2020 vision | the twisted yarn Knitting

Well, The was a very 2020-like week.

Oh, for those heady days of innocence long ago when no one understood what the above sentence meant. Right now, you probably wouldn’t even be surprised if I told you that hordes of purple mega ants with opera singing have invaded the neighborhood or that a sinkhole hole has opened under Twisted Towers and swallowed all my yarn. Fortunately, none of these things happened … although given 2020 I should probably say that none of these things happened YET.

What Has happened the climax of a couple of nasty ones who have been brewing for a while. One is that this week is ripe ~~old~~ I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 47. Have any idea how hard it is to crochet a breast tumor to illustrate this post ?! I mean, viruses and bacteria look cute and quirky under a microscope, but breast cancer looks just like BLOBS. This is the best I can do. It is not very good:-

If the universe had bothered to give me a questionnaire asking if there was actually a bunch of mutant cells supposed to have a party in my right breast, I would of course have ticked the “NO” box very carefully. But I haven’t been consulted so I just have to make the best of things. At the very least, it’ll be a plausible excuse for lounging on the sofa, sighing melodramatically, and knitting in the coming months. (WHADDYA MEANS, “This is all I ever seem to be doing” ?!) No matter what, I’ll still be here, knitting and blogging and talking to you. I have more tests next week and the results will determine if the treatment is going to be very uncomfortable or very, very uncomfortable. Fingers crossed…

*The images in this post are of below average quality. I’m so sorry. It’s been a rocky week. Normal operation will resume the next time.*

And if the situation shows any weird potential then rest assured that I will find it and drag it outside and whip it mercilessly until I extract the last drop of humor for the purposes of this blog. I can’t help it: that’s how I am wired. When things get tough I tend to crack a joke. I should probably see a psychologist about it. Oh wait a minute …

*This sock in progress is made in yarn by the honestly wonderful Burrow and Soar. More on that, with a treat for your blog readers, in an upcoming post.*

There will always be new knitting to show you. Knitting a lot. However, I am very concerned about how the treatment will affect my running. Running has been the savior of my physical and mental health in recent years during perimenopause and I really would love to keep sucking on the Oxfordshire countryside. I would even like to run another marathon.

*Running has been… warm for the past week. Very, very warm.*

But I’m fine right now, the stoic spouse is fine, and most importantly, the twins know an age-appropriate amount about what’s going on and they seem fine so far. Hopefully the cancer turns out to be not too aggressive … although I think I should have just heard it growl. I worry about my patients at work, but I will use my last few weeks before surgery to try to organize things for their benefit as best as possible.

*Trips to the Oxford hospital offer at least a chance to walk past the Headington Shark and smile. So life could be worse. Life could definitely be worse.*

And I just have to hope that there aren’t any purple mega-ants with opera singing, because I really DON’T HAVE THE ENERGY to deal with these at the moment.

*Meanwhile, the next generation of dinner starts its life in our tiny greenhouse.*

As for the other difficult thing, I’m not sure how much more I can say publicly. But I risk saying this: The publisher that commissioned the book on stranded knitting that I’m writing has … um … a little bankruptcy problem right now – or at least the company that owns the publisher. So it is likely that I will have to find a new home for my half-finished book. I hate to think how many hardworking people get laid off because of this. And I hate to think about what garbage time this is for them when they’re out of work.

2020 what? What a year!

But let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like a three inch bossy boot knocking on the window to keep things in view. Sinkholes, cancer, bankruptcy, ants singing operas, none of these matters as long as Robyn-the-Robin gets her breakfast on time. She’s got a grip on life, that bird, I tell you.