Today, it's my little sister's birthday, she turns 43. She's the youngest of three -- my brother is 55 and I am 51. I am bringing her flowers and a card, she lives very close to me. I can't bring her anymore than that, or rather, I don't know what else to bring her. She can't eat normal food anymore, she can't hold a book, she can't walk, and her speech has deteriorated so much that I can't understand what she says anymore.
She worked until a few months ago (actually, May of this year) as a marketing director for a big multinational. She is married, she has two kids, 15 and 10. She was the sole breadwinner for the last couple of years, as her husband's business wasn't making any money and he stopped working altogether. She did yoga, she enjoyed skiing, she loved nature, she spent a lot of time outdoors.
It's her birthday today and it will most likely be her last. At her husband's 50th birthday party last February, she casually announced that the limp she had been struggling with since last summer when she broke her foot was not going to get better. It was actually going to get much worse, as she had just been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease). Since that day, the progression of this incurable disease has been fast and relentless. Slowly, I saw her, a perfectly healthy woman, become this small, wilted, immobile, helpless thing. For Thanksgiving in October, my brother and his family, my family and her family got together for dinner at my home. She was still able to speak slowly, slurring her words. It took her 30 minutes to eat her turkey and she was spoonfed every piece of it.
Here she is at the dinner (front left); she had a good time that evening and she actually smiled and laughed a couple of times.
Back then, a short 2 months ago, she still cried occasionnally and told me how hard it was. Then, she slipped into a sort of detachment and she concentrates on basic necessities, such as being fed and washed, and taken to the bathroom. She is being fed anti-depressants to help her cope. The only spark of interest, her only wish now is to make it to France, where part of my mother's family lives and where her in-laws are. It's Provence, it's sunny, it's warm, and her mother-in-law treats her like a daughter (our own mother passed away 3 1/2 years ago). If she is able to board the plane, I doubt she will come back.
I have been very silent for the last few months for this reason. We hoped at the beginning the disease would progress very slowly and she might have a few years before she would be totally incapacitated. It has been the exact opposite and it has hit us hard.
It has taken me months to accept this situation and it has made me very, very sad. But I have realized that I must think about positive things, otherwise I would end up getting high on happy pills or drowning my sadness in Grey Goose martinis. It's when my husband started suggesting to me, ever so gently, that I might need to see a psychologist to help me cope that I thought I should really get a hold of myself.
I have been knitting, a lot. But the problem is that I started, one after another, about 12 projects, got halfway through them, and they are now piling up as UFOs. I have a couple of photos -- a Baby Surprise Jacket for a new arrival in the family of relatives of my husband, and a dishcloth.
I actually knit four of them as a Christmas gift and promptly forgot to take photos, and since three of them have gone to France, photos are not going to happen. Here's the photo of the one I kept:
Really exciting, right?
I have been knitting hats and I will show photos in my next post, once I have got my act together and uploaded to Ravelry with details. I promise not to be so silent anymore -- it's part of my self-administered therapy. Hopefully, it will be just as effective as pouring my heart out to a total stranger. And since anything involving yarn is therapeutic, it should work, right?
