At that picnic on Monday, a friend who’s an oncologist asked me point blank out of the blue, How’s your health?

I admitted I had an ultrasound coming up on Wednesday, but they’d done one previously and found nothing so the doctor didn’t think it was cancer but wanted to keep tabs on it.

He said something about his patients hating ultrasounds and I kinda shrugged it off. But not out of ignorance–rather, eh, I know what I’m in for.

Turns out it actually was easier than last year’s testing. Yay. And for getting one step closer to ending this two-year period. The hard part is the waiting to hear. I have plans for this next month of my life that I am going to do (Hi, Mom!) because I said so.

I mean, that always works, right?

(Update: I just signed in and there was the radiologist’s report. No mass seen, no abnormal thickening. Yay.)

Having your parents divorce while you’re starting to hit puberty can’t be easy. The kid’s had a rough time of it, the parents don’t have each other there for emotional backup as their oldest starts his teens, and I’ve been trying to figure out if there was anything I could possibly do but have come up empty for months now.

Because every thirteen year old boy wants to be best friends with a sixty-six-year old woman, right? Uhhhhh…

There was a potluck picnic in the park this evening. He and his little brother were heading to where the food was being set up when suddenly, to show off, he leaped up to the picnic table and danced across it, down to the bench, and back to the ground heading past me.

I caught his eye just long enough: “I was just thinking, another week or so and you’ll be taller than me. And then you did!”

That’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh in a good long time.

My friend Anne told me her story this evening and I asked if I could share it.

She and her husband had gone out for ice cream.

In her words, after asking me to pray for the elderly gentleman:

“We were waiting for someone to take our orders, and he gave up and walked out just as someone showed up. I went and got him, and paid for his milkshake. As we were leaving, and he was heading to his car, I told him to have a nice day.

That’s when he said his wife died yesterday. To say I was gutted is an understatement. I parked, got out of the car, gave him a hug and prayed for comfort and that good memories would counteract the grief he feels.”

To which I expressed that the fact that the employee had been out of sight to the point that he had given up while they happened to be right there feels to me like the choreography of G_d: had he been immediately taken care of, there would have been no conversation, no meeting of hearts, no sharing of pain nor offering of compassion nor even the simple gift of a milkshake on a day when he so needed to feel human connection. Enough to get him out the door to go buy, what? Ice cream? I can imagine him thinking, Why? What does that matter now?

But there was. It happened. There was.

She and her husband were part of the answer to the very prayer she’d sent up on the man’s behalf.

Some years ago I mentioned a woman in my lupus support group whose health and mental health were spiraling downward together. She was an immigrant and at that point had no support system here other than us. We all did our best to reach out to her but it was hard to feel successful.

One month, an unusual thing happened at the meeting: only three people showed up. Her, the group leader who is a nurse as well as a patient and a very gentle, quiet soul, and me.

Listening to S, it was a wonder that she had even made it there but that seemed a sign that some part of her still wanted to live.

In the quiet of the room she opened up just enough for us to see what she had finally decided to do and said I’m sure more than she meant to of how she was going to do it.

Which she could have just gone and done already and none of us would ever have known, but she hadn’t, which said to me that she didn’t really want to, she just saw no other way out but had wanted to see us and say goodbye to us first.

We did our best to just listen, to convey that we cared.

And then I raced home and grabbed the phone I could hear on, because my cellphone in those days was not it.

Riiiing.

I know, HIPPA and all that, but can you tell me if you *don’t* have a patient named–? I explained the situation.

The first doctor’s office staff, after some checking with colleagues for guidance on the situation: We don’t have a patient by that name.

Thank you very much! (Calls second office, repeats the question.)

(Checks with colleagues, too.) We can’t tell you that.

Alright, cool, she’s with your practice, I said, I thought so. So: IF you have a patient by this name, this is who I am and my phone number, this is who the group leader is with her name and phone number and she can verify that this is what this patient told us at our support group meeting a few minutes ago.

They thanked me and got me off the phone fast and were right on it.

Five minutes later the woman herself called me. She was furious.

DID YOU CALL THEM?!

Yes. I did.

WHY DID YOU CALL THEM!

Because: I knew you would be angry with me. You. Are. Worth. That. to me. You. Are. Worth. That.

There was a sound that I could only interpret as wanting to be angry but suddenly turning into what started to be crying but she hung up fast before I could hear more.

And then we didn’t know, and we didn’t know, and we could only pray and wonder, but the two of us never told the rest of the group anything more than that we were worried about her, and that was nothing new to them because they were, too.

