Opinion

I only have a few months to live. Here's what I've decided to do before I go

I only have a few months to live. Here's what I've decided to do

By David Meyers/ Nearly 20 years ago, my wife Hannah, an expert knitter, taught our 5-year-old son Abe the basics of knitting. When I came home from work one day, Abe met me excitedly at the door and insisted that I sit with him while he taught me his new skill. Using his kit, he proudly began to knit proudly.

'Now it's your turn, Dad,' he said after demonstrating each part of the stitch several times.

He carefully observed my efforts, offering helpful advice. Hana sat on the other side of him, whispering additional pointers to help me. Most nights over the next few weeks, I took extra lessons from them and eventually managed to knit a simple scarf.

Over time, I became a slow but quite skilled knitter. I have knitted alligator scarves, hats for immigrant children, bags and many pairs of socks. It took me ages to make a single pair. Based on my hourly wage as a doctor, a pair of socks might cost me $20 in yarn and $6,000 in labor.

After my diagnosis with glioblastoma, an aggressive and terminal type of brain cancer, knitting became a way to keep my hands busy and my mind at ease. As I recovered from brain surgery and spent six weeks in daily radiation, I knitted dozens of simple cotton napkins for my friends and family to thank them for their support. It only took a few hours to make one of these, but each stitch made me feel emotionally connected to those who cared for me.

When I was first diagnosed, I was given a prognosis of just over a year to live. After my post-radiation MRI showed that my cancer had not progressed, I felt like I could take a breath for the first time in months. I knew that cancer would still kill me in my 50s, but I began to believe that I could live at least a few months longer. I knitted a cream colored scarf for my mother which took about a week to knit, and then a multicolored scarf for Hannah which took less.

Abe, after staying with us long after the surgery, had returned to college after the new semester started in the fall. Throughout the radiation and chemotherapy that followed, the highlight of each week was getting updates on his classes and social life. However, thinking about my son left me heartbroken. I knew I wouldn't be able to dance at his wedding. I probably wouldn't even see him graduate from college.

I wanted to knit something for her, as I had done for all the other people I loved. It might take me a full year to finish a sweater big enough for the man Abe had become. I thought I wouldn't have that much time, so I wouldn't even allow myself to consider such a big project. Instead, I thought of making a pair of fingerless gloves. I was happy with the result, but they seemed small compared to what I wanted to do with it.

Right after I finished chemo, Hana and I attended a yarn swap at a local brewery to celebrate. We spent the afternoon drinking craft beer. As Hannah was ordering the last beers for us, a woman approached our table and started talking to me. She eventually asked me what I would do if I had the beautiful undyed strands she had seen me admiring earlier. I told her that I dreamed of knitting my son a sweater, but I didn't think I had enough time to finish it.

She returned to her desk and returned with enough yarn to knit a large sweater. "For you," she said. "Just promise me you'll try." I protested, but she told me she had driven a hundred miles with these yarns to make sure it found a good home, and she couldn't think of a better place for it. When Hana came back, I was in tears as I told her how I had been given a big bag of yarn.

Once we got home, I found a sweater pattern that worked with yarn and pulled out the skeins I would need.

I finished most of the sweater before the cancer became active again last summer. I had to slow down when I underwent a second brain surgery and another round of radiation. I'm knitting again now, but at the end of the day I'm often tired. The tremors in my hands make it difficult to work.

However, I am slowly making progress and the sweater is almost finished. My goal is to finish it and give it to Abe when he gets home for the holidays. If I can't finish it, I trust he can knit the last stitches himself. Either way, he'll know that my love for him helped me learn to live fully—even as I was dying.

*David Meyers is a physician and health policy researcher in the Washington area living with terminal cancer