The plastic, spring-loaded folding seats created a rhythmic pattern of "ba-gong-ong-ong" sounds as people found their seats in the school auditorium. The retractible stadium seating, which had a total of about 10 rows, was pulled out only halfway, more than enough for the size of the expected audience. I arrived a bit early, hoping to get a good seat, near the back, off to the side. I busied myself on my phone so I wouldn't have to make small talk. How was your summer? Did you go anywhere fun? School had been back in session a few weeks by now, summer seems forever ago. I can't remember. Behind me, I hear the head-of-school talking to someone, but I don't look up. I try not to eaves drop.
The All-School meeting was about to begin. This year had gotten off to a much different start than the last. By this time last year, I had already had countless planning meetings with the PTA chair (for which I was destined to become this year, then didn't, it's fine), sent out some important emails, and hosted a beginning of the year meeting. Last year was the school's first year with a PTA, well, our version of a PTA, and the school head had suggested that I help develop it. He knew I wanted to volunteer more, and this seemed like a good fit for my skills and ambition. He attended many of our meetings.
This year, our plan was to test out the PTA structure we developed last year. In a way, it was on auto-pilot. I was still sending out emails, but there were fewer planning meetings. I was a week behind schedule when I hosted the beginning of the year orientation. Things felt different. It was hard to tell if it was just the nature of having the structure in place and trying to follow it rather than create it, or if my hashimoto's symptoms were dulling my focus and concentration, or if I was just doing a really bad job and lucky that no one seemed to notice or maybe didn't care, since it's just volunteer work anyway.
As I was ruminating over my own guilt for not being a better volunteer, the head-of-school took the podium. He introduced himself, and began talking about his own summer. About how he had just been speaking with one of the parents who commented that he hadn't been around much the past few months, they hadn't bumped into each other in the neighborhood as often as they used to. There was something telling in his tone. Or maybe it was the slightly forced half smile, the kind people use when they have bad news but they don't want you to worry, which only makes you worry more. My mind quickly raced as I tried to guess what was coming next before he could say it. A teacher quit? retired? YOU are going to retire and were job hunting? No, those don't fit. Someone is sick. Oh god, is it one of your kids? Is it you? Maybe its your parents and you had to go be with them. I can handle that, I don't know them.
"My wife was diagnosed with..."
He seemed to be looking right at me when he said it. As if to apologize for not telling me sooner. Immediately, I felt angry with myself for making it about me somehow when most likely he was either looking up at the parent sitting near me that he had been talking to or maybe even at the wall behind us. I felt sorrow for him, his wife, and his family. How could no one have told me? I looked around the room. Did you know? Did you? I think as I look at my friends, feeling somehow left out or betrayed. It triggered that old familiar not-good-for-me-but-always-there internal belief system that I don't belong. I wasn't included on this news. I fantasized about running out of the room in that moment. So everyone can see how upset this news makes me, so they can feel bad for not including me. But instead I just looked down at my hands. This has absolutely nothing to do with me.
Yet, I feel so strongly. I am so sad. It does affect me, even though it is none of my business and not my family. This is a person in my community, though. A community I have worked hard to help support and nurture for many years.
As he went on to assure all the parents and faculty in the room that she is getting good care, the outlook is positive, and that we can still talk to him about our own struggles, my thoughts wandered to what I could do to help. I know him better than I know her, mostly due to all the PTA development meetings we had the previous year. But there are certain things about people that are universal. Like, when you're feeling sick, you want comfort.
Warm, cozy, comfort. I made myself a wrap that I like to use when my hashimotos symptoms have me bedridden. I used a really soft and snuggly yarn. Something about the smell of the fiber, the warmth around my shoulders, the gentle hug of pulling it on tight, feels healing. I can share that feeling with her. Make her something that will help her feel comforted on the worst days. That's universal, everyone could do with more comfort.
I left the meeting feeling inspired, full of selfish purpose. I will make a thing and it will help you feel better. I hope. Maybe it'll make me feel better. To make it, and give it to you. So I can feel like I've done something.
I reached out to her some weeks later to impose my idea, and to ask a few questions to help me with the design. What are your favorite colors? How tall are you? What color are your eyes and hair? What is your heritage? Hobbies? From that, I learned she likes to wear navy, her height (and therefore wingspan) is about the same as mine, and she is Hawaiian-Japanese.
I did some internet research about Hawaiian-Japanese textiles, and found some recurring patterns that felt representative of that culture. I kept these images and patterns in mind for many months, conceptualizing and planning exactly what I would need to do to develop my vision. Source the yarn, develop the punch card, learn the necessary techniques, plan the size, determine where and how to attach the buttons... I didn't think it would take until the end of the school year to finish it. But it did. I made so many mistakes and learned so many things along the way.
Please read my next post which details the design process for this special piece.
-nina
beautiful writing