Category: Cancer

Progress on my Autumn Valley Sweater by DROPS Design has been… well, let’s just call it leisurely. The gorgeous cables are inching their way off my needles at the pace of a sleepy tortoise, and honestly, I’m okay with that.

I’m knitting this one in Dachshund Daddy Knits Irish Aran, a wool spun in County Kerry, Ireland, with all the rustic charm and lanolin-laced warmth you could wish for. The yarn is the sort that feels like it has history—soft but sturdy, with that just-right texture that makes cables stand tall and proud. Every twist and turn of the pattern shows off the Irish character in the wool, even if my fingers are currently working at half speed.

Thanks to chemotherapy-related neuropathy, knitting has become a bit more of an adventure. My fingertips sometimes feel like they’re wearing invisible mittens, and I occasionally drop a stitch or two (or three). But I keep reminding myself—slow progress is still progress. Each row, each careful cable cross, is a small victory.

There’s a certain kind of mindfulness that comes with knitting through something like this. When my hands cooperate, the rhythm of the stitches feels grounding, soothing, familiar. And on the days they don’t, I just admire how far I’ve come, pet the squishy fabric, and promise the sweater we’ll get there together—eventually.

So yes, my Autumn Valley Sweater might not be finished anytime soon. But it’s already doing its job: keeping me connected to the craft I love, one gentle stitch at a time.

This weekend should have smelled like wool, cider donuts, and triumph. It should have been Rhinebeck Sheep & Wool Festival weekend — the knitter’s pilgrimage, the Super Bowl of yarn, the holy grail of fleece. But alas, instead of frolicking among skeins and sheep, I’ll be attending a far less glamorous event: Chemotherapy, Session #Whatever-We’re-On-Now.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for modern medicine — it’s just that oncology wards really need more yarn vendors and apple cider slushies.

Meanwhile, my mom will be there at Rhinebeck, holding down the fort with the Dachshund Daddy Knits booth. She’ll be surrounded by walls of alpaca, Irish Aran, and enthusiastic knitters showing off their handknits. And yes, I am thrilled for her. And also wildly jealous.

Mom promised she’d FaceTime me from the festival, which I fully plan to treat like my own personal livestream. I’ll be at home in my comfiest sweater (ironically not handknit — my fingers are still on neuropathy hiatus), sipping coffee, shouting things like, “TURN THE CAMERA! IS THAT THE MOHAIR BOOTH?!” and “GET CLOSER! I THINK I SEE A SHEEP IN A SWEATER!”

Honestly, it’s the next best thing to being there in person. Mom’s got a good eye for yarn and a generous heart, which is dangerous — I can already hear her saying, ‘Oh, I just picked up a skein for you.’ (Translation: wishful thinking, as she will be too busy manning the booth to do much shopping, sadly.)

So while she’s chatting with fellow fiber lovers and maybe sneaking in a cider donut or three, I’ll be cheering her on from the chemo chair. I might even wear a Rhinebeck-worthy shawl just to keep the spirit alive — because you can’t cancel cozy, even when your body’s busy fighting bigger battles.

Next year, though? Next year I’m going. I’ll be there with bells on — or at least a really fabulous handknit.

Until then, I’ll be living vicariously through Mom’s blurry FaceTime feed, drooling over yarn photos, and reminding myself: the wool will wait.

There’s something oddly grounding about knitting in a waiting room. The soft murmur of conversations, the steady hum of hospital air conditioning, and the click-clack of needles — it all weaves together into a kind of calm.

Today’s project: a basic chemotherapy hat in the most deliciously soft Dachshund Daddy Knits DK Alpaca yarn. It’s the perfect mix of cozy and breathable, with just enough halo to feel like a gentle hug on the head (and trust me, at this point, my head appreciates a good hug).

Keeping My Fingers Nimble

I like to think of this as multitasking for wellness: while the doctors and nurses work their magic, I’m keeping my fingers nimble and my needles flexible. There’s a quiet satisfaction in watching the rounds add up — one more inch of fabric, one more moment passed peacefully.

The simple ribbed brim is meditative, the smooth stockinette above it rhythmic. It’s the kind of knitting that doesn’t demand attention, just gentle companionship. Perfect for a day when you’ve got enough on your mind already.

Soft alpaca yarn, flexible needles, and a little quiet courage — today’s waiting-room project.

The Yarn That Cuddles Back

Let’s talk about this yarn for a second. Dachshund Daddy Knits DK Alpaca is pure comfort — soft, slightly fuzzy, and with a subtle sheen that makes every stitch look intentional (even the ones that may or may not be). It glides on the needles like butter and feels like it’s rooting for you as you knit.

There’s something beautiful about creating something useful and comforting during treatment — something that will, in a few more rows, be both a hat and a quiet act of care.

A Hat Full of Hope (and Maybe a Few Loose Ends)

By the time the IV is done and the last few stitches come together, I’ll hopefully have a new hat — one that carries every bit of patience, humor, and quiet strength from the process.

Sure, it might not be perfectly symmetrical (who among us is?), but it’ll be warm, handmade, and full of intention. And that’s the best kind of hat there is.

So here’s to soft yarn, sharp needles, and the small comforts that make long days a little shorter. Stitch by stitch, round by round — we keep going.

There’s a special kind of magic in knitting—how it can calm your mind, steady your hands, and carry you through even the toughest seasons. During one of my chemotherapy sessions, I cast on a Ranunculus sweater, a project that ended up becoming far more than just another knit—it became a source of comfort, focus, and hope.

The Project That Carried Me

The Ranunculus is one of those patterns that seems to appear everywhere for a reason. It’s beautiful, versatile, and surprisingly meditative once you get into the rhythm. As I sat through long hours of treatment, the familiar motion of looping yarn over needles offered a sense of control and peace. Each stitch felt like a quiet reminder: I’m still here. I’m still creating.

Finding Calm in the Rhythm

Chemo sessions can stretch on for hours, full of waiting and wondering. Knitting transformed that time into something gentler. The rhythm of the stitches, the soft click of needles, and the feel of the yarn moving through my hands all worked together to slow my thoughts and ease my anxiety. The process became its own form of therapy—portable, creative, and soothing.

The Comfort of Yarn

For this sweater, I chose a Merino Worsted Superwash from Dachshund Daddy Knits, held with a strand of Siri Silk Haze. that felt cozy and gentle—soft enough to rest on sensitive skin and easy to handle on days when energy was low. The yarn felt grounding, like holding onto something living and warm when everything else felt clinical.

Stitching Hope, One Row at a Time

There’s something powerful about watching fabric grow beneath your hands when your body feels unpredictable. With every round of the yoke, I found myself focusing less on the medical machines around me and more on the simple beauty of creation. A few stitches turned into a row. A few rows turned into something wearable. Slowly but surely, hope took shape in yarn.

A Sweater with a Story

When I finally finished and laid the sweater out to block, I realized it wasn’t just a garment—it was a timeline. Each stitch represented a moment: some calm, some difficult, all meaningful. Now, when I see this swetaer, I’m reminded of how making can be both a distraction and a form of healing.

Knitting won’t cure fear or fatigue, but it does have the power to comfort, to ground, and to remind us of our resilience. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

So if you ever find yourself in a hard season, bring your knitting along. Let the stitches carry you. Let the yarn remind you that even in uncertainty, you can still create something beautiful—one row, one moment, one day at a time.