The Memory Blanket

The small afghan lay folded across my lap while I tied off the last threads of yarn. Old friend, I thought, rubbing my hand across the delicate surface, it’s been quite a journey you and I have taken together. What started as a small project meant to keep idle hands busy and a mind filled with worry at peace, was finally at an end. When I stretched it out before me, my heart sank. The rectangle was distorted, imperfect. And the colors I’d used looked hideous to me. Where was the soft, warm blanket I’d worked lovingly on for so long?

When my father passed away a little over a year ago, and caregiving for Mom’s Alzheimer’s became the new normal, I had to have something to occupy my downtime in the evenings. I found several skeins of different colored yarn in my crocheting tote bag, ones that were bought for older projects that were already completed. A lap blanket would be a good project. I could make it for my mother.

The blanket became a quest of love. Mom was always chilly. It would be perfect to tuck around her as she sat on her favorite spot on the sofa. Or perhaps she would snuggle with it in bed. I hoped she would like the fact that it was made just for her and began to work on it every chance I could. During television time with my husband at night, during the many doctor appointments my mother had each week, the tote bag filled with colorful yarns, a small pair of scissors, and my favorite crocheting hook was always by my side. Somehow it was comforting that no matter where my mind wandered, no matter how confused Mom was becoming, or worse yet, the fact that her health began failing, at least my hands felt useful when I did not. 

Then the worst of it had happened last March. My heart felt as if it splintered into tiny shards. I’d taken my mother to a high school play of Beauty and the Beast. She’d sung along and laughed. She wanted a picture with the princess after the show. How could it have been that I found myself sitting in a rehab facility one week later wondering if she would ever recover? She seemed lost as if the dark recesses of her brain had begun to close some of its doors tightly. I wondered where her speech and smile had gone. I wondered why she slept so much. I wondered about the odd little phrases she uttered; things that made no sense at all.

We’d found out that Mom had several small strokes. They had affected her ability to communicate properly. Though she had no paralysis, it appeared Mom started to give up. She couldn’t dress herself any longer or even walk. Secretly I’d wondered if she was willing herself away somehow in an attempt to be reunited with Dad. She slept most of the time as I sat by her side. Then, more than ever, I’d needed my crocheting project. While my hands worked at the yarn, my mind worked at prayer. I could look up; watch my mother sleep without missing a stitch. Unable to do anything for Mom, it seemed that as long as my hands were busy, I felt useful somehow.

My mother would awaken and watch me crocheting. I talked of everything and anything in those moments to engage her, to find a spark of the life she once had. Several times I spoke of the little blanket.

I lost my mother in July of last year. I had so wanted to have that blanket done for her. Though I hadn’t been able to give it to her while she was living, I thought about laying her to rest with my final gift. It still wasn’t finished. 

Thinking back now, I’m glad the project wasn’t completed because I was the one who needed it. It gave me a chance to reflect on my visits with Mom. With every crocheted row, a new memory would pop up. The tears would flow, but they weren’t entirely tears of sadness. I knew my mother was reunited with Dad and at peace.

 The blanket, which had been such a big part of the close, quiet times I’d spent with my mother on her final journey, would always be a reminder to me of her very good life and all the moments with her during those last precious months.

As I looked again at the distorted shape and the un-matched colors of the finished lap afghan, I realized some important lessons. Life had been like that for my family in the last several years; not perfect, but certainly workable. Sometimes our journey had been ugly and the outcome, unclear much like the pattern I’d haphazardly seemed to crochet. The mismatched yarn in each row reminded me that there had been differences in our little family, and though colorful at times, it certainly was messy at others. But much like the soft fabric, I realized that my Heavenly Father had given me a softened heart toward my aging parents. And the warmth that even an imperfect blanket provided showed me that my own imperfections could be used for something good. No longer unattractive, the blanket has become a masterpiece, one that I will treasure forever.