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K N ITS

KNITTINGEMMY

LESLIE A. GORDON

ravelings

W hen he returned to my hospital room after visiting our day-old daughter in the nurs-ery, my husbands face was pale.

“They said Emmy had some kind of.. . choking episode,” he told me reluctantly. “She turned blue.”

So began our twelve-month jour-ney filled with night nurses, visits from paramedics, hospital stays, a pulse oxi-meter at home, invasive tests requiring generał anesthesia, and, at the worst point, my husband performing CPR on Emmy. It turned out she had an unusual and dangerous response to an otherwise common infant condition-reflux. Her body would produce mucus to soothe her esophagus, but that mucus would itself reflux up, hlocking her airway. The episodes-twelve total-were random and, most alarmingly, silent. Doctors instructed that Emmy had to be watched twenty-four hours a day, especially when she slept. Meanwhile, we had a fifteen-month-old little boy who needed us, too. I was a terrified, hormonal wreck.

“At least she doesnt have cancer,” my husband once offered. “But if she dies,” I snapped, “what difference does it make what she had?”

We survived the year, thanks to Emmy’s interminable tough-ness, vigilant night nurses, and confident physicians. Most impor-tantly, we relied on loved ones who watched Emmy sleep, sat in the back seat with her while we drove, brought us meals, walked our dog, and sent us supportive e-mail messages.

As with many stressful periods, the hardest emotional part for me actually came after Emmy grew healthy. I had almost debilitat-ing guilt about the moment Pd screamed in hysteria instead of listening to the 911 operators instructions. 1 mourned the time I’d lost with my son and the memories of Emmy’s infancy that 1 simply didn’t have because of stress and, perhaps, repression.

During this post-traumatic time, I attended a baby shower for a friend who received an unusual number of handknitted gifts. As each was opened, I would whisper, “Was that hard to knit?” The giver would insist it wasnt. I was skeptical. I wasnt crafty, nor was I good with my hands-my illegible handwriting being Exhibit A. But one knitter had said convincingly, “Those booties? Took me two afternoons. It’s just two stitches-knit and purl.”

I signed up for lessons at my local yarn shop. Not surprisingly, 120 Summer2009 INTERWEAVE KNITS interweaveknits.com

I wasnt a natural knitter. But 1 had a patient teacher, and 1 was determined. With each item 1 knitted-at first, scarves, hats, and simple bags-1 would meditate on the intended recipient and how she had helped me during Emmys first year. Christin had become an expert at monitoring Emmys pulse oximeter during naptime; she received my first scarf. Susan had called many mornings announcing she was coming over to help. Jill had offered to fly to San Francisco and care for Emmy to give me special time with my son. Shannon, who had her own child with health challenges, hadnt judged me when I asked, “Are you ever tempted to just . . . leave?” (“No,” she responded. “In my fantasy, I drop my family on a Street corner and keep the house to myself”) Shannon’s scarf was extra sparkly.

Now six, Emmy proudly wears the “kindergarten sweater” I madę for her. And I’ve become an advanced knitter, having knitted two hours nearly every night sińce 1 learned four years ago. (This ritual began out of fear that I would forget how to knit al-together if I missed one day.) I’ve mastered intarsia, Fair Isle, and cables, and I’m nurturing my confidence to try the one technique that still seems alarmingly tricky: steeks.

In the knitting world, there is a perennial debate about process versus product. For me, knitting was about Processing what had happened to Emmy and our family: how I had succeeded and failed and how the people in our life had seen us through. Yet the handknitted gifts 1 madę were important, too.

Thinking back on them, I sometimes cringe. Many had gaping holes because of unfixed dropped stitches or accidental yarnovers; others looked wonky because I hadn’t truły understood gauge. Perhaps those first projects wound up in daughters’ dress-up bins or at Goodwills across California. But knitting and then sending those gifts to friends also knitted my gratitude into my subcon-scious: far enough back so that I don’t think about it too often but close enough so that Pil never forget. □

LESLIE A. GORDON is a freelance journaiist and mom in San Francisco. She can be reached at [e-mail] or LGordon555 on Ravelry.

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