The several sets of ceiling lights could have made the room bright, even in the darkest nighttime hours. The central fixture could have focused high-intensity lights on the room’s primary furniture, while a couple of concentric rings of bulbs could have illuminated the cabinets and shelves along the walls; however, the only light came from the hallway, slipping around a door left slightly ajar and filtered through a thin curtain.

I sat mostly in the dark while my daughter lay on a hospital bed wearing sunglasses in the darkened room. Yes, another visit to another hospital emergency room (ER). During one such recent visit, I’d counted that my daughter and I had been at 17 different ERs. Not counting multiple visits to the same facilities. (There’s some interpretation in the definition of an ER, so the count could be 16 ERs.)

Years ago, I’d called a local, community hospital to ask how they handle pediatric patients and they’d told me that the hospital ran the “Nighttime Pediatrics” facility on a suburban commercial strip. So we went there. Does it count as an ER? And, if so, should I also include visits to the “PM Pediatrics” not run by a hospital? So, have we been to 16 or 18 ERs?  Does it matter?

Then, there’s the “almost” visit to an ER during a vacation in England for my daughter’s unbearable migraine. We had been staying in a lovely small hotel near the bottom of a long, narrow, twisty road on the Cornwall coast. An ambulance would have taken at least 45 minutes to arrive and the decision to seek emergency care for an unbreakable migraine is a tough one, even back home where there is a good hospital nearby. With the kind, if puzzled, assistance of hotel staff, my daughter recovered sufficiently to avoid that extra excursion.

The downside of so much experience with ERs is obvious: It’s never good to have to go to a hospital emergency room. The upside is that we know what to bring: snacks, computer, power cords for electronic devices, fuzzy socks (for my daughter), sweatshirts, something to read.

Some ERs can rustle up a turkey or tuna sandwich for a patient, but others offer only saltines and ginger ale. So, if possible, we pack sandwiches to hold us through hours-long waits followed by six to eight hours of treatments. While my daughter will be hooked up to a liter of saline and kept well hydrated, I’ll need something to quench my thirst. So I bring a drink, too, along with yarn, crochet hooks and knitting needles.

The wait to be ushered into the ER and assigned a bed can be quick (although rarely so) or it can last hours. Four hours, six hours or even more. And once assigned that treatment bed, there’s another wait until nurses and doctors authorize treatment. Once started, a “migraine cocktail” typically runs six to eight hours. While patients are sitting and waiting or receiving treatment, the people accompanying them are also sitting around. The chairs are uncomfortable and the wait is tedious. Important. Essential, even. But tedious.

Since at least high school, I’ve brought textile projects to meetings and to lectures (excepting college lectures where I had to take notes and business meetings where it was anathema). Keeping my hands busy helps me concentrate. Knitting or crocheting during the event also means that I get something out of even the most frustrating, inconclusive meeting: a scarf, hat or sweater. A win-win.

For thousands of years, women—and not only women—have mended, knit and embroidered while engaged in conversations. Over the same thousands of years, men—and not only men—have whittled, repaired nets and fussed with their pipes while engaging in other activities. Busy hands and busy minds are efficient, not mutually exclusive.

So, for hospital visits, I bring my knitting basket and current project. As in shopping malls and casinos, in an ER, the lighting gives no hint as to whether it’s day or night. In general, needlework requires light—to read the pattern, count the stitches, change the yarn color. But a straightforward pattern I can do by feel. My fingers slide along the needles for basic knitting stockinette or garter stitches. They feel the opening for the hook that transforms yarn from a ball into crocheted fabric.

Occasionally, a hospital won’t have a room available, and we’ll be placed in a hallway. Hospital hallways are always bright. Recently, my daughter’s bed was placed in the bright hallway that ran between the ambulance entrance and the intensive care unit (ICU). My daughter’s eyes had to stay closed the whole time, even behind sunglasses. The staff set a chair for me in the linen closet across the hallway from my daughter, but I was perpetually in someone’s way so even though the lights were on, I did no knitting. We were happier than usual when the ER doctor said not to wait for discharge papers — to just leave. We’ve agreed to avoid return trips to that hospital.

And so, when necessary, I sit for long, tedious, important hours, knitting in the dark.

Michele is a member of the Hadassah Writers’ Circle, a dynamic and diverse writing group for leaders and members to express their thoughts and feelings about all the things Hadassah does to make the world a better place. It’s where they celebrate their personal Hadassah journeys and share their Jewish values, family traditions and interpretations of Jewish texts. Hadassah members are proud of their Zionist mission and their role as keepers of the flame of Jewish values, traditions and beliefs as well as advocating for women’s empowerment and health equity for all. Since 2019, the Hadassah Writers’ Circle has published nearly 800 columns in The Times of Israel Blogs and other Jewish media outlets. Interested in writing? Please contact hwc@hadassah.org.

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