Eighteen months later she surprised us by showing back up. She tired easily, but there was a resilience I hadn’t seen before. She didn’t mention the suicide attempt, just that it had been hard–really hard–but that she was doing a little better now. And she had learned that when you have autoimmunity affecting the stomach, your body doesn’t process food well at all and studies have shown that that can impair your mental function and cause depression. So they’d been working on all of that.

At the end of the meeting she walked out with me and once there was no one else around to see it, threw her arms around me and thanked me.

Our group went to Zoom with the pandemic and she was part of it for awhile and then eventually she wasn’t and we’ve all wondered and hoped things had held for her. She had come so far.

Our group leader’s phone rang this week.

Our friend’s family had moved to Canada when she was a child and then she’d come to the US.

I can’t imagine how it must have been under the current regime.

It was her. She wanted to touch base and let us know: she had moved back to Canada and had bought a place with her elderly mom and things were going very well.

Our leader marveled, She sounded so, so happy! I’ve never heard her so happy, it was so wonderful!

She was home. Country, family, everything–at long last she had come home.

Hey look! The computer found one of the photos from Mother’s Day!

Today I found a place that still had some Holz and Stein circular needles and crochet hooks in stock, the ones made from leftover wood from making musical instruments. How they had them I don’t know; the company quit exporting to America around 2000.

They are the best knitting needles I have ever used.

I had a pair that I had knit nearly every project in my book on. I had it in my bag when I went to a booksigning by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee in Santa Rosa, about a ninety-minute drive from here.

It vanished there. I still miss them. I can only hope that whoever found that circular either used them and loved them too or found someone who would appreciate what they had.

The only thing I’ve found that comes close–and they definitely come close–are the hand carved ones by Tom Diak in Vermont. After a hand injury sidelined him for awhile, he’s gone back to making interchangeables but not the plain circs I’ve bought in the past. I keep hoping. Full confession: I have never bought interchangeables, period. I once had a tip come unglued from a cheap needle with hundreds of lace stitches smushed together on it and the idea of the tips coming off, even deliberately, just gives me the heebie-jeebies.

This vendor had the size my current afghan is being worked on. It was slippery yarn on slippery needles, which got traded a few days ago for a dinged-up old wooden pair that just hasn’t been doing much for me  either. And now! Actual, sturdy, perfect-tipped, perfectly finished Holz and Steins! I can’t wait till they get here!

The price was about what I paid thirty years ago. Which was very expensive then but they were tools for a lifetime.

As long as they don’t hop out of your knitting bag at bookstores.

What Holz and Stein pairs I have now have been mostly knit-at-homes since then. Just because.

Do you have favorite needles? Am I being silly about interchangeables?

The Musicians in Residence at the local college put on a concert tonight: violin, bass, and a piano played by a dear friend of ours.

And not just a concert but a lesson on Claude Debussy. Russ gave a bit of history and a demonstration of the heptatonic scale typically used in Western music, with a picture of it on a bar of music on the screen behind him. Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music children singing Do Re Mi appeared next to demonstrate and the audience chuckled.

Then he showed the pentatonic scale (five notes in an octave instead of seven) and played it. Then the whole note scale, no sharps or flats. Neither of them sounded like much with so many sounds missing.

But then he started playing some familiar gorgeous Debussy piece whose name I didn’t catch, and then another, using those scales. The fun begins when you mix them up between the two hands or instruments.

See! He said, bounding enthusiastically up from the piano bench and waving his arms at the audience. You can try this at home!

The next screen: You TOO can convert classical music to Impressionism! You just need six things:

1. You have to say it in French!
2. Pentatonic scale.
3. Use the sustaining pedal a lot.
4. Whole note scale.
5. Unusual rhythm.
6. I had a hard time seeing the last thing through the tall head of the guy in front of me and Richard doesn’t remember so I can’t tell you and
7. I’m not actually typing the numbers 6 or 7 but this computer program is expecting me to because I typed that you need six things so it is bound and determined to put a numbered list of six things here and won’t let me type anything without auto-adding those numbers and won’t let me delete the numbers after I do. It’s creating an Impression of what I’m trying to say. Russ would laugh and laugh at that.
8. And then, 8, after I said that and hit Save Draft there was no sign of any of the numbers on my Preview page, including the ones I actually typed and the 8. it put before any of the rest of this sentence.
9. So we’ll just have to see how this blog post plays out. (Still indented, too!)

Slippery yarn on slippery needles: I ditched that circ at long last and was surprised at what a difference it made in how I feel about working on this. I’m not having to death-grip them every moment for fear of constantly losing stitches, like the 50 off one end while the other end dropped just a few.

