’t go anywhere without having at least one knitting project stashed in my bag, I am delighted that knitting finally is getting the recognition it deserves.
“He hates us and has reported half the office to Human Resources,” one of my two bosses vented during our initial meeting.
By the time I arrived at the company in late November, my bosses were exasperated with Jason’s antics. He was notorious for walking off the job when flustered and having heated arguments with staffers, so, my guess, they were trying to thwart a lawsuit.
Asking me to help with math homework is a bit like handing a map to a blind man and expecting him to provide directions.
As I stood in my daughter’s father’s country house listening to him make small talk with my beau Lawrence, I was speechless. Where is the man prone to angry outbursts and hurling insults?
On March 6, 2005, a nervous wreck, I fled an abusive relationship with a sick 11-month in tow. The next decade, fueled by Jose’s rage and my daughter’s rare medical condition that kept me stuck in a revolving door of tests and doctor appointments, was hell.
Mistakes I understand. It was my babysitter’s insociencance about work and money, two things that as a single mom drive all my thoughts and actions, that when I discovered I’d been overcharged for last week’s work, it stung in a personal way.
The minute I noted the error I fired off a text to Catherine. I assumed there would be a quick refund with a “no problem.” Nothing of the sort. Instead, I was to suck into explaining basic math to a 20-year-old college student.
The dentist had such a rah-rah attitude about Savannah’s dental problems I thought she was going to break into a cheer. “Go teeth!”
“Her mouth is structured so she only uses the back two teeth when she chews,” Dr. Linder said, jabbing her gloves into Savannah’s mouth to point out how her teeth weren’t aligned.