My victory garden

I recovered from a stroke, one rose at a time

Human beings can get used to virtually anything, given plenty of time and no choice in the matter whatsoever. — Tom Holt, “Open Sesame”

Anyone will tell you that the trick to living well, following a life-altering illness, is learning to adapt — whether you are in the mood or not. After my left-sided stroke some years ago, I was not in the mood.

My caregivers were persistent, however, and along with my regular rehab, a home nurse visited me twice weekly. On a beautiful summer day, after she conscientiously recorded my vital signs, I asked restlessly, “When can I ever work in my garden again?”

She looked up. “Now — but it all depends on how you do it.”

“Now?” I remonstrated. “How could I go out and garden now? I have a limp, bad balance and my energy is a memory.”

“Just take it a step at a time,” she advised, leaning on my first childhood reading of “The Tortoise and the Hare.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“Well, I see that you can sit,” she observed. “Can you bend over as if you were dead-heading flowers?”

I creakily put my hand to the floor among the imaginary flowers.

“Looks like you’re ready to me,” she observed. “Just be careful walking in the yard, and don't do too much at a time.”

I was disbelieving, but still, a bit curious, after lunch I asked my husband, “Hey Jim, can you walk me out to the back yard? I’d like to try a little gardening.”

“Sure,” he replied, “get ready for takeoff with your hat and sunglasses. I'll bring the clippers and gloves — and off we’ll go.”

So, off we went — to the rose garden, my pride and joy. I had countless happy hours there, pruning and pampering each bush. By now, however, it had disintegrated into spindly branches and opportunistic weeds.

Jim pulled over a lightweight plastic chair for me, and I sat, attempting the rebirth of a rose garden (and a bit of rejuvenation for me.) I shaped up the wayward rose branches, while Jim got down and battled the weeds.

Per the nurse’s instructions, we stopped within the hour, but we returned every day.

I was a gardener again, albeit with my own style. I mastered the art of dragging the lightweight plastic chair behind me, as I found new places needing work.

And that became my daily summer routine. I gradually got the rose garden shaped up, as I added some more easy-care types — such as Drift roses, Knockout roses and other pretty self-sustaining varieties.

Eventually, I settled back into the outdoor work I loved — maybe not with my old gusto but with determination and appreciation.

I made my rounds of the yard more slowly than before, but my relaxed pace allowed me to, yes, stop and smell the roses.

I also took time to befriend my neighborhood wildlife — the gentle bunny that liked to sit close by in the rose garden, seemingly fascinated by my progress; the cardinal, tweeting “hello,” as she made trips back and forth to build a nest in the lilac tree; and the deer, especially the doe that strode across the back of the yard almost daily, followed by three baby fawns wearing white Bambi spots. I spoke softly to Mama doe, who came to realize I was a friend, not foe, and began stopping by to rest while her happy brood played about in the sun.

I cannot say the stroke was a blessing, but I must admit that neither was it the finish line, as I’d originally thought.

I was able to adapt emotionally and, in the process, discover a way to work around my new disability.

After all, we humans can adapt to almost anything — given no choice, a bit of inspiration and a share of grace.

We are built to keep moving forward, and to recapture lost ground with small victories.