Can Crocheting Make you Blind?

by Madeleine Kando

Ever since someone innocently mentioned the words ‘boobie hat’ to me, I have been obsessed with the idea of crocheting one for my brand new grandson. Contrary to what the words imply, a boobie hat is not a hat for a boob, it is a hat for the baby’s head, so that while the mother nurses, the gawking onlookers don’t see the real boob but the hat instead.

So I crocheted a nice little boobie hat, making sure all the flesh colored tones were incorporated, including the brownish tint for the nipple, which is supposed to sit on top of the baby's crown. I tried it on for size on one of my stuffed teddy bears and it looked quite boobyish. I was very proud of myself.

But the idea of crocheting a boobie hat was just the beginning of a slowly downward spriraling road to the crochet abyss in which I now find myself. I should have listened to my Sunday school teacher when she told us in an ominous tone: 'Touch not that which is impure. What you take in your hand, you take in your heart'. The moment I crocheted my first stitch I had drunk from the forbidden well and I was doomed.

After the boobie hat was finished, I figured I would crochet a little blanket to go with it. How much crocheting would a blanket for a tiny newborn require? I wasn't worried. But because my crochet expertise was only three days old, I didn't realize that crocheting requires a lot of measuring, planning, calculating corners and attaching one piece to another. After a few days my square blanket had somehow acquired six corners. I felt like Penelope in the story of Ulysses, undoing at night what I had painstakingly crocheted during the day.

My blanket project became all-consuming. I stopped cooking dinner. I woke up in the middle of the night wondering how many slip stitches equal one double crochet. Instead of checking my email in the morning I went straight for my six sided blanket, hoping that pulling on the sides might miraculously turn it into a square. I missed my favorite TV shows, my husband started to order take out and I cancelled some non-essential appointments just so I could work on my six-sided square blanket.

As the days went by, I began to develop some vision problems because eyes aren't made to look at small crochet stitches six hours a day. I was sure I had done some serious, irreversible damage to my retinas. I realized suddenly that 90% of what I do during the course of a normal day is to look at things. I watch TV, I read, I write… what if I cannot do any of those things any more? Oh God! I am turning blind! What if I end up like my mother who has macular degeneration? I thought it was time for a visit to an ophtalmologist.

The place looked very busy which I guess, was a good sign. I was ushered into a small examination room with a retinal camera and other pieces of eye equipment that I had no idea what they were for. I sat in my chair, alone in the semi-darkness staring at a huge painting on the wall. The girl in the painting was wearing a white lace dress and head cover. She looked to me like a cross between an Amish bride and a Hawaiian hooker. Her eyes were so wide open that they seemed to be popping out of her head and she was looking at me from the corner of her wide open eyes, like a frightened deer. I got up and walked to the opposite side of the small room but she followed me with her gaze, no matter where I moved.

It was the most bizarre painting I had ever seen. What was this bride/hooker doing in an eye examination room? Was this meant to scare patients into taking care of their eyes? Was she telling me that that's what happens to people who crochet obsessively? That I had now come to the end of my crochet journey and was going to loose my vision?

The doctor’s certificate on the wall said 'Deborah Gellerman', which I liked. I somehow figured that a woman doctor would not be capable of giving the horrible news of me turning blind. Women aren't that cruel. No, a woman doctor is good. I practiced my (soon to disappear?) vision on the many notices on the walls, to see if I could read any of them. The assistant had put an ointment in my eyes to dilate them in preparation for the exam, so everything looked blurry to me. I wasn't sure if it was due to the ointment or my fading eyesight.

The bride/hooker and I stared at each for what seemed like an eternity, until the doctor finally showed up. I must have misread the certificate because he looked nothing like a Deborah. He was a soft-spoken man who asked me politely if he could call me 'Madeleine'. I said 'of course' and was tempted to ask him if his first name was Deborah, but decided not to.

The examination was quick and efficient. I have mild cataracts which do not require surgery, I do not have macular degeneration. I do have glasses that should have been replaced two years ago and I have 'dry eyes'. I am supposed to drink six to eight glasses of water a day and take flaxseed oil supplements.

As I was leaving the examination room the bride/hooker on the wall followed me with her wide-open eyes and I felt sorry for her. She had been frozen in time, doomed to look at the world as if she were eternally petrified of what she was witnessing. All these people who had no idea how precious their vision is until they loose it. But for now, I was spared that fate. And most importantly, I could go back and finish my six-sided square blanket! leave comment here