The Unbreakable Bond

We're "Irish Twins." Born a year and a week apart. Raised almost like twins, dressing alike, sharing a room.

Often mistaken one for another, though you are blonde and I am brunette. Often called twins, even though our mother repeatedly said, "I was there -- they're not twins!"

The usual squabbles...you are tidy. I am not. Tape down the center of our shared room -- the door was on YOUR side. That made life interesting.

You got grounded and pitched a fit. I got grounded and thought, "Great! Reading time!"

High school...you were dating and I was a bookworm. People wanted to hang around you because you were vivacious and cute. They wanted my class notes. The nuns didn't mistake us, because I was "the smart one," and you...were always the prankster. You've always had a dark sense of humor and could be way more sarcastic than people expected. 

Our lives went in different directions, and I moved away. There were squabbles, but I moved back and we repaired what went wrong.

We're tight now. Tight as two sisters could be. Reading each other’s mind; sharing jokes. Sharing trials and tribulations. Always there for each other. Sounding boards who share the same stories, worry about our kids, crab about careers and crazy bosses. Each the best cheerleader of the other, and also able to tell it straight when needed, without fear of anger or misunderstanding. Standing up when someone else strikes out, steps out of line - the two of us understanding each one's Achille's heel and protecting the other from the world as we did back in the neighborhood.

As we stand together when we're at a wedding, funeral, party...everyone says, "Oh wow, you can tell you two are sisters!" We look nothing alike, but our mannerisms and what comes out of our mouths -- those are tells for sure.

But now there's an enemy at the door. You called me before I went in for my heart thing to tell me you had cancer, "But it's good - it's treatable." You were upbeat, cheerful even. Positive that this was just a bump in the road. We discussed treatment plans, options, what you were researching.

Something, somewhere went wrong. The port -- a routine procedure landed you in the ICU with complications. You were scared at the thought of "going under" again, rightly so. You were mad that you "flunked" chemo (in truth, it just about killed you on your first treatment). Radiation. Loss of appetite, chemo brain, and that deeper-than-bone-deep fatigue. Depression. Despair.

And we've just jumped headlong into territory unknown. Now, we don't know what will happen. We don't know the prognosis, we don't know...anything.

I'm scared. I'm sure you are, too. I don't want this chapter to end. But I also don't want you to be in pain and undertake treatments that won't do anything substantial. Both of us have seen how that goes.

Whatever happens, I'm still in your corner. Wishing I could take away the anxiety, pain, worry. Wishing, actually, that it was me instead. Because in spite of your "tough nurse" stance, in spite of your "I don't want to worry you" stance, I know you're actually quite a marshmallow. Softer than most people realize. Fragile in the way that marshmallows are; only an illusory picture of stability and firmness. Only an illusion of health and vigor.

See, aside from hair color, we're also just about opposites physically. I'm stocky, robust. Thick bones like Dad; and I've always had trouble with my weight, veering higher rather than lower, and a lot more muscular. You're slight. Trim, thin, trouble keeping weight on.

Like a little bird. Able to fly. Able to do great acrobatic feats in the air, but small. Slight. Physically delicate, mentally sharp - smarter than all those nuns gave you credit for. You sailed through nursing school, showing a natural gift for diagnosis. You had a long career, till your "birdie bones" started to betray you and you could no longer work on a hospital floor, which was always a lifelong dream. Our aunt always thought I would be the one who'd become a nurse (well, there's that thing I have about blood and bodily fluids...), but at least she got to see one of us do the job. And it was definitely your calling. 

There's no neat pattern right now. Nothing predictable. Nothing but uncertainty, fear, doubt, prayer. Tears. Lying awake nights with thoughts that you don't want to think. Talking to our brother, and knowing, observing how this is affecting him as well, since we're a trio.

Seeing you so frail and subdued at Christmas broke my heart into pieces. I hope you never know that it did, because that would bother you; you're so concerned that my heart is weak, but it's not. I'd love to see a flash of the former you -- the "Snap out of it, you moron!" you...

This isn't a eulogy. This is a recognition of a cord stronger than an umbilical cord. Stronger than the roots of the oldest oak, the oldest sequoia. The vital, life-long, immutable cord of sisterhood which transcends just about everything. It's something we've relied on our whole lives. And I'm not ready to let it be severed.
 
The Knitting...

Poking along on the Opal Blue Sock. I've taken to stuffing it in my bag, and it's been just about the only resolution I've made: knit more.I had to take a Covid test and I brought it to the clinic. I was knitting along; got a weird look from a younger gal, probably wondering how it all worked. There was an older lady there, too. She knew. You could tell from the glances she kept stealing.

If we weren't all so freaked out about talking to each other for fear of spreading germs, I'm pretty sure we'd have struck up a conversation.

It's at the easy part: the leg. Once I get to the heel, it'll be grounded to the house for a bit, till that's done; then it can come back traveling with me for the foot. Then when the toe happens, it's home for a bit till finished.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), I have several that I can travel with for a while. I knit before my students show up at the studio. I knit waiting in the doctor's office. I'll knit while someone else is driving... I found out the hard way that while so many knitters "keep a sock in the car," it did me no good -- I was always driving!

I get a lot of knitting done after the house quiets down for the night. Perry Mason re-runs are my "background noise" of choice at this point. I've been through Ina Garten, The Great British Baking Show, all of the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes... It's meditative even when I have to rip apart a sock to make it right.

After I get a few pairs done, I want to try a BSJ -- Baby Surprise Jacket from Elizabeth Zimmerman. It's a unique thing where you just follow the directions, and then after the knitting, you do a little origami and WHAM... a jacket. I have lots of worsted weight, and I have sock weight too. One of my friends has done several BSJs out of sock yarn.

It's a nice change from my Asymetric Sweater which is a part of my standard baby layette.
 
The Reading...

I'm re-reading the Yarn Harlot. I needed something that wasn't heavy. So I plucked her books off my shelf and pretty much ran through them over the holidays. After the news about my sister, I was at very loose ends. Yes, I was knitting, but it was just to keep my hands busy.

I needed to occupy my brain before bedtime, and the essays Stephanie Pearl-McPhee writes about knitting were just the thing.

I'm also re-reading Sarah McCoy's "Marilla of Green Gables." I'm on a kick of repeats, I guess. Kid #2 hasn't come down to visit since returning from the UP, so I still have Xmas gifts to exchange. I will be surprised if there's no book. There's usually a book for me.

Marilla is the "pre-story" of Anne of Green Gables. Not written by Lucy Maud Montgomery, but by a very talented writer who seems to have been able to replicate her voice to a certain extent. I actually like the cover art. I always thought that the farm house in the TV series was overdone. The cover art of this book shows a more modest house, which would fit with the time and the economic circumstances of the area. Yes, there are green gables, but it's not the extravagant abode that was on the television series. It actually looks kind of like the house in "A Quiet Man," the only John Wayne movie I can tolerate. (Go ahead...everyone always says I'm un-American because I really think Mr. Wayne made his fortune playing himself. He has, as was written in one of the Harry Potter books, "the emotional depth of a teaspoon.")

I need to go back into the office and rearrange the books. I got some back that I'd loaned my mom, and they have to find shelf space. I also need to purge the basement bookshelves. Go through the zillion binders, toss old textbooks, get the kids' books back to them. Eventually clear out a bunch of decorations; either giving them to local resale shops or donating them to our church if we ever have another rummage sale.

Random Picture...

There's always an outtake! When Quinn was modeling her hat, we had a few shots where it definitely slipped... She took it in her stride, as she always does.

She's such a good sport. She loves her hats. And she's also a fan of a pretty bandana.

I just wish she wasn't such a weirdo...she would, otherwise, be a phenomenal therapy dog. Except for the fact that she's pretty much scared of her own shadow.

There are literally four people who she can tolerate, aside from the vet - and she quakes like a Colorado aspen tree at the vet's office.

I read something somewhere and it really struck me. "You don't have to 'do anything' with your dog." There's a push to "do something" with your dog: show them in a ring, hunt with them (depending on the breed, of course), train as a therapy dog, barn hunt, tricky dog... Yes, dogs do need some stimulation, but not every dog has to do a "big" something.

Quinn loves her toys. She loves to have her belly rubbed. She snuggles. She'll occasionally go for a walk. We have a couple of dog puzzles that she really enjoys. And that all keeps her happy. Why force her to do something she's scared of? I wanted to take her to agility because she's wicked-fast, and nimble. But she's such a scaredy-cat. It would over-stimulate her and then she'd freak out. Not worth it.

Or worth it only if I fence in my backyard and make her a personalized agility track of her own. You never know.

NOTE: Sorry about the formatting. Blogger is being a bugger...

 

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