Cut of Grace

Women. I’ve always said we are the backbone of the world. No disrespect to men, but it is a time honored tradition really, to be the great healers that we are. Through the ages we have been given, accepted, and met the challenge of being the healers, the nurturers, the care givers. We heal the broken and bruised. We soothe, smooth, comfort and offer solace when it can be found nowhere else. From injured tots, to a dying loved one, we say special words, kiss broken skin and retell stories; the magic may be in our voice, our hands, our hearts or simply our smile and presence. We carry an unseen basket of those things, hopes, wishes, and more, as an arsenal in the battles we fight, whenever we are needed to heal, mend, or bring tattered edges together again. We carry those baskets with us everywhere. Sight unseen, ready to be opened and used at any given moment.

And then, there are the times that even we women healers, and all of our intuitions and old recipe poultices, special words, or more,...cannot remedy, cannot fix, repair or revive. It is then, perhaps, that our magic is needed most. We are needed to hold hands, listen, keep a calm and steady voice. We know when to be quiet, when to cry with someone. We bake casseroles and help with children and offer to clean and do.. because women know. Women know that when a life is no longer, there is no way of getting past it. There is no greater opposite of the tears when a babe is born, than the wails of when they have left us. Women know that just as in birth, there is pain in death, and there is no escaping it, no secret code or special path to walk. We have watched our fore mothers carry in the casseroles and pies, and mind the children while the grieving is done. It is not a failure on our part, that the healing didn’t work, even though we have tried our best; although we often carry it with us as such. We carry that heavy rock of hurt. We know that it is, what it is. We know that we will somehow survive, and build a soft callus around the pain and move on. We know the rest of the world still spins, and we are still part of it. There is always more healing to do.

I have had my share of successes and failures in healing. There is one healing in particular, that I know looms far above my realm of power. I try not to think about it, but like the dark gray cloud it is, it lurks above me. In younger years, when things troubled me, I would pour myself into work. Scouring and scrubbing and silently working through the problem, or the grief. At my age, that’s a tad more difficult to do now.

She came to me when I was forty eight and she was just eight weeks old. I was then married to her grandfather, and we knew protective services would take her. And take her they did, but after the proper protocol had taken place, they brought her to us. A babe in a car seat, with a paper grocery bag containing a few outfits and bottles. Fast forward. She is now soon to be thirteen, and an absolute joy. She is funny, smart, kind and so much more! However, there is one small catch. She has an incurable genetic illness. The only hope even of a cure, is a stem cell transplant, which could only be done if she is deemed a candidate for it and a proper donor match found. The chances of this happening are slim. Very slim. I’ve cried at least three oceans of tears already, and there are more to come I’m sure. If only I could heal her.. but, I cannot. It is a sadness that I am learning to live with. We don’t know how long she has to live, only that a genetic component called telomeres, which fairly tell a person’s longevity, say she doesn’t have long. We try not to dwell on things; we try to have a normal life. She doesn’t look sick, although she’s tired and sleeps a lot. She can’t go to regular school because of the fatigue, takes lots of medicines and has lots of medical appointments. We do the best we can. Her Grandfather and I parted ways years ago, but this girl was mine even before the day she was born, and is with me still.

One day, not too long after her initial diagnosis, one of my sisters brought me a sewing machine. Her daughter had bought a new one, and she thought I might like to have the other one. Little did she know the monster she was about to create!

It was Christmas time, and funds were on the short side, and I decided I would make everyone aprons. Now, I’m a gal who is pretty creative, but I can’t still to this day read a pattern. However, that wasn’t going to stop me. I bought an apron to use for the pattern, some fabrics, scissors, thread and anything else I could think that I’d need. I thought I’d faint when I made the first cut into that nice, new fabric! Did I cut it too big? Too little? Wrong angle? Leave room for a hem?! I was sweating bullets, but one by one, they turned out. One by one, I learned this trick or that. One by one, I added new things or new designs. The end result? They were a hit! It was so much fun seeing everyone in their aprons for pictures!

And now, fast forward again. I’m too old to pour myself into scrubbing and scouring as much as I used to. Still a good method of therapy for me, but not as good as being creative with some cuts and pins. But, I can make aprons. I’ve given many away, and sold quite a few at farmer’s markets. I’ve made lots of changes, added new styles, all sorts of things. Often I can be found back at the sewing table, pin cushion and scissors close by, maybe some music playing from my phone. Or maybe I’m just sewing and thinking. However the method, it is my sanity.

My very heart goes into those aprons. There are many things I can’t heal. I can’t heal my girl. No matter my wishes, or hopes, or whatever I have in my basket, for now, it is not meant to be. So I use my imagination, some fabric and my scissors, to make aprons. Those aprons can save a dress from getting dishwater all over it, save a back from carrying tomatoes from the garden when they’re all tied up in one. Those aprons can wipe a nose or dry a tear or wipe the dust off the tv when company comes unannounced. I can still save, still heal. Much smaller things, other people’s things but that’s what a healer does. I’ll still carry my basket of hopes, comforting words, anything deemed for healing. I’ll keep an apron in there too, because when we heal others, we learn to heal ourselves.

Right now, there is no end to this story. She takes her medicines daily, we get her labs done, see the doctors and do what we must. I still sew aprons. I believe what you put out into the universe will come back to you. Perhaps, perhaps, the healing I’ve done for others, will heal her too. One apron, one cut of grace at a time.