Jess

My friend Jess is dying. She has leukemia and is 84 years old. I look at the web page from the National Institute of Cancer, Leukemia and read the list of symptoms which I realize have been plaguing her for months: shortness of breath, unwanted weight loss, bruising and poorly healing cuts, aching joints. It all makes sense now. Her doctor has told her to take care of all the things that need taking care of. He told her to live for today so now she isn't planning to take that Jamaica trip in March to see her grandson married.

She asked our knitting group tonight if we had a pattern for a baby blanket. Her grandson wants to start a family right away. It's taken her months to complete a small washcloth; her joints are terribly inflamed and she only knits, I think, when she joins us on Mondays for our group. I don't know how she'll get a baby blanket finished. But some of the members (are they oblivious to what's happening, I wonder?) gave her ideas for yarn and needle size.

She has been our dynamic member of the knitting group. With women in the group aged 28-87, she is one of the most active. Jess belongs to hat clubs and charity groups. She lunches regularly with friends. She's adopted a puppy. She bakes thousands of specialty Italian cookies for family and friends every Christmas.

Tonight she was tearful as she told me that the doctors haven't been very optimistic, but they're not telling her a definite prognosis. She knows it isn't good. And she said to me tonight, "I don't know why this has to be so undignified. Why can't this just get done with?" Why indeed?

I threw a few platitudes at her. I'm ashamed of myself for it. "Your children are glad you're here," I said. She leveled a Jess gaze at me. 'That's for them,' I think I read her mind. 'That's just delaying the inevitable. And making what time I have miserable and desperate. Can you see my desperation? How I'm barely holding on here? How I'm dragging myself to this group of women who pretend nothing is wrong so that I can live, for 2 hours, without this demon sitting on top of my chest?' But of course, classy Jess says none of this.

I wanted, though, to hand her a pill. In a gilded pillbox, befitting her elegant nature.
I wanted to be able to tell her, "Jess, this is for you. You know what it's for. Use it as you will." And then she would smile at me and take it in her frail, gnarled hand. I wanted to give her what she wants.

Instead, I'll be looking for a baby blanket pattern. And maybe finishing it for her when March rolls around.