Carrie Gordon

January 2018

In 2006, I hadn’t felt well and knew I had a colonoscopy coming up. Then, during a visit with my GP and radiologist technician, I went from a simple ultrasound to a trans-vaginal ultrasound to the potential diagnosis of ovarian cancer. My simple colonoscopy morphed into a stem to stern surgery consisting of a hysterectomy, debulking and appendectomy. I was eventually diagnosed with Stage 2C ovarian cancer.

My chemo cocktail consisted of carboplatin and taxol. As a geologist, it was intriguing that one of my drugs contained platinum. While working as a geologist in the Oregon coast range in the late 1980’s, we were tasked with identifying any stands we found of pacific yew for a study on developing taxol for cancer treatment. Fortunately, during the intervening years, creating taxol no longer depended on the actual yew tree. It had been synthesized. Little did I realize that I was a part of finding my own cure.

Geologists tend to take a long view of time. This was helpful with my recovery.

I started to read a book on ovarian cancer when first diagnosed. When I reached the chapter on statistics, I quit reading because I realized that I’m not a statistic. My survival was my own story.

As part of my recovery in early 2007, I took a writing class based on Judith Barrington’s book “Writing the Memoir.” The following story is the result of the class.

Handspun Hair

Picking fiber is second nature to a hand spinner. We delight in separating seeds and grass from clean locks. The slip of the strands through our fingers, the sweet aroma of clean wool, the satisfaction of preparing to spin yarn produces a feeling of accomplishment.

Standing in the shower one morning, my hands running through squeaky wet hair, fingers collecting handfuls of fiber with each passing move. It was a silver treasure in the making. Granted some was dark brown, not all shining. As staples tend to be, the variable lengths ranged from short to long. As the days went by, the bag full of fiber grew with each washing. This all began 14 days after my first chemo in August 2006.

Over the preceding eight years, I’d been slowly collecting hair combings, with the intent to spin it up “someday.” A fellow elder spinner had used her hair to make small woven bags. The concept of creating keepsakes of a personal nature had always intrigued me.

My diligent eight-year effort was almost surpassed by the volume I collected in a few short weeks, as my hair fell out. I knew it was time to spin.

This new fiber posed a puzzle. How should I prepare it? How to spin? What to make with the yarn?

It was eerie, combing my hair on the 4 pitch English combs. After the first few handfuls, it was easier to think of it as rather odd sheep’s wool, especially when I pulled it through the button diz. The roving slipped through the hole in an array of dark and light, curling easily into a little nest.

Searching online, I found a study on spinning human hair. The fiber artist recommended spinning from the fold. Perfect! I was ready to spin. Bent the roving over my knuckle, slowly fed the orifice with the fiber, twisting the hair into a single shiny strand. The singles spun up quickly. A Navajo 3-ply wrapped the strands into a shiny silver brown yarn. The ball of yarn rests on my living room coffee table, awaiting its next transformation.

As I spun up my hair, a sense of control came over me. Where initially the ovarian cancer diagnosis seemed overwhelming, a silver lining appeared … or should I say a silver yarn. Now for the project … a small bowl, perhaps?