I still forget that I’m a brain tumor patient. Recently, an editor from Kiplinger’s interviewed me about my health for an article and I found it difficult to get back into that mental space. The first thing out of my mouth is always, “I’m fine.” It’s more complicated than that, of course.

Last February, the doctors at NIH told me that my tumor’s behavior was so strange that they were going to retest it. Pieces of my brain were in a freezer somewhere, stuck in layers of beeswax (how weird does that sound?), and they were going to run a genetic panel on it. Maybe we were wrong, they said. It might be something much more benign. We’ll test it and let you know.

It’s strange to be told good news and feel nothing but grief. How in the *#$! does this happen, I asked? Well, it’s been six years and testing has come so far, that’s it’s entirely possible, they said.

I went home, telling myself I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Nothing had changed yet. I had arranged my life to fit what I knew and I couldn’t change anything yet. I was still angry - how dare science to this to me?

But it’s what I wanted, ultimately. My anger began to thaw, and I thought maybe, just maybe, everything would be ok. Maybe I had served my time on the Island of Misfit Patients and I could live normally again.

The waiting stretched on for months.

At my next appointment in the spring of 2016, they handed me a stack of genetic results. My original diagnosis was intact, much to the doctors’ astonishment. We have never seen this, they kept saying.

Nothing had changed. I’m special in a way nobody has seen before.

It feels like a bad movie plot: tell yourself you won’t get your hopes up, do the exact opposite, and then learn that it’s better to hope and be disappointed than never hope at all. I don’t know. Again, science has searched the world over for where I belong and it’s here, in no man’s land. And I don’t like it.

I had another MRI last month, and this time the head of the whole department gave me the news. Your tumor is shrinking, he said, and we don’t know why.

What.

It’s so interesting, he continued. We have no idea what’s going on, but it’s good news. How about I see you in six months?

I always thought of diagnosis as somewhat static. People get diabetes. They break an arm. It’s a label, a known constant. But it isn’t. I’m a brain tumor patient, but science doesn’t quite know what to do with me. I know my tumor’s genetic markers and mutations, but I don’t know what the future holds.

And so when people ask about my health, I do forget. It’s honestly how I keep from going crazy. I have other things to do: work on my mental health, keep Nate fed and happy, buy more yarn.

This is my place, where I belong. And I’m doing the best I can.

The summer of my freshmen year of college, it became obvious: I had no money to go back to school. I was devastated. I sulked, furious. My parents lectured me about financial responsibility and working to pay my way. I considered signing a loan behind their back, running away. But I knew I wouldn’t.

The weekend my friends all were welcoming each other in the dorm lobbies, I spent babysitting. My friends sent me chirpy messages of I miss yous while I just sat there, furious, watching red-headed kids running under the south Texas sky.

I found a waitressing job at a local Tex-Mex restaurant, Alamo Cafe. In case you’ve never been to San Antonio, many businesses are named after the city’s claim to fame (in towns 20 minutes north, business are all bluebonnet this and bluebonnet that, but that’s another story). This restaurant, though, took the whole heroic mission theme further.

When you walk through the lobby, it’s as if you’re walking through a movie set for the Three Amigos. There’s a working fountain and telephone poles. You’re surrounded by adobe buildings detailed with plants and green shutters. A sign declares "Tortilla Factory" and sure enough, you can watch tortillas made by hand while you wait for a table (oh, and they’re made with lard, so they’re good).

But the thing you notice first is the sky. Hogwart-esque, it’s painted to resemble a beautiful Mexican day. As you wait for the buxomy hostess to seat you (only buxomy girls are hired as hostesses - I was sent to the back room to wait on families), the electronic day turns to evening. The sky darkens from sunny blue to orange and pink and stars begin to sparkle. I imagine, that if you squint and have had a beer or two, you might just find yourself in a small pueblo at dusk.

I was too busy being mad at the world to notice the changing days on the ceiling. Every day, I put on a red polo shirt and drove my navy suburban across town, where I would bring customers plates of enchiladas, chimichangas, and rice and beans. Some shifts, I was lucky to bring home twenty bucks.

And then one day, everything changed. My suburban died on the side of the road, and my parents realized it was cheaper to send me to school than to replace my only transportation. I walked into that restaurant and told my manager I was quitting immediately. I had been working split shifts, getting quite the sexual education (read: harassment), and I had made $1200. It was enough. I threw away my greasy polos and pants and with three days notice, I went back for the spring semester. It was like going home, back into the world of studying and political science. I would graduate and never move back to Texas again. Today, 13 years later, I thought of the changing sky in that faux Mexican lobby. Once again, I’m underneath a changing sky, but this time, I’m paying attention.

