When my friend died of colon cancer, I dutifully volunteered to complete two memorial quilts for her children. Her family had gathered her clothing into paper grocery bags and together we diligently went through the pile, me being careful to honor my friend’s memory by slowly—almost reverently—folding and unfolding each garment in front of her seven- and ten-year old. I had promised them that their quilts, made from their mother’s clothing, would be done by her one-year death anniversary. Every time I was at the elementary school, her son’s expectant face twisted upward and asked, “Is my quilt done yet?”
I ended up breaking my promise. I failed him and his sister because I had been diagnosed with my own cancer: breast cancer.
I had an aggressive kind with the highest mortality rate of the five different types of breast cancers. At 45-years old, I was an outlier (breast cancer typically makes its debut in people 55 years and older). I barely had time to think of my friend on the anniversary of her death because I was recovering from a 180 degree turn in my treatment plan. The tumor board had decided there was a suspicious growth on my ovary. Two days later, I was on the surgical table: uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes and cervix removed. Thankfully, the growth was benign.
While oncologists get to pack up their patients notes and go home to their families, I’m left with the knowledge that my cancer can return any day. And when it does, it will be stage four and very persistent. Perhaps they will be able to keep my life suspended on a treatment of cocktails, a death by slow-motion. I’d be lucky to get five years. More likely, I’ll get one.
And therefore, I sew. I might as well use up my stash, all those fabrics once deemed too precious. And I might also say, “Fuck it,” and buy more because life is short. This circular logic gets me nowhere. But sewing helps me, still.
Whenever I feel a pain in my body and imagine a black invader weaving its tentacles through marrow and mass, I get lost in my sewing room. Anxiety is a bastard. And there’s a lot of it in the early years for survivors. “Just call if you have pain that lasts longer than two weeks,” my oncologist says. That’s all I get.
But when I can run my fingers over a piece of fabric, analyze the drape and imagine its future, I can dissolve into my latest project. Sewing is my salvation, a baptism of needles and silk. Hobbies seem to unlock this miracle effect. And I owe a lot to mine, my sweet, beautiful sewing room shrine.
Even when I was in treatment, a quart of poison dripped into my body, the feeling of liquid mercury sloshing around my gut, I still managed to sew. I couldn’t construct a garment because I couldn’t think. I couldn’t bear to listen to music or podcasts or watch movies. The vibrations inside my body were so loud that the world became an assault. But I could listen to the hum of my sewing machine.
A couple of days after my second infusion with a chemo cocktail so strong it’s nicknamed “The Red Devil”, I did the math: I still had four and a half months of chemo to go and I didn’t know how I could possibly survive it.
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this. And fuck you, cancer.
I made a choice. I would get through it with the help of my hobby.
The following afternoon when I could barely stand upright, my husband found me laying on the floor of my sewing room. I had separated bags of scrap fabric into piles of confetti—scraps from all the garments I had made. Garments that would no longer fit after the bi-lateral mastectomy.
I had a plan.
During the throes of the most hideous days after my infusions—what I coined “The Chemo Tunnel”— I would shuffle into my sewing room, a roll of toilet paper by my side for my chronic runny nose. Sometimes my vision was blurry. Other times I walked in zig zags. Mostly, I was hunched over, my face parallel to the floor (and at the risk of sounding overly-dramatic, I once crawled into the sewing room on my hands and knees). These were the days when I couldn’t even have a conversation with others. Like animals who find a peaceful corner in which to die, I would retreat into my quiet space.
The only thing I could do was stitch those scraps together. I had been reduced to a passionless, mechanical routine: grab two scraps, insert under presser foot, stitch, repeat. The hum of the sewing machine silenced the vibrations in my body; the focus on stitching settled my nausea. I would get lost for hours. It was my lullaby.
But chemo revealed another devious side effect: my sewing room eventually turned sour. On the days I felt good, I would enter the room and instantly become nauseous. On the days I felt bad, I would enter and feel even worse. I knew if I could make it to the machine and begin my pathetic escape—grab two scraps, insert under presser foot, stitch, repeat—my world would fall away and I could disappear into the lullaby. But some weeks, that was impossible.
It was on one of those days when I avoided my sewing room that the quilts resurfaced from the fog in my memory. Months before my cancer diagnosis, classmates of my friend’s two children had come over to my house to help make the quilt tops.