My father grew up in Nevada. Ain’t a whole lot of freely growing lush green around there, and he took so much delight in what grew spontaneously in our yard in Maryland: *wild violets! The tiny wild strawberries, the buttercups, (hey, look! Science!) and under the tree canopy, the mountain laurel and the dogwoods. He played suburban dad with the lawnmower and the grass and all that but he and Mom taught us to love what was there. To blow on a dandelion seedhead and watch how it all floated on the breeze rather than freak out at the weed. To know a chickadee from a titmouse. To notice how the grackles were shimmery purple in the sunlight and black in the shade in disguise.

*That link is to an Etsy shop because all the good pictures I could find were from sites that were either telling you how to kill them off or else selling them.

Packing at the end of the most recent trip home, she’d tried, but it just didn’t all fit in; did I have a rollaboard she could borrow?

You can have it, I told her, or borrow, whichever works for you. I quite liked that one but it was just a little small so I hadn’t actually ever used it. The local Costco had cleared them out at all of $13; those FULs sold out in a flash.

I got a text today telling me she was sure I wouldn’t mind. She was sure this was what I would have wanted to do with it.

Oh honey yes and amen.

A single friend of hers had just found out she had breast cancer and then died a week and a half later. Her grieving family had come to collect their daughter’s things the best they could.

My daughter had given them her luggage for it. On a whim, feeling silly about it because she couldn’t see how that size would work out, she grabbed the FUL bag too in case they could use it.

It was perfect. It was exactly the thing that exactly solved a problem and they were so grateful.

They are not people of means, she told me, and this is what I could do.

I nearly cried. In pride in my child, in grief for theirs, and I thanked her for letting me help, too, without hesitation even when I didn’t know yet.

And now I know why I found and bought that bag.

Last night:

And so the Grinches puzzled and puzzled till their puzzler grew sore.

Maybe tomorrow, she said, I don’t want to do any more!

So they set it up on the spiral, (it’ll never go viral) with a few pieces missing. With the sections not connected, the thing’s kind of listing. A history of Earth, trilobites to elephant girth, under the same blue sky but what changes by and by!

Today:

Y’know, I told him, every time I walk past that darn thing out of the corner of my eye some part of my brain registers layered chocolate cake.

Him: Me, too! in surprise that he wasn’t the only one.

I figured that when you’re dealing with a new cancer diagnosis there must be moments when you need both a distraction and something to look forward to. So I ratted myself out and sent her the tracking number.

Plus I had this Zoom-knitting hat ready to go in a particularly soft skein of Rios, a lighter weight than my usual thick winter-warm Mecha.

A note in my inbox. Oh good, it’s not a phone call nor telling me to come in to hear the news so this can only be good, right?

The needle missed and came up empty on endometrial cells altogether. Inconclusive.

The ultrasound is a month out (for now) and then surgery on the zombie fibroids and we’ll see what all else.

Meantime, I took a picture of February’s apricot sprout next to the third-year tree planted in the ground about that time. I chose the naturally dwarfing one for our yard: less work over time and it seems more resilient than some–its roots were fine with those recurrent atmospheric rivers when another one simply drowned.

I got a message asking if I had an Anya seedling I’d be willing to share? So the little one has been claimed.

And then I planted six more. Wherever they may end up, today needed a declaration that I wanted to put more trees into the future. So why not a fantastic apricot variety that can’t be gotten any other way.

(The wire racks were saved from an old double oven to make it uncomfortable for the rabbit to step on to eat the tree bark. So far so good.)

I’ve been fine/no big deal/not worried/it’ll all be fine/I’m sure it’ll be negative/ about the whole biopsy thing. But today I was  remembering the GI doctor who diagnosed Crohn’s: she suddenly realized she was talking about it without taking my measure on the news she’d just thrown into my life and abruptly asked, Wait–are you okay with this?!

What–that I have a life-threatening disease? I laughed ruefully. So what’s new?

Today I found out my cousin went to the ER in pain and found herself with a stage 4 aggressive ovarian cancer diagnosis. If I’m in shock, and I am, I can only imagine how she and her kids feel.

Somehow that broke through whatever facade I had with myself and now I am just really really really wanting to have my news given to me and over with, whatever it’s going to be.

So I threw myself into hanking and scouring coned yarn and deciding that yes, that blue really isn’t the right blue and yes, I’m really going to go order more and have to wait again for it to come–and then I did–because I can control what I put into my little sister’s project and by golly I am going to do it right.

During that thumb-twiddle wait I wonder if any of my wool, any wool, would be soft enough for my cousin’s head while going through chemo. If you have any experience on that, (I mean, I’ve certainly made them, I’ve just never gotten any feedback on them) I need all the guidance I can get.

She held up the vial to show me, quite pleased, giving it a little swirl to let the dark red particles stand out in the suspension of pink liquid (solution+me) that for all my curiosity in things medical I kinda could have gone without seeing. But the message was, Much better. At last we’ll finally know for sure.

I was fine till I left that room and then suddenly I wanted to faint and barf, but never mind.

A year ago I had symptoms (still do), and while it was agreed all around that it probably wasn’t cancer you can’t leave something like that to chance, you have to biopsy. So she did–but got precious little in the sample. The ultrasound was reassuring though so she gave me my options on following up and advise on when to do so.

Today was that day.

This time she gave me a prescription to use ahead of time: one pill the night before. That’s it.

Which is a good thing, because the pain was instant and I hope never to take it again.

It opened things right up and today she was able to get that good biopsy and by the end of the week we should have the results.

After I got home I searched the name of that med because it had sounded vaguely familiar and I was curious.

I was staggered. Although, it made perfect sense: it is the second drug that is sometimes prescribed as a follow-up in medically-induced abortions. It induces labor.

And thus affects post-menopausal women such that the doctor can get a decent sample to see if they have endometrial cancer.

Women’s health. Full stop.

The blossoms continue upwards and my sour cherry tree is dancing for joy in a hoop skirt.

Meantime, my old friends Ron and Theresa at thebuffalowoolco.com have been selling the last of their bison/silk socks. They’re my husband’s One True Sock and we stocked up when they announced the cost of silk now is ending those and when they’re gone they’re gone.

But then the mill, using up the rest of the yarn, made a few more pairs.

The catch was that they were seconds.

Ron and Theresa and crew personally went over every single pair to make sure they were okay, and they were, but seconds are seconds and they knocked a chunk off the price.

When Richard opened the package yesterday (I got him something else too because socks for your birthday is officially a That Doesn’t Count gift no matter how much he likes them) it took me about a heartbeat. And then another.

Why they were seconds.

Their socks have a little bison motif knit across the toes and that motif is color-coded by size.

The XLs were yellow.

My mediums are yellow. His are supposed to be orange. It really speeds up the sock-sorting by a lot and I’ve always thought it was a nice touch on their part.

Ron confirmed it when I asked: someone at the mill had forgotten to change that yarn during the knitting.

I told him I’d laughed, because, of all the problems in the world right now? There’s more than one way to eyeball a sock size.

And I told him that surprising us with an extra pair that was bison/merino was very generous–and brilliant. Because someday my hubby will need more socks. And now he has a way to learn in advance that their other ones are great, too. But that was so unexpected and so cool to find tucked in there.

See? Socks *can* be a real gift!

Twice, we had forgotten to get more sugar. I never run out of sugar: it’s just one of those things that’s always there.

Angel food cake time of year and–well that was brilliant. I’d already separated the dozen eggs. Hah, maybe I could…

Going next door to borrow a cup of sugar sounds so delightfully old-fashioned (and half-embarrassing to have to, just like way back when. But we don’t go shopping on the Sabbath, and that was something that was entirely understood back there back then. Maryland was the last state to let go of its Blue laws that enforced the religious concept of a day of rest on many commercial establishments–because Sunday isn’t every religion’s Sabbath. Nor is everybody religious. Equal protection under the law. No governmental establishment of religion. Totally reasonable to revoke. Done.)

The thought also always takes me straight back to–

–I don’t think I had ever actually attached the word “refugee” to her. She was just Vicky. But when your colonialist mom sews what she can of the family fortune inside the hem of her little girl’s dress right before they flee the country in order not to lose that one last bit of all that they had…

As a young woman, that little girl became a nanny to one of my dad’s artist clients, who brought her along with his family on a trip to the US. My mom was cooking dinner for twelve rather than eight and she found herself out of sugar. Knowing Mom, it was surely to bake fruit pies.

She asked Vicky to go next door to borrow a cup.

Vicky came back astonished: Madame! Your neighbors! They are Jewish!

Mom was astonished: Yes of course!   (??!)

We would never…!

I don’t know if she knew that the dad of her young charge had illustrated anti-Nazi material before France fell or that he was Jewish himself. Maybe even she was.

But what came out in their conversation was that America had been portrayed in her growing up as the most flamingly racist, bigoted country there is.

And here was an American woman astonished that anybody would be surprised at having a Jewish family next door. And not just next door. Why would anyone even think about it, people are people.

Too bad it was too early to know that the family that would later buy that house was headed by an African-American surgeon.

After making all the baking sounds in the kitchen this afternoon I said to Richard: You know how we kept forgetting to buy sugar?

The look of uh-oh on his face.

We have a melanger. The box of superfine at the back of the cabinet. We had enough.

—

(Edited to add, and the verdict is, with more than half the sugar being superfine that was the best angel food cake with the best crumb I have ever made, and I’ve made a lot of them. I wrote it down in my vintage 1952 Betty Crocker to make sure I do it that way again from here on out.)