Knit For The Cure!

My friend Julie once observed that I knit like a man. Maybe she was talking about the super jumbo needles I insist on using, or perhaps the way I sit: slouched down with my knees sprawling apart, snarling and cursing at the slow stubborn yarn. I tend to gallop along too fast, clumsy and impatient, focused on production and anxious for end results. I have zero tolerance for the process itself, for fine little details or tiny little stitches. I've steadfastly refused to learn anything besides the basic garter stitch; I have no desire to count or measure or do anything that requires actually thinking or paying attention; and the last thing on earth I need is a cozy for my mouse, my iPod, or my damn vibrator. So the only item I know how to knit is a scarf.



I taught myself to knit shortly after I was diagnosed, when it became clear that my former active athletic passions--things like dancing and gardening and lifting weights--were going to be off limits for a long long time. Although I still find it almost unbearably boring, knitting does allow me to indulge in my love of bright wild colors. I like my scarves long, so they flutter and fly behind me, flapping in the wind like exuberant streamers. Or they would if I ever went anywhere besides to the bathroom and back.



By the time I've finished all 8 rounds of chemotherapy, if I haven't gone stark raving mad first, I will have at least a hundred long crazy insanely clashing scarves.



Maybe I can sell them on eBay! I'll charge $100 apiece and sew on little tags that say, "This scarf was hand knit by a genuine stage IV cancer patient during infusions. All proceeds go to pay for pain pills, antidepressants, and anti-nausea medications."