Peace by Piece

I was 21 when I had my first son. In my second trimester, I developed severe complications. I had a heart attack and went into kidney failure. Two days later, on Thanksgiving Day, 1985, they performed an emergency c-section and my son was born 14 weeks premature.

For seven weeks I was by his side. I would put my hand in his isolette in the NICU and he would hold my finger with his tiny hand. And fight. God, did he fight!

Seven weeks later I finally got to hold Dustin in my arms. I rocked him, sang to him and told him how proud I was to be his mother as he slowly died in my arms. I had turned 22 three weeks earlier.

My first Mother’s Day was spent in a cemetery draped over a headstone.

“Too soon,” they said. “You’re risking having the same complications.”

But, like many I am often a prisoner of my own mind. Had I waited, I was afraid I would throw myself into a career and my only experience of motherhood would be putting lilies on a grave I couldn’t bear that The risk was totally worth it to me.

The doctors told me I’d have to spend the last two trimesters in bed to reduce the risk of recurrence.

No problem. Anything to improve my baby’s chances.

But we lived in a fairly rural town and cable hadn’t reached our area yet. I had read every book I own twice. What could I possibly do to pass the time?

My older sister was pregnant as well, and on a trip into the historic district she noticed a fabric store that had recently opened. In the window of the historic building was a sign offering quilting classes once a week for two months. I would miss the last week, but was excited to spend the time with my sister, and we both cherished the quilts our grandmother had made. So Bonnie and I…along with our mother…enrolled in the class.

There were seven of us in the first day of class, and we were all given bags as part of the fees for the instruction. In the bags were a pair of fabric scissors…so big and impressive!....two spools of quilting thread, a pack of ten betweens (small quilting needles) and a thimble. I was a bit skeptical the I could make a blanket just by using these few items and some random scraps of fabric. But I was certainly excited to try!

The instructor was wonderful, kind and patient. Thank goodness! The first class we were all a little dumbstruck, but managed to grasp the basics. Our homework for the week was a single small block called the “Bear Claw.” Mother, Bonnie and I had fun picking out our fabrics. But I soon realized there was nothing “random” about the fabric in a quilt. Precise measurements, a sharp marking pencil, templates and sharp scissors…nothing random at all.

Our bear claws all turned out well, as did our Dresden Plates, Pine Trees and Ohio Stars – the other three blocks for our wall hangings. My project was finished a week early, and I was unable to attend the final class. Our instructor sent me a lovely note wishing me well for the pregnancy. I cried and still have that note thirty years later.

Prior to going to bed, Bonnie and I had hit the fabric store hard I had a collection of Christmas patterns and nursery prints. I wanted to make a baby blanket, but with the complications of the last pregnancy I was reluctant to start before my 27th week. Didn’t want to jinx anything.

So I began working on a Christmas quilt for my mother. I designed it myself, simply enlarging the pine tree block we had learned in class and making six separate trees. I worked on it diligently, but set it aside to start work on the crib quilt. Determined to finish before my c-section 12 weeks later, I worked as fervently as a bed-ridden pregnant woman could coordinating the white and red patterns I had selected into squares, triangles, circles and zig-zags. Four days before surgery it was finished, awaiting only the applique of our baby’s name.

The surgery went well, and there had been no complications. I was ecstatic, and once I knew our son was fine they sedated me.

When I finally awoke, my doctor was standing next to my bed. Through tears, he said, “Penny, there’s a problem.” He could barely get the words out.

“It’s his heart. They’re taking him to Children’s Hospital for a procedure to buy him some time, but he’s going to have to have open heart within the next year.”

My world was spinning. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another son. He was taken to Children’s and a hole was pulled through his heart. He was a “blue baby”, with his aorta and vena cava reversed. Up until two years ago, the babies born with this defect all died within 24 hours of birth. I was numb.

The procedure went well, and he was back with me at the hospital the next day. Terrified, we went home.

He couldn’t feed regularly – he would turn blue and fall asleep or pass out. I didn’t know which, and was afraid to ask. So he got 3 ounces of formula every two hours. For five months we had this schedule, until his check up with his pediatrician, when they told us they couldn’t wait any longer. They had to do the open-heart surgery in two days.

I truthfully don’t remember those two days. Next thing I remember is watching them wheel his crib down the hall to surgery I followed the nurse as she lead us to the waiting area. And the bottom of an already horrible day fell out.

The room we were to wait in was newly constructed. But we had been in it before. While it was under construction, our family had used that room to say our final goodbyes to Dustin after he died. Mother went pale, and told the nurse we needed to go somewhere else.

”No,” I said. “This will be fine”

Mother started to speak up again, and I told her not to. These were the people who were attempting to save my son, and I wasn’t going to make waves. It was just a room, after all. And I felt that Dustin would be watching over his brother if we were in his room.

But I was shaken. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting 14 hours in that room undisturbed. I told my father to run home and get my sewing case. It was a square zippered case, with pockets for needles and my leather thimble, with elastic bands that held my scissors and enough room for four or five fat quarters. My templates were in there as well.

We lived less than ten miles from the hospital, and Daddy was back within a half an hour. I unzipped the case, took out some fabric, my clipboard with sandpaper on it (it holds the fabric for tracing), my pencil and templates. And for the next 5 hours, I traced little triangles onto fabric. Dozens and dozens of triangles. Until the call came in.

“He’s off the heart and lung machine, and his heart is beating well on its own.”

It was like a chorus of angels. We knew that the biggest danger was the heart not restarting. He had made it through the worst of it.

I was shaking too much to keep tracing and cutting, so I began to sew. The triangles turned into squares and zig zags. I focused on the piecing and the sewing. And kept going until the call came that he was going into recovery and we could come see him.

He came through it very well. I was surprised when I got home how much I had sewn, and the pairing of fabric seemed a little odd, but I knew I could make it work. It was a wall hanging for my aunt. She had been with me the full 14 hours.

That was when I first realized that my quilting wasn’t a hobby, it was therapy. A diversion, an escape from pressures I thought I could never handle.

For the next 30 years I escaped through my quilting. My mother’s cancer, my sister’s transplant, my niece’s transplant, three more open heart surgeries for my son, my own 17-year wait for a liver transplant. Blankets for nieces and nephews, grandchildren and neighbors, wall hangings for friends and coaches. Piecing and quilting kept me occupied, dulled the pain. It made the unbearable bearable, the intolerable tolerable and the painful palatable. My square sewing case was my shield, my scissors Excalibur.

I came through it all relatively unscathed, and created beautiful keepsakes for friends and family. They think those blankets are just filled with batting. But they all contain my worries and anxieties, and some of them have a few tears as well. But creating them got me through it all, and I’m thrilled when I see one of my grandchildren holding their blanket.

Quilting is a joy, a release, an escape. And it helped me survive some extremely difficult times.

I found my sanctuary, peace by piece.