Christmas Wouldn’t be Christmas Without a Bit of Drama

 

I am turning into a pincushion.

 My life is unravelling—I knit, and I unravel—I unravel and then I knit.

 

When I was in my twenties and thirties, knitting was an integral part of my being. I always had at least one project on the go and when I moved from Germany to Ireland, with a three-month-old baby strapped to my side, one of the things I felt was indispensable, was my box of knitting needles. I still have that box and the needles.

 

Throughout my life I became good at knitting things up and then taking them apart again. If I made a mistake, I was never afraid of ripping back a jumper, even if I had to rip it back to the very start. And then I would start again. It was a good life lesson, like building sandcastles on the beach and then letting the sea or the children destroy them. You just have to get up and do it all over again.

 

When the children were younger and I was married, we used to watch a lot of movies and series’ on the TV—the usual; Coronation Street, Twin peaks, The Godfather etc and all the while I used to knit—clickety clack, clickety clack. Then the ads would come on and my hands went still. I always enjoyed the ads, even if you’ve seen them a hundred times, you have to observe them closely so as not to miss the nuances. Or, perhaps, they are just designed to be addictive.

 

I don’t quite remember when I stopped being such a prolific knitter, perhaps it was when I started Art School in my mid-thirties. Obviously, I was experiencing many more and many different creative influences, and although I had always sewn and crafted things, I did not slip seamlessly into textile art (ha!). Surprisingly, I also did not stick to the ceramics course—my original intention. Instead, I took up the very new, to me, technique of working in foundry. A whole new set of skills was learned and the knitting, crafting, and potting slowly unravelled as I took this new interest into my hands. I modelled and moulded, and cast and broke the mould, and cast again.

 

Forward fast and we find ourselves at the end of 2022. I have just passed my 63^rd birthday and in the past couple of months have picked up my needles again. I had a passing dalliance with crochet, but despite patient tutoring from my daughter-in-law, as well as multiple online tutorials, I never really liked the results, nor could I remember how many chains to knit or loops to make.

 

My first back-to-knitting project was a little hooded cardigan for the daughter of a friend. I was quite pleased with how it turned out, though I did make a couple of mistakes. I ripped it back a couple of times, but eventually sewed it together, with the flaws that remained. It was a good learning curve and I have identified a few weaknesses in my process and remembered some tricks of the trade. Watching countless YouTube tutorials has been invaluable.

 

Then I tried to knit my first sock—I lie, it is my second sock. The first sock I ever knitted, at least 30 years ago, was an absolute fiasco. Under my patient hands it grew into an unwieldy sort of mutant elephant trunk with bulges and curves in all the wrong places. It dwelt in unfinished ignominy at the bottom of my knitting basket for years.

 

It was time to try again.

 

The toe turned out quite well—I used the Turkish, or Eastern, cast on technique. It took a bit of fiddling to get it right, and the toe ended up with two slight points at the corners, but overall, I was happy. I managed the shaping and successfully changed the colour for the foot of the sock. I worked away, in the round, until I had reached the required length and then slowly began the gussets. Things were coming together quite well, although when I tried it on, it was on the large side—that wasn’t a deal breaker because they were house socks and could be oversized. But trying to turn the heel evaded me. No matter how many times I watched, stopped, and replayed the YouTube tutorial, I just couldn’t get my head around it. This was where my frayed nerves finally unravelled, I swore and threw the sock on the floor and picked it up and swore some more. Knitting is the most relaxing pastime in the world, unless I can’t do it, then I turn into a fire-breathing dragon.

 

And so, after looking at it for several weeks and admiring the toe shaping, I sighed and unravelled my half-sock. An image of waves crashing over a glorious sandcastle filled my senses. I was not truly happy with the gusset and the heel never turned. The wool, however, was put to good use in a rather stylish, Aran-style sweater for Candy. She has worn it once, as the weather got unseasonably warm the day after I finished it, but it came in handy when Kerry got sick and a bit shivery. She is better now.

 

Currently, after knitting many test swatches, I am knitting a textured blanket to use up all my odd balls of yarn.

 

And then my leg unravelled.

I’m not sure if it’s because I had begun to increase my physical activity, or if it was just going to happen—I feel that I’m never going to get properly fit again!

 

I got phlebitis just above my left knee. It was painful and I wished it away for as long as I could, trying to banish the thought of deep vein thrombosis. I took aspirin and applied heat, as advised by YouTube. After four days it had not improved so I trotted off to the health centre to make an appointment to see my doctor. She was lovely and not a bit judgmental about my weight, though I realise that also has a bearing on issues of this kind. She smiled behind her mask and gave me a prescription for some anticoagulants that I have to INJECT INTO MY BELLY!!!

I am a needle wuss—I scream when I prick myself on a pin.

She said it was easy.

 

I stepped out of the health centre into a torrential downpour of rain. I had no umbrella and mesh shoes on my feet. I tucked my phone under my arm to keep it dry and went to my local pharmacy. They did not have the meds in stock. I darted outside again, dripping wet, into the rain and headed for the next pharmacy—nothing. I was starting to feel sorry for myself and tears pricked my eyes. At the third pharmacy the girl behind the counter said she could order it and it would be in at 8.30 that evening. I was relieved yet terrified. I dripped all the way home again and went onto the internet to view some YouTube videos on self-injecting, to prepare.

 

I felt that I could do it, but in fact, after looking at the pack of pre-loaded syringes for a long time, I chickened out and rang my neighbour who happens to be a nurse. She kindly came round and went through the procedure with me, then I pinched an inch while she did the actual needle part.

“Ouch!”

That was one down—only nineteen more to go. Laura said I could call her the next morning if I needed help, but I bravely took the bull by the horns and did it myself. And, actually, it didn’t hurt at all! So that is another life skill that I now have under my belt (double ha!).

 

As you can see, as some things unravel others are knitted together—my friendship with Laura is now stronger and the injections are getting easier. I will continue to review my exercise program and try to lose that pesky weight. I will get over this bump and I will knit a pair of socks before this winter is out…or, maybe not. Perhaps I should go to the beach and build a sandsock.