Sunday, October 21, 2007

The therapeutic nature of fiber

Fiber therapy. An actual term in the knitting and crocheting community, one that the average non-knitter or crocheter would probably laugh off as a chick thing and move on. But I have to say, it goes beyond putting yarn on needles and allowing your fingers to do something while you watch TV...

Friends and anyone who reads this blog know that I lost my dad 5 months ago. I've been shoving the grief aside for a bit (survival tactic, nose to the grindstone, etc.), and have naturally found that that means that when it surfaces, it's a pain the likes of which has yet to be measured by existing technology. Spent yesterday with my mom and she made the comment that it just wasn't fair, that he'd been talking about retiring in another year or so. That surprised me, because after they drained their savings in his layoff years back, he used to joke he'd be working until they buried him. The fact that he thought about retirement means he did look to the future occasionally, which jibes against the knowledge that there's an excellent chance his death was a direct result of his fear (of going under the knife for his varied medical conditions). And that just makes me ache.

So I wake up this morning from a dream that has a distinct danger of being recurring: the premise being that there was a mistake, that they'd mixed up the bodies, cremated someone else, and that he'd spent the last 5 months in a coma as a John Doe. I spent this dream elated that he was alive and terrified of getting my hopes up, because he could still die (yeah, yeah, we're all going to die, not the point)...I woke up and it took a couple of minutes for me to separate dream from reality, and reality left me in a seriously black mood. I'm working through another stage of denial, the it's-not-possible-that-he's-gone train of thought. The rage that accompanies the foreshadowing that I didn't hug him last time we were at their place, because it was a dodgy prospect with him, whether it'd be a warm or cold reception, and then thinking as we were pulling out of the driveway that I'd feel bad if that was the last time I had the chance, and IT WAS! Why does God place us in those situations?! Like I don't already have enough regrets about the gaps in our relationship, like it doesn't already make me ache and rage that he never got to know enough of me in this life, that he'll never know my future kids? I do believe that he knows me now, I have to believe that; it's what keeps me from screaming out loud (to the point of being locked up somewhere with padded walls) at the unfairness of his death. But it's not the same.

So I go online to distract myself this morning, and I log into Ravelry...add myself to a couple more groups...there's a Law & Order forum; ruthee'll get a chuckle outta that...and I check my email. Mochimochi Land has a new pattern, a frickin' adorable bathtub with bubbles. It makes me smile, and I click into the whole blog, because I haven't checked it out in a while. There's an even cuter pattern up for grabs, the toilet paper roll. I'm in love; what a hilarious idea! I just acquired a pile of white acrylic from the mominlaw, because even though I'm trying to purge my stash of the crazy amount of acrylic in it, I still have the inability to turn away free yarn. Heck, I'm goofy enough to wear that as a scarf, not just make it as a prank. I read some more forums, and scope the knitting community, and discover that my black mood has lifted considerably, that I can handle the beauty of the day without kicking a cat or being mean to the husby. That dream was a wake-up call that I need to work more diligently on my grief journals, but my hobby also served as a reminder that there's plenty in this world to smile at; you just have to know where to look.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go make TP out of yarn :)

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