Ankle injury sparks an existential gardening crisis

Yes, that’s a dramatic title, but I’m not exaggerating. I’m a pretty intense person. It’s doubtful anyone ever used my name and “easygoing” in the same sentence. And gardening is incredibly important to me. When it was suddenly taken away from me in August 2022, it sent me into a tailspin.

In August, we took a short trip to Maine. We did some whale watching (protip: natural remedies for seasickness may not actually work!), visited Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens (which I’ll have to talk about later), and then planned to hike at Acadia National Park. Luckily, I managed to get through the first two activities physically intact.

But almost as soon as we got to Acadia, I sprained my ankle badly. I’d like to blame it on being distracted by the breathing coastline, but it’s admittedly a weak excuse.

Truthfully, the terrain was very rocky. I wasn’t paying attention. I should have worn my hiking boots, not my light and comfy sneakers. I can now verify that what they say about life shifting into slow motion during a traumatic event is really a thing. I fell for what felt like way too long. While falling, I heard numerous cracking noises coming from my foot. I knew immediately that there was no way I would be able to get up and walk it off. When I reached the ground after what felt like a minute later, I lay there in shock. My husband and a park ranger rushed to my aid. I watched in horror as they painfully peeled off my sock and embarrassing choice of footwear. My ankle had instantly inflated to elephantine proportions. The intense pain, and the sight of my ankle so unrecognizable and yet attached to my body, made my head woozy, my stomach rise up into my throat, and my vision turn static-y like an image intercepted by old CRT TV with rabbit ears.

They concluded that an ambulance was needed. As other tourists stared, I was lifted into my loud, giant chariot of shame. Next time, just send the clown car over for me; based on my actions, it would have been a more appropriate mode of transportation.

Luckily, the hospital at Mt. Desert Island was well-versed in handling orthopedic injuries, and after the most efficient hospital visits of my life, they told me nothing was broken, gave me a boot and crutches, and sent me to face the rest of my now-ruined vacation.

For me, my ankle sprain was the biggest physical challenge I’ve ever faced and quickly resulted in psychological turmoil. In an instant, so many of my abilities vanished. I could no longer prepare meals, take showers unaided, get up and down the stairs safely, use the toilet without help, let alone tend to my beloved garden. I looked out the window the first few days and wondered about its welfare. I asked Chad to do wellness checks for me, paying special attention to the newly planted things. He took videos of the garden and shared them with me so I could see for myself. Then, as I learned to take the walker outside, I could see the weeds growing to monstrous sizes, fruit going unpicked, and the drought taking its toll. The frustration was creeping in. Chad was working outside in his spare time with the desperation of someone bailing out a sinking ship with his bare hands. Putting his problem-solving skills to good use, he hitched the cart to the garden tractor, placed an old bean bag chair in the cart, helped his Gollum (me) get into the cart, and drove me around to see my preciouses.

I began these excursions happily, but as I saw the state of the garden, I became crestfallen. I felt I was no longer honoring this space and the plants we had carefully placed in it. A space once lovingly tended to was showing signs of neglect. Imagine you brought a puppy home, then stopped feeding, walking, grooming, playing, or taking her for veterinary check-ups. I know gardens aren’t the same as puppies, but that’s how I felt when I saw the garden. Coincidentally, the drought this summer was the worst I’ve ever seen. Chad watered almost daily. But it wasn’t enough. Plants perished, and all I could do was watch and question all my decision-making. I contemplated giving up gardening for good. The garden was suffering. My husband was getting stressed out because of all the responsibilities falling on him. I was feeling wretched. I chided myself for becoming so attached to things (as is my habit) and not learning to accept change, thus bringing suffering to myself and those around me. If that was the problem, I reasoned that the solution would be to accept the losses, not try to control the garden, and not be so obsessed with and dependent upon my garden for happiness. I stopped doing things that fed my obsession, like watching gardening shows, reading gardening magazines, listening to podcasts about plants, and planning for the garden’s future.

My self-induced loss of interest in the garden led to a general loss of interest in things. It had already been a rough year for us with the loss of our beloved cockatiel Pikachu, so a little push was all I needed to become thoroughly miserable about everything. With the help of my therapist, I recognized the warning signs that my depression was coming back again. I could not deprive myself of what brings me joy, even if it might lead to some suffering.

Chad and I found ways that I could still work in the garden. My favorite gardening show, Gardener’s World, has featured stories of gardeners with disabilities and how they have found different ways to accomplish tasks in the garden. Those stories were always inspirational to me, but even more so now that I also needed to think of creative ways to complete tasks around the garden. I thought if I could just get myself down on the ground, I could crawl around safely to do some weeding. We found a boot cover online that kept my boot from getting dirty and worn as I crawled around on all fours. Because standing without assistance was impossible, I sat in a garden seat with big, rugged wheels and a swiveling tractor seat so that I could roll around the patio to take apart the containers in preparation for the winter. After several weeks, my mobility improved enough to graduate from a walker to a cane. One hand was still needed to grasp my cane, leaving only one accessible to hold tools. I learned that your mouth can hