So Daddy had open heart surgery last Monday, the 10th. He went home from the hospital Monday (the 17th), which was very exciting, but Tuesday night he ended up in the ER because he had a fever and couldn’t catch his breath. He was readmitted to the hospital with pneumonia, and I have no idea when he’s going to be able to go home again. In the meantime, it must suck to be him. I went to the doctor this morning, and was also diagnosed with pneumonia. I have tried hard to imagine what it must be like, to have this kind of cough when your sternum has been split in half and you have a nasty incision all the way down the center of your chest, but the truth is my imagination is just NOT that good. I only know that it must, in fact, really really really suck.

I spent a lot of time up at the hospital last week, including being there from 6:00 am to 8:30 pm on Monday, the day of the surgery. I can not even begin to describe how tortuous that was. Daddy was told to be there at 6:00 am, so we all arrived at that time. My original understanding was that he would be going into surgery shortly after arrival. I was wrong — he didn’t actually go into surgery until close to 11:00 am. Then the surgery itself took approximately three hours. After that, he was taken to the cardiac recovery ICU — and we were allowed to visit him immediately after he got there, at 5:00 pm, and at 8:15 pm.

What this added up to was a LOT of waiting — very stressful, agonizing, terrifying waiting. Both my sisters, my mother, Daddy’s brother and his wife, two of my parents’ closest family friends, and a coworker turned friend of Daddy’s were all there in the waiting room — in a show of support. One would imagine that somehow, that would make the waiting easier — having loved ones to share it with — but it did not.

The only measure of peace that I found all day, and on through the week through hours of sitting in Daddy’s hospital room, or sitting in the waiting room between ICU visiting times, was when I pulled out my knitting. I wish I could say that it made everything better, but of course it didn’t. It did, however, provide me with some measure of peace. Just the repetitive motions, the feel of the yarn moving through my hands, the vision of the fabric growing tiny bit by tiny bit, was soothing. It allowed me to disengage from my mind a little, to gain a little space. I hesitate to say it was like meditation, but . . . it allowed me to focus the energy that I had, both on the creation of the fabric, and — with each stitch made — on will for Daddy to be okay.

I’m glad I had it. I’d've gone crazy without it.

Mother told me I looked like a little old lady. I nearly threw the knitting at her, given that what I was working on so hard was a bag for HER, but I restrained myself. It made everyone laugh, and we all probably needed a laugh.

This is how far I’ve gotten:

For whatever reason, it seems to be slow going. It’s about seven inches long so far. The pattern (Via Diagonale from Knitty) calls for 9.5 inches; I’m thinking I’d like to go a couple of inches longer than that if I don’t run out of yarn. But it is going sooooo slowly I’m not sure my patience is going to hold out, even if the yarn does.

In spite of its looking like a candy cane, I do really love the way the bag is looking so far. I’m thrilled that I’m confident in my ability to line it well, too (if I can get my sewing machine set up in the new house ever) — such little things bring me joy. The bag feels great to touch and the texture is just yummy.

Sometimes I’m just really happy I found knitting and can call myself a knitter.

Even if it does make me look like a little old lady.