Tuesday, October 15, 2013
W hen she saw that my hands could no longer hold the yarn and
hook, she would massage my arms and say “Liza, I am only going to do a couple
of rounds here because I am an old woman and don’t have your strength. In a
couple of hours your hands will be strong again and you can complete this.” When she left, my mother made me promise that
I would complete the purse. I now know that she was as scared as I was during
those weeks of muscle weakness, but she never showed it. She kept my spirits high using crochet and
prayer to calm the anxiety that would creep in when I felt useless. Instead of focusing on what I couldn’t do, I
focused on completing my plarn project and, time flew by.
Liza blogs at Gabli Musing.
I met Liza when I was a volunteer at a community clinic
where she worked as the social worker. I admired her spunk and her professional
knowledge which always guided her to remain calm in the face of tragic
situations. Even though the work we did was serious, we still managed to have
fun, share a laugh and our interest in crochet. The clinic closed in 2008, but
we’ve kept in touch. Liza has a
passionate story to share with you. Reading it had me in tears. How will you
react?
Liza |
An admirer and pupil of the Crochet Kween, I count Gwen as
one of three women, including my mother and mother-in-law, that I thank for my
obsession with crochet.
At the age of ten, my mother taught me how to crochet an
afghan, and single crochet was the only stitch I understood well for several
years! My father made me my first metal hook because I was forever losing my
mother’s priceless hooks. The hook’s groove was not smooth and it would catch
on the yarn fibers; but it taught me to loosen my grip on the yarn. Life
happened and crochet was forgotten. I didn’t pick up crochet again until after
I was married and had my first child.
Earlier this month, I visited my parents in Puerto Rico. When
I arrived at the airport, my mother’s hug was tighter than ever and the sobbing
was loud enough for other’s to hear! You see, the last time I saw her two years
ago I had just been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, had partial loss of
vision and could barely move. Part of my
story can be found in Crochet Saved MyLife by Kathryn Vercillo (p. 110), but here is a tidbit so that you can
understand where my mother comes in.
During February of 2011, I had begun work on my very first
messenger bag. I wanted to create it using
alternating colors.
Messenger Bag completed by Liza |
I am forever a
crochet newbie and was excited to prove to my husband that I could create more
than just scarves. However, on Valentine’s Day that year I completely lost my
vision! Despite the encouragement of family and friends, I felt completely
alone, drenched in fear and trapped in darkness. I heard words that struck terror
into my heart: lupus and MS, from several doctors.
The first 48 hours of blindness, were the most desperate for
me because of the fear, anger and desperation. Everyone that knows me agrees
that I never sit still for too long. To busy myself, I created mental lists of
things that I had to do and became even angrier when I realized I couldn’t
complete the tasks. Slowly my anxiety grew until I could feel my heart racing,
my breath short and fast and I was certain I was having a heart attack. I cried out to God for peace.
I wasn’t exactly thinking about yarn and hooks when my foot
struck my crochet basket at the foot of my sofa. What I didn’t know at the time was that it was
my then 7 year-old daughter who had brought the basket to my side. It hadn’t occurred to me that I normally kept
the basket at the other side of the sofa!
Thank God she did this; that evening, I rediscovered crochet in a whole
different way. Crochet kept me busy counting and feeling the stitches. I had no
time to feel pity and worry about what was to come.
When my mother came
to visit me a couple of weeks later, my eyesight was greatly improved; but now,
I could barely move due to severe swelling of my joints and muscle weakness. Getting
up to hug my mother was a difficult task. While she was genuinely concerned, my
mother knew that the best medicine for me was to keep me feeling useful. She
brought miles of plarn she had made
and taught me how to make purses out of plastic bags.
Plarn Purse |
This time, when I saw my mother at the airport, I ran to hug
her. In between our bodies and around my shoulder hung the very first crocheted
plarn purse that we had both worked on.
While I still have small bouts of muscle weakness and vision
issues today, I’m significantly improved. There are days, when I have to slow
down and sit. When those days arrive, I
know that I can count on the gift of crochet. In my crochet basket I keep more than crochet
projects: therapeutic compression gloves, eye drops, a heating pad and a small
hand held massager for when my hands feel tingly. I crochet in 20-minute
intervals and give myself plenty of time to complete projects. I try to crochet
at the end of every day as a form of therapeutic debriefing; and this helps me
finish projects faster. I work in the mental health field and crochet is my favorite
way of self-debriefing.
I am also switching out my hooks to ergonomically friendly
ones. Because of my eyesight, I use my
Kindle to zoom in on patterns and I adjust the brightness as needed. For the most part, I have learned to crochet
by using my fingers as my “eyes;” if not my daughter’s eyes help out. The arms
on what my family has dubbed the “crochet chair” are padded and at the right
level so that I can rest my arms and have support to crochet.
When I am having a particularly difficult day, the feel of
the yarn brings life to my numb fingers and the cold metal hook feels wonderful
against my swollen hands. As I crochet, any anxiety and worries are overtaken
by the task at hand. The concerns over how much time I have left to complete
the thousand things moms have to do in a day are replaced by drawings of
patterns, crochet ideas and the business of counting stitches. While my doctors
wait to see what this autoimmune disease will eventually develop into, I
crochet away. The silver lining here is a beautiful one: While helping me count
stitches and overseeing my progress, my 9-year-old daughter learned the crochet
basics a couple of years ago without me really teaching her. She is now fully
addicted to the craft. My 5 year-old son recently attempted his first chain.
And, my tower of strength, the “hubster” as I call him, brings home yarn when
he can’t decide on flowers.
Such beautiful eyes! |
I am grateful to the women in my life who have taken time to
explain a stitch, a method, and a pattern. They haven’t just taught me how to
crochet; they have given me a very special gift.
Comments
Thanks for the sharing such a great story.
I'll look for your book. :)