Page 3 of We Can Forever

Today, finally, is my soft launch. The first notch in my belt that will be followed by more classes and—hopefully—funding from the state to cover my store hours so I can keep doing this.

Taking a seat on one of the cold, hard chairs, I place my hands on my knees. I’ve prepared a script for tonight, and thank God for it. Even though I’ve been on Pine Island for about half a year, my haunts are still exclusively Knit Happens, my house, and the grocery store.

When it comes to people, my interactions are limited to discussions about the best kind of needles for different projects and what the fresh catch of the day is.

“Welcome, everyone.” My voice catches, and I clear my throat. “Thank you for coming. I would love it if we could all introduce ourselves by saying our names, our preferred knit craft, and, if you want, your illness. I’ll go first.”

The silence in the room is deafening, and even though only three sets of eyes are on me, I feel as if I might buckle under the weight of them.

But then I remember why we’re here tonight, what joins us all together, and strength surges through me. “I’m Hannah. I love making amigurumi, and I have fibromyalgia.”

The second the last word leaves my lips, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I don’t usually talk about my illness, but naming it in front of these people, even though two of them are strangers, is so freeing.

The other women are nodding and giving me sympathetic looks, and I can tell that I won’t need to explain fibromyalgia to them. They already know about the pain, the fatigue, the having to constantly measure how much energy you have so that you don’t overexert yourself and end up in the middle of a flare before you can even process what’s happening.

Taking a deep breath, I let the warmth rush through me. Two minutes into this meeting and I know for a fact that starting it was a good choice.

“Hi, I’m Flick.” She waves at the two women whose names we haven’t gotten yet. “I have rheumatoid arthritis, and I’m a yarn dyer. I work out of my condo here on the island. My favorite knitting project? Hmm, let’s see… I’ll have to go with the good ole classic scarves.”

We look at the brown-haired woman, who is probably about thirty and has her hands folded between her knees. “I’m Maya. I work at Hamilton Elementary. I teach art. I have lupus.”

“What’s your favorite knit craft?” Flick asks.

“Oh. Uh, I’m not sure. I’ve never done anything like this. I do nearly every other medium in my classes, but not knitting or crochet. Alexis told me about this, and I thought it sounded like fun.”

“Hi. I’m Alexis,” the other woman, who I guesstimate is in her midthirties, says. “I’m a remote food writer with interstitial cystitis. I knitted some socks in high school and they turned out pretty awful, so I’d love to take a second go at them.”

We all chuckle, and it’s as if the air in the room sparkles with opportunity and hope. It’s been hard the last six years, ever since I started having the symptoms that would end up changing my life. To call these diseases we all have “invisible” is only the tip of the iceberg. Receiving a diagnosis is one step in the journey. After that comes all the other ways that society and people can overlook you, all the ways that they can diminish your experience or call you a liar—either directly or through suggestion or a certain look in their eye.

Being here, in this room with women who I know for a fact see me… It means more than I can put into words.

Before the emotion can spill out of me in the form of tears, I clap my hands together. “Right. So, I figured we could start with a sort of ‘how-to’ knit class tonight. If you’re already comfortable with knitting, I have some designs I pulled out that you can take your pick from.”

We get to work, selecting our projects and tools. The chatter in the room rises, and the next thing I know, we’ve moved our chairs closer together and there’s never a beat of silence.

“Dessert hummus,” Alexis is telling Flick, while she casts on some orange yarn. “Everyone is crazy about it now.”

Flick makes a face. “Like, chocolate hummus?”

“Oh yeah. And other kinds too.”

I study Maya’s needles, where she’s making great progress starting her first-ever scarf. “I used to teach, too,” I tell her.

“Oh, really?” Her eyes light up. “Where?”

“Back in Oregon. I stopped because it got to be too much with my symptoms. I started doing tutoring online, and then?—”

“You ended up here.”

“Exactly,” I laugh.

She gives me an appreciative look. “I’m glad you did. And I’m glad you started this group. This island is so small. I would have thought no one here but Alexis would understand what it’s like, you know, living this way.”

I nod. “It feels lonely sometimes.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, lowering her eyes.

“Hey, Maya.” Flick turns to her. “You teach at Hamilton, right? Do you know Michael Greer? He has an eleven-year-old daughter. I don’t remember her name…”

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