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The first time I felt my left pinky go numb was last November. We’d been driving for hours on a roadtrip in Nova Scotia, and as I had done for all car rides in the past decade or so, I was knitting. I remember running my finger down the interior of the car, down my face, across the cold metal of my needles, and feeling the brutish clumsiness of a limb waking up after being pinned in a strange position during sleep. I can still picture my right hand pinching that pinky, right at the tippy top of my finger, and the sharp grip of fear, realizing I felt absolutely nothing.

Knitting was once a pastime in my life. I would knit constantly. On the clock, in lecture, dark movie theaters, no place was safe from the soft swish of my needles. It eventually morphed from a hobby into my actual…

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