The Courage To Move On

The first time I picked up knitting needles was on a beautiful October morning in 2002, six months after my 5-year-old daughter, Grace, died from a virulent form of strep. Learning to knit wasn’t just a way to distract me during the long months of grieving. It also was an attempt to redefine myself. Once Grace was born, I became the mother of a little girl. That meant I combed her fine blond hair and taught her the ABCs; that we lay together on the sofa, singing along to her favorite movie, Oliver! I had a vision of a future in which Grace grew up and my role changed: I would shop with her for lipstick, teach her to ride waves in the ocean and share my favorite books with her. Once, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, Grace said: “I want to write books like my mommy, except I’ll write mine in nail polish.”

When your child dies, that imagined future dies too. Unable to grasp what had happened, I could no longer make sense of words. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t write. I needed to find something new. Yes, for distraction, for meditation, but also to put me on a path that was not all wrapped up in the person I had been. I needed something without Grace’s fingerprints on it.

This is the part of grief that I did not yet know. Like most of us, I knew the common things: how hard each birthday and anniversary would be; how my husband, Lorne, and I might not sleep or eat very much; how we should try to talk about our pain. Grief brings an emptiness with it, like someone punched a hole in you. My arms and my lap ached from the emptiness Grace had left behind.

After the death of someone we love, we are forced to figure out who we are now. It is difficult to reach the point where you realize that moving forward doesn’t mean leaving behind the person you’ve lost. I remember how upset I became when we had to buy a new car shortly after Grace died. A part of me wanted to keep everything exactly as it had been. I even resisted painting the living room. Each small change seemed to make our daughter disappear a little more.

Then, that same October when I learned to knit, my husband began redoing the cracked asphalt sidewalk in front of our house. Every weekend, as the leaves changed from green to gold and then began to fall, he dug and measured and planned an intricate herringbone pattern. When the sidewalk was finished, he began work on the driveway, removing the sharp gravel and replacing it with cobblestones. By the following fall, Lorne had relined our small city yard with beach stones and circular patterns of cobblestone and brick. By the garden, he laid the stones in a heart shape for Grace.

This physical labor distracted him. It helped the long weekends to pass, and he found a new passion. Our yard, our driveway, our front walk—all of it had changed. And it was beautiful. One warm spring evening, I looked around our exquisite yard. When we moved to this house, Grace had dubbed it “our happy house.” That night, I smiled—remembering and believing that, even with changes, it was indeed still our happy house.

How to move on. Part of the work of grieving is to channel our emotions and energy into activities that help us redefine ourselves. Some people turn to creative pursuits. For me, it was knitting. The soft clicking of the needles helped me to relax. Some people reach out and help others by volunteering. And some, recognizing that life is precious and short, fulfill their dreams.

To help yourself heal, do what moves you. Or do what matters. Adopt a cat. Visit Spain. Ride a bike. Help the homeless. Be a mentor. And in each new activity, remember the loved one who brought you there. Then, take those first tentative steps into the rest of your life.

Ann Hood is the author of “Somewhere Off the Coast of Maine.” Her new novel,“The Knitting Circle” (W.W. Norton), is just out. (Parade, February 4, 2007)