I am knitting.

I have not knit for years. My mother taught me the art and, in my youth, I knit quite a bit. I made my Wellesley College roommate, Judy Saryan, a cabled sweater in the colors she chose, of the Armenian flag. I knit my Oxford roommate, Miriam Greenbaum, a turtleneck in nubbly Scottish wool. I knit my husband argyle socks, and pullovers, and sweater vests.

After my babies were born and I had to tend to their needs along with my work, I put down my needles. Now, in the topsy-turvy world of dealing with cancer, my daughter Saranac has become like my mother. I am knitting a necktie in a pattern she created, published in the British quarterly Pom Pom.

Saranac is a patient teacher, ripping out portions when I make a mistake, and setting me to rights again. I once taught her to knit and also was her first newspaper editor when, after graduating from Cornell, she worked as an Enterprise reporter.

Now she is editing the newspaper and instructing me to follow doctor’s orders — and rest. She knows that I am bad at resting, that I need to feel useful, and so I knit. The needles click in a reassuring rhythm as the tie unfolds, scarlet in my lap. It is for co-publisher Marcello Iaia to wear to his brother’s law-school graduation this weekend.

My mother when she knit used to say, “Every stitch is a stitch of love.” My stitches are of gratitude.

This Thursday, the day the newspaper is published, my husband, my daughter, and I will drive again to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City, this time to learn the results of my pathology report. My fervent hope is that my cancer was contained in my uterus, which was removed, but my sentinel lymph nodes may tell a different story.

I have sentinels of my own. They have been keeping watch over me. My dear friend Andrew Schotz returned to The Enterprise for two weeks to help. And our tiny staff — reporters H. Rose Schneider and Elizabeth Floyd Mair, photographer Michael Koff, accounts manager Cherie Lussier, office staffers Ellen Schreibstein and Holly Busch, and illustrator Carol Coogan — have functioned flawlessly to produce a quality paper without me these last two weeks. My two sisters, my husband and daughters, and my father along with old friends have lent their support.

But the circle of support is far wider than I ever could have imagined. I have been lifted these last few weeks by a rising tide of caring humanity. The day after my May 11 editorial ran, explaining I would be away from work as I battled cancer, a beautiful bouquet was delivered to The Enterprise with a card that said, “We love you. Thanks for all your great work.” It was signed simply “Your readers.”

The anonymity of that gift made me see help in everyone.

Then too, I have received countless words of support in emails, letters, and cards. People I’ve never known have written to me about what my words have meant to them over the years.

In this transformed world, bright envelopes fill my mailbox instead of just routine bills. Ellen Howie faced east from the front porch of her Altamont home as the sun came up and felt inspired to paint a mandala called “Healing” for me. Christine Capuano shared her painting of the very scene I had described in my May 11 editorial, of the pear trees in the Capuanos’ orchard blooming white through the mist at the foot of the Helderbergs.

Cancer survivors have shared heartfelt encouragement and advice. One card, from members of the Hamilton Union Presbyterian Church, included not just Bible verses but the signatures of 10 women, each with comforting thoughts and most of them, after their names, telling the number of years that they had survived cancer.

I have learned that we are a nation of cancer survivors. Everywhere I go, I meet people who tell me of their victorious battles with the dreaded but omnipresent disease.

One woman stopped me as I took my daily walk on Brandle Road and asked, “Are you Melissa?” She thought she recognized me from the drawing Carol Coogan had done of me, in the boxing ring, slugging cancer. She had loved the drawing and the editorial, she said.

She had herself survived ovarian cancer and explained how she had always been a pacifist but became a fighter, picturing, during chemo treatments, little men marching into to her to fight the cancer cells.

“You must fight,” she told me.

I am prepared to do that. The armor I wear is forged from hugs — not from cold, hard metal but from warm, loving embrace.

I have received more hugs in the last few weeks than I have over the course of a long lifetime. The ordinary becomes extraordinary with a hug. Each one is a gift. Jean Conklin and her daughter at the Hungerford Market each gave me hugs when I went in for a sandwich. So did Rhonda Flansburg at the ReNue Spa. Ed Frank, whose son had died of cancer, walked up to the newsroom specifically to give me a hug — long and strong.

I had remembered a hug Cindy Pollard had given me years ago as Enterprise editor Bryce Butler was dying of cancer. It helped sustain me at a tough time. Cindy called me to come to her Home Front Café just before my surgery for another hug. She also gave me three tiny gifts — an angel charm, a notepad, and lipstick. When I left her warm embrace, I felt blessed, ready to write, and eager to smile with bright lips.

I wish I could knit something for each of you, to thank you for what you have shared and how you have cared. As I cannot, I will simply try to spread the good will you have given me, one hug at a time.