Sometime in 2015, I noticed some knitters online talking about making a sky scarf - a scarf that tracks the colors of the sky throughout a year. My knitting skills are horrific, so I came up with a similar idea for a crochet pattern. In fact, I took it one step further. I designed one scarf for the color of the daily sky and another scarf for the color of the daily sunset.

Now that 2016 is ended (can I get an hallelujah?!) and my two scarves are crazy long, but I can say I have seen the sky every day of the year. I mean sure, I’ve noticed it before, but for 365 days, I saw the details - the ever fading bands of brilliant blue, periwinkle, and light blue throughout the day. And when I recorded its daily colors I can point to this wide stripe of bright blues and know that week was beautiful; I can look at my sunset scarf and notice that the brilliant memorable sunsets aren’t as common as I would like. So when I took up from my dinner prep and see the wide streaks of neon pink and orange through my back window, I stop and watch. It’s too beautiful to miss.

Beautiful Days Sky Scarf

Pattern:

Choose colors for your scarf in different shades. For my sky scarf, I mostly used white (snow), gray (cloudy), light blue, periwinkle, and bright blue. The specific yarns I used were:

• Vanna’s Choice linen
• Vanna’s Choice dusty blue
• Vanna’s Choice silver blue
• Loops and Threads Impeccable Butterscotch
• Red Heart Soft Tangerine
• Vanna’s Choice Pink
• Vanna’s Choice Mustard
• Vanna’s Choice Terracotta
• Red Heart Soft Mid Blue

Choose two colors for the first day (even if you are doubling the first color)

1. With the first color, ch 35.

2. With the second color, sc 35.

3. For each subsequent day, chose the color you wish to resemble the sky and sc 35, leaving the ends to weave in later.

4. When the scarf is done, you can choose to leave it as is (as a mega scarf), add fringe, or sl the ends together to make a cowl. I added leather tags with "2016" as a finishing touch.

I had a million ends to weave in when I was done, but it’s not too bad if you keep up with it. If there is a stretch of days that are all super sunny or cloudy, then I could just do one color for several rows and save myself a few extra weaves.

all. the. ends.

Tips:

In hindsight, I wish I had known a few things before starting my scarves:

First, figure out what system works for you. I kept all the yarn balls in a basket, ready to go. When I had a week or two of daily notes on my phone, I would get the basket out and get caught up.

Second, I wish I had made color cards before starting and that I had chosen fewer colors.

too many colors!

Third, I figured out that it was better to keep a list on my phone what the sky and sunset was each day. That way, I could stitch a week or more at a time without having to drag my big project basket around everywhere.

Fourth, don’t set yourself up for failure. It doesn’t matter when you notice the sky - notice it when you can. If I made a rule that I had to notice the sunset at the same time every day for a year, I would have quit in a week. It’s about the process. I’m a result-orientated crocheter and this scarf may be odd fashion-wise, but look at what it contains: a daily tracking of the most beautiful display we can see.

                      photo courtesy of my hyper eight-year-old son

Fifth, I realized that when I take on a big crochet project, even as something as simple as 35 single crochet stitches a day, I will accomplish much fewer other projects. That may seem obvious, but it’s helpful to me when I’m frustrated that another project (such as a baby blanket) isn’t going as fast I would like.

Sixth, enjoy the process! The result will look different than mine and different than you think, but this is very much a process before product pattern, but that’s art.

This summer, during the hottest week of the year, Daniel and I celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary by taking a vacation to Montreal. To some couples, ten years is just the beginning. And I get that. It is a beginning, of sorts, but it’s also a big freaking deal. We’ve been married a whole decade!

The other night, we were talking about it: Did we regret getting married? Did we have any idea what we were getting into? Would we do it again? Daniel and I have never been one of those couples who gush - we’re quite pragmatic. Do I love him more than I did ten years ago? I have no idea. How do I quantify something like that?

I know this: if I were to have met Daniel five years ago, I don’t know that I would have fallen in love and married him.

And that’s ok.

When I did meet him, we were crazy young. But we were mad for each other. Really. There were sparks. We had no idea what we could do together, but didn’t care. We just got married. And we were (mostly) happy.

And life came at us, hard. There were job losses, scary diagnoses, piles of medical bills. We both had to grow up and fast. I don’t know that you can do what what we did without hating each other or making it work. And during the process, we learned that we were both different than when we married, for bad and good.

So I don’t know that if we had met now, as we are now, that we would have gotten together. But we are married and happy (most of the time). I can’t tell you exactly how much I love him, but it’s a lot. I know that I’m glad he’s here and I’m glad I’m not alone. He says the same thing to me: I’m glad you’re here and that I’m not alone.

And we keep on waking up next to each other every morning, reaching out for the warmth, knowing it’s there.