On June 1st, 2023, my beloved friend Janet died of congestive heart failure at 89 years old. I was honored to be with this extraordinary woman for two of her last three days and nights on earth. Despite her pain, during those last 48 hours together at her retirement community, we managed to talk, laugh, and even share a few secrets, just like two girlfriends at a sleepover. It was a precious time that I’ll always treasure.
Among many things, Janet was known for her incredible knitting. I’m also a knitter, although I have kindergarten-level skills compared to Janet’s Ph.D. in knits and purls. Over the years, Janet has encouraged, supported, and celebrated my adventures in yarn. More than once, she’s also strongly suggested I rip out all the rows and start again. Unlike me, Janet was a knitting perfectionist who could not tolerate a dropped stitch.
Before Janet and I said goodbye for the very last time, we had two notable exchanges. First, I asked her if she’d do me a favor.
“Janet,” I said, “if you have a way of coming back after you’ve gone, you have to send me a sign so I know it’s you. You could do something with my knitting!”
We laughed, although Janet was now very weak. She was ready to die. This isn’t speculation—numerous times during those last two days she’d said, “I’m ready to go.” When I bent down to hug her one final time, I told her through my tears, “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. I hope I see you again. But if I don’t, that’s okay. I love you, Janet.”
Her body was frail, but Janet’s voice was still quite strong. “I love you, too,” she told me. And I left.
Janet died the next evening. I miss her terribly.
Seven months later, I’d finished knitting a bright pink vest. After wearing it one evening, I’d left it in a crumpled heap on my dresser. A few days later, I picked it up to put away. As I did, I noticed something strange.
Fastened to the front lapel was a small yellow plastic safety pin—a type of place marker often used in knitting. Right next to the securely closed pin was a piece of black yarn, about four inches long. It had been threaded through a stitch and tied in a secure knot.
Now, here’s the thing. First, I don’t have any yellow stitch markers. Mine are pink and blue and they’re a different style altogether. And that black yarn? It’s impossible to thread a piece of yarn through a stitch without a darning needle or similar tool. The knot was tied so tight it took me several minutes of fiddling to loosen it enough to pull it out of the vest.
What the heck?
My husband did not mess with my vest. Much as the dog and cat wish they had opposable thumbs, they don’t, so they’re out. We’re empty nesters, and no one else had been in our house. Even if they had, who on earth would have gone into my bedroom with a plastic safety pin and a piece of yarn and figured out how to attach them both to my vest?
No one.
Except maybe Janet.
I thought back to asking her to give me a sign that she was out there—something I couldn’t miss or mistake for anything else. I started to smile. I remembered what else Janet was known for—a loud, hearty laugh. I could almost hear it as I shook my head in disbelief and then started laughing myself.
“Hi, Janet!” I said out loud to myself and anyone else who might be listening. “Thank you for stopping by. I miss you! Please come back again soon. I love you!”
I’ve told this story several times now, and each time I do, I imagine Janet giggling with delight. I’m confident she’d appreciate me sharing it here today.
I also think she’d get a huge kick out of my using Barbra Streisand’s quote (from her brilliant autobiography), “I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s the fucking truth.” It’s what Barbra said about connecting with her father through a medium—and it’s exactly how I feel about this fantastic, and possibly phantasmic, visit from my dear friend Janet.
I’d LOVE to know what make of this experience. Please drop a comment below!
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