A classroom of seven-year olds had been tasked with the girl’s quilt. A small group of 10-year olds had been selected by the boy to complete his. Every single child who entered my sewing room had filled those quilts with support, friendship and love. And now, I was about to fill both of them with cancer.
While I lamented this irony to one of my friends, she interrupted me and said, “You’ll be filling them with your survival.”
It was the permission I needed. I had seen my dying friend slowly decline into a frail shell of yellow skin and sharp angles. Even though I didn’t know what my outcome would be, I focused on completing her children’s quilts. Cancer was absent. These quilts were being filled with survival and life. I was also determined to push through the nausea in my sewing room. It usually took me an hour of painstaking grab-two-scraps-insert-under-presser-foot-stitch-repeat before the sweet lullaby embraced me. But my hobby never failed me.
It was near the end of my five-month treatment when I presented those overdue quilts to my friend’s children. I had them close their eyes before I wrapped their personal quilt around their individual bodies in a gigantic bear hug. It was the closest equivalent to their mothers hug even though I knew the quilts were a cheap salve for their yearning. But I had extra to share.
“Some of your mom’s hair is inside,” I told them.
Perhaps in her husband’s grief, my friend’s clothing had been given to me unwashed. Some areas were stained with food, capturing moments when she actively lived and enjoyed to eat. When cutting into her garments, I had instinctively flicked the first few strands of her hair away. But then I began to collect and drape them on top of the batting.
“Also, if you breathe in deeply, you can smell her.”
Whenever I pressed the quilt seams with steam from my iron, my friend’s unique scent filled the room. Under normal circumstances, I might have gagged dramatically and laundered away the B.O. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t erase her. Instead, her children inherited her body’s perfume, perhaps getting drunk off it or maybe deciding it was too unbearable.
I completed my own quilt top a month after my chemo treatment had ended. All those hours of stitching scraps together had blossomed into a work of art entitled “The Tunnel.” But what makes this one special is that I added pieces of my friend’s garments in there too. After all, we are in this together: one with a concrete ending, dead and buried, the other alive in a free-fall of an unknown future. Both of us forcibly yoked to cancer.
I feel like we are still friends. And that is reassuring. And while I find her smell comforting, I’m ready to launder my quilt, wash away old, tired feelings that weigh heavily in the present. Peace is elusive but I know one place where it hides. When the free-fall is too much to handle, you’ll know where to find me.
Denise Archer has been sewing since she was 15 years old when she discovered the magic of her mother’s Singer treadle. Denise is the founder of @thepeoplessewingarmy where she launches missions for sewists around the world to bomb organizations and people with good sewing deeds out of scrap fabric. Her personal garments and projects can be found @h.o.m.u.n.c.u.l.u.s. If you ever need to give Denise a gift, a vintage Issey Miyake pattern will do.
Dear Denise,
Your words are so eloquent. You make us understand the struggle you have been enduring, and also understand the healing powers of our beloved, shared hobby- sewing. I wish you continued healing, hope, and many more happy days in your sewing sanctuary. 😍
All the best,
Sally
Thank you Sally. Whatever happens in the future, I’m guaranteed one thing: I’m going to have an amazing closet of clothes! Take care.
Weeping at my desk at work. We so often hear the bright and shiny “I can do it” part of surviving. I am grateful for your story, for the energy you are putting into the world, for the love you show your friend and her children. Sending love from here.
Thank you so much Sarah! Much love to you, too!
The quilts are beautiful, and you are amazing for doing them. I am in the process of completing my younger sister’s UFOs …she died from a rare uterine cancer that was found after her hysterectomy (due to fibroids). I also inherited her massive collection of fabric , yarn and notions. We both quilted, made garments, knit and gardened and I miss her terribly. Your post has made me decide that I must make a quilt for myself from her fabric. I have been so busy sorting and donating much of her stuff, that I neglected to think about something for me in all this. Take care.
Barb
I’m very sorry for you sister’s death and your pain. I’m glad this post inspired you to make a quilt for yourself. Take care Barb.
This absolutely touched my heart. xx
Thank you xoxox
Ahh, Denise. I first read this post after you submitted it by email, in the middle of the night in a bit of a stupor… and even then, with blurry post-concussion eyesight, I knew it was brilliant. I’ve been thinking about you ever since – admiring your stubborn grit when all else was gone, and in awe of your loving positivity both in completing the quilts and in start the People’s Sewing Army. Thank you so much for sharing! <3
Thank YOU Gillian for all you do 🙂
This is so beautiful and real. Thank you for sharing your story. Wishing you health and time.
Thank you Renee!
Denise,
Your writing and your survival are so powerful, and the quilts are palpable with grief and yearning. Excellent post! I’m hoping to eventually share a story of survival on Sewcialists and your writing is so instructional on how to do it right.
-Claire
Thank you Claire! Please take some time to write down your story–I would love to read it.
Denise, thank you for the hard work it took to write this very personal piece. It is wonderful. You are wonderful. I wish you all the best as you go through your treatments…may your sewing room always be a respite for you.
Thank you so much Lori. Yes, may it always be a respite!
Denise, what a piece and thank you for sharing your story. Very touching, very personal and the quilts for the kids will be treasured forevermore. Wishing you well for the future xx
Thank you Kate. Yes, I’m guessing that those quilts are well-used and well-loved by the kids!
Be better. Thank you for your words.
Oops! Missed your comment! Thank you! Happy 2019 to you 🙂
Denise, thank you for sharing your story. I am only 35 but live in a state of some sort of acceptance to eventually having cancer. There is a long history of it in my family. I have fought against that history by making significant changes to my lifestyle. Reading your story is reassuring. You have written so beautifully raw about your experiences and coming out the other side. Thank you!
Thank you Sarah
Bless you, and peace.
Thank you Elaine
Oh, my heart! Whew! God bless you!
Thank you Kevin
Written beautifully…
Thank you Shivani
This touched me.
Thank you–that is a great compliment!
You are Welcome 🙂💚⚘
Thank you. I am tired of the worn-out platitudes and aphorisms related to cancer and survival. Your honest words of pain, grief, endurance, and love offer true strength and inspiration. They are much needed and much appreciated.
Thank you Katrina. Ah yes, those platitudes and aphorisms…
Denise this is a lovely story and left me crying. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for your courage. I have a friend who was just diagnosed with breast cancer. She is being positive. But she is understandably scared. Your quilt and your determination are beautiful and I hope that you beat this thing with the tentacles. XXXXX
Thank you for the compliment. I’m really sorry about your friend. I hope she finds a good support group of women who’ve had breast cancer or who are currently undergoing treatment. That helps a lot.
How inspiring you are to all of us-You are a gifted writer who has shared a very personal story of pain, strength, and compassion beautifully. I wish you all blessings this Christmas season.Your act of persistent quilting for the benefit of your friend’s family demonstrates a character of incredible strength and profound love.May God bless you. SallyK.
Thank you so much Sally. What a compliment! I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, too.
My dear, I too had the bi lateral mastectomy a few days before Christmas 2006 (the big bastard was on both sides), and am still here to tell the tale. I love what you have written. So eloquent. Attitude is everything. Love, Joy and Peace during this special season for a special person.
Thank you so much Tina. Oh boy, a bilateral mastectomy right before Christmas! I’m sorry you got hit with the cancer too.
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Thank you for this. I have a friend going through chemo right now, and I think I understand better what she’s going through.
I’m so glad this helped. Everyone tolerates the chemo cocktails at varying degrees, but there are some commonly shared side effects. Supposedly, I tolerated them well–I never was admitted to the hospital because of a bad reaction.
Oh I’m glad. Thank you again. Be well!
Thank you for sharing your journey with us. I admire you and others who sew through the pain and trials of cancer. I believe that you’re sharing a road map with all of us on how to manuever during times of illness and distress. Blessings upon you and your family and I hope that you spend many more wonderful days in your sewing room doing what you love!
Thank you so much for your kind words, Carolyn.
I don’t check WP often but I’m so so glad I found and read this today. Despite the ugliness of disease, this post was real, beautiful and hopeful. I wish you continued recovery.
Thank you for your kind words
This is incredibly moving. I’m sorry about your diagnosis. I am glad, though, that you somehow found solace in sewing. I wish you all the best.
Thank you so much, Ela.
I too had breast cancer and required chemotherapy. I understand your physical suffering. Your article reminded me of all the suffering associated with it. You are brave. You continued to live despite all the suffering. That is the only way to survive the ordeal. Life is bittersweet.
Thank you. Yes, chemo is something else. I tolerate other painful and uncomfortable things so well now because chemo reset my baseline for what is truly terrible!
Lol! I never thought of it that way but u r absolutely right. Btw thanks for replying.
This was so heartfelt. Sincere gratitudes for sharing this here. I also have a series of diary entry and letters displayed on my blog. I would be thankful if you can read those and give your opinion. Thank You.
Thank you. Since I’m not a writing instructor, I’m having difficulty knowing what type of constructive feedback to give you. But I am a sewist (by hobby and profession), so I can give you something along those lines: just keep doing it. Keep practicing your technique and you are guaranteed to get better. Good luck with your writing and blog!
You’ve given us all such a courageous example of grace under miserable circumstances. Thank you. I was lucky. My cancer was diagnosed early and was not very aggressive. But still the anxiety is crippling. I used to check my breasts for more lumps whenever I was stopped at a red light or stop sign. Once a cancer patient, always a cancer patient it seems. Something my mother-also a bc survivor-said has stuck with me. She tried to console me one long afternoon: “One day you won’t think about cancer every day.” And she is right. One day, cancer won’t rule your world, your schedule, your stamina, your diet, your life. I hope for you, that day is close at hand. Take care and Merry Christmas
Thank you so much Pia. Yes, there was a time right after chemo, that I was feeling my body daily for enlarged lymph nodes. One time I felt two bumps on my neck and went cold–they turned out to be mosquito bites! I’ve since relaxed on this, but I still do check my body regularly. Every season seems to release a little more of the anxiety. Have a Merry Christmas, too!
I love your determination and spirit to get through chemotherapy and love seeing all your sewing that is simply divine and colourful. You have touched my heart and soul, as a cancer survivour myself I it is hard not to think every pain may be your cancer come back. xox
Thank you for your kind words. I hope you have a good outcome and your cancer doesn’t return. Have a wonderful holiday season.
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I’ve not seen anything more humane…you not only showed how you were able to rise above the challenges you faced but you were able to make us see how you battled and suffered. It made me feel your situation more. Thank you for sharing that with us. I continue to pray for total healing and recovery in your body as well as happiness for you in your hobby.
Thank you so much Katerine. Your words and support are very much appreciated 🙂
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I’m sorry about your breast cancer diagnosis. I hope your treatment is going smoothly. My best wishes to you in 2019.
Thank you for sharing, this was beautifully written, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer stage 4 metastasized at 47 in 2009 she was given a year to live but was here for a lot longer unfortunately she passed in September 2017, but she lived more in those years 8 years then anyone I’ve known. Cancer sucks but you are very strong, doing something you love also , my mum found a hobby in playing ukulele and teaching for free and playing at retirement homes, it’s brings me so much warmth to know that others that have been or are in her situation can also see light and love 💛🌻
Thank you Katey. I’m sorry you lost your mother to breast cancer. It sounds like she lived those last eight years exactly as she wanted to–and that is an incredible gift. Happy holidays to you.
‘If you breathe in deeply, you can smell her.’ Can’t help but well up. I loved reading this. Thank you.
An inspiring read, puts my ‘problems’ into perspective! Thank you
Thank you for reading! Cheers to you in 2019 🙂
Such a beautifully strong yet emotional worded post! You show courage, girl. It brings to mind my friend who was diagnosed with cancer, battling it singly. I had made a smallish quilt for her daughter with scraps of love, and added some thread work memories ( i like that hair bit you wove in:).Take care, lots of love.
Thank you for your supportive words, Veena. I hope your friend is doing better. Much love!
The post really touched my heart.
Thank you so much for reading it!
You are a warrior. What you’ve done with these quilts is so precious. I got tears in my eyes. I really have no words. Thank you for sharing your story with us and thank you for being so strong. Sending a lot of love your way!
Thank you so much! I appreciate your support 🙂
Such a beautifully written piece. Thank you for sharing your struggle and moments of joy that somehow also come from facing this cruel and brutal disease. When my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer I asked why he wasn’t more upset that he was dying and with a prognosis of 2 months I was in shock. He smiled and said “we’re all dying, just at different rates.” From that point onwards we made the most of each moment and chose to live xx
I love that: We’re all dying, just at different rates. Thank you so much for sharing–I’ll definitely pass that onto my cancer group. I’m glad you and your husband were able to live your dreams and desires during that time. xoxoxo
It was such a profound moment forever etched in my mind xo
Simply incredible. Thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you so much for reading it 🙂