Knitting is one of those activities that can easily shift from the general category of “hobby” to something deeper, a coping mechanism, without your ever becoming aware of the change. Somewhere it transitions from knitting for fun to knitting for healing.

For months, maybe even a couple of years, knitting was nothing more than a pastime for me. I learned to knit as a way to get volunteer time in college since I didn’t have a car to get to the animal shelter or the soup kitchen. Five minutes here before class, ten minutes there waiting on a friend for lunch … thirty minutes during a particularly boring lecture so as to keep my mind from wandering out of the classroom entirely….

I have no idea when “the shift” occurred, but one day I realized I didn’t just want my knitting with me because my hands were bored – though a welcome side effect of knitting had been that I picked at my cuticles less often. Instead, I realized I needed my knitting project in order to relieve some pent-up anxiety.

Knitting became a method of meditation. The clack-clacking of the needles provided a quiet rhythm. Each stitch morphed into a mantra, like feeling my way along a woven fabric of rosary beads. The steps of the knit stitch were so engrained I could execute them automatically by feel, using just enough brain power to keep my mind focused, rather than wandering between different subjects and to-do lists. The rest of my focus, then, could process whatever anxiety or concern needed my attention.

Woke up on the wrong side of the bed? Drink coffee and knit.

Boyfriend trouble? Grab the knitting (and maybe tissues).

Irritated about some spat at work? Better grab that project with the sturdier yarn – that delicate lace yarn doesn’t stand a chance right now.

From plane rides to at-sea work contracts, from family get-togethers to sitting in the waiting room during surgery, I often have a knitting project (or five) within arm’s reach. Even if I didn’t pull out my knitting bag during that particular event, it was a comfort to know I had the option, that my drug of choice was on standby in case the emotion called for it.

And sometimes what started as “a cute little pattern to try” comes into your life at such a time that it’s no longer just a simple project. It’s now part of the life experience you just endured. The literal woven fabric of the knitting has become part of the figurative woven story of a particular season.

My finished shawl, pinned down for blocking. Photo by Beth DeLong

From the moment I first saw it, I fell in love with the Slip Knit Love shawl by Lisa Hannes. Though I saw it in several color combinations, the gray and yellow version was by far my favorite. I was still at sea for work, but I purchased the yarn anyway, knowing it would be waiting for me when I got home in a few weeks.

I had never done mosaic knitting before, nor was I very familiar with shawls – the first and only other shawl I had made being more of a neckerchief because gauge and I are not friends. Nevertheless, this particular pattern was easy to follow.

I began the shawl on September 7th. Ten days later I was scheduled with my doctor for a routine appointment. It was just a cyst, surely, so there was no reason to panic. But that morning of scans was one more item that needed checked off my ever growing to-do list before leaving for Thailand in a month. So in the evenings, when my family gathered in the living room together after dinner, I’d knit a few rows of my shawl to have my mental escape and a bit of stress release.

But just three short days later, the doctors conceded there was nothing more they could do for my aunt’s pancreatic cancer, and she was placed on hospice. Thankfully, with a bit of reassurance, she agreed to come live with my parents and me, and there was a scurry to clear a space for her hospital bed and bring some of her clothes and essentials to our house.

There wasn’t much time to work on my shawl over the next few days. There were hospice nurses coming and going, family stopping in from all over the state, dishes to be done, and of course, lending a hand to my mom and aunt.

But a mere four days later, shortly after 2am on a Monday morning, we called hospice one last time, the nurse arriving stethoscope in hand….

Listening to an audiobook while I worked on the last section of the pattern. Photo by Beth DeLong

My aunt had survived an astounding three years after her initial diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. And while of course we would miss her quick wit, her wisdom, and certainly her humor, there was also a quiet exhalation of the breath we didn’t realize we were holding. She was no longer so uncomfortable or nauseated. There were no longer the logistics of managing her care, juggling when I’d be home and could stay with Auntie, and when Mom would need to request time off work.

Though there was still the estate to settle and my aunt’s house to go through, there was a comfort in knowing her suffering was over. The knitting meditation continued a few rows each evening, the coping mechanism of having yarn between my fingers kicking in full swing. The pattern was just complex enough to help organize my sporadic thoughts, allowing me a chance to grieve my aunt while keeping at bay all the other thoughts and stressors fighting to get into my headspace.

Tuesday morning, a week after that last visit from hospice, I sat in a small office in the mammography suite at my local hospital. In no uncertain terms, the radiologist informed me the results of my imaging appeared cancerous – not just a benign tumor, no ma’am — and a biopsy was scheduled for later that afternoon.

The next two weeks were a blur of doctor appointments, scans, and phone calls and emails canceling my trip to Thailand in preparation for my single mastectomy. The wall where Auntie’s hospital bed had been was now occupied with a recliner and a small stand – my base camp as I recovered from surgery.

On the bright side, the surgery hadn’t been as painful as I thought it would be, and soon I could resume knitting my shawl. The two weeks I had been scheduled to volunteer at the elephant sanctuary near Chiang Mai were now occupied with napping, Netflix, and knitting. The beauty of the shawl seemed a small consolation prize to the wonder of the beaches and animals I had hoped to see abroad.

But there was also a comfort in this familiar activity, even as my chest was now so unfamiliar; a solace in the second nature of the knit and slipped stitches, even as I grappled with my new normal.

Those two weeks were consumed with healing, both physically and emotionally. I was grieving having lost Auntie, my dream trip to Thailand, and my favorite breast (yes, that’s a thing), all in the span of three weeks. My chest, meanwhile, was a mess of stitches, drain tubes, and more stitches. My knitting, the beauty and simplicity of this shawl pattern, was a healing balm unavailable at any pharmacy, yet more potent than the pain killers I was prescribed.

Perhaps that’s the mentality of a true addict, someone who’s crossed the line from “recreational use” to “coping mechanism.” I had known for years that my knitting interest had shifted from hobby to therapy. But this time it had been more than a simple bad day or an aggravation with coworkers, even the really irritating ones.

From realizing my lump wasn’t going to just disappear once my period ended that month, to losing my beloved Auntie, to the unsettling fact that my life was about to be dramatically altered, this shawl had been on scene, from a desired pattern, to yarn in my hands, to a finished product.

That’s not to say I don’t have other coping strategies – my faith and my family were, of course, ever present.

But there’s something to be said for turning a potentially traumatic season into a physical form of accomplishment, ugly life events into a beautiful fabric.

Obligatory car selfie of my first time wearing my shawl. Photo by Beth DeLong

I can never get rid of that shawl now. No matter how tattered it may get or how many mochas I may spill on it, that shawl will forever be part of my wardrobe. It’s a physical reminder of the healing process, of overcoming. The shadowy grays of disease and death lightened by the bright yellow of hope and healing, alternating between the two like the emotional rollercoaster that is life.

I’m sure Lisa Hannes had no idea her labor of love in that pattern would one day be used to mend a new cancer patient’s spirit. I doubt many designers give this notion much consideration – why would they? But this pattern could not have popped up in my Facebook newsfeed at a better time, for which I am incredibly grateful.

Another sign that this project was my destiny: even gauge smiled on me when I cast on. It may not be the full size Lisa suggested in the pattern, but it actually looks like a shawl rather than a neckerchief. Good thing, too, seeing as this shawl and I are bound together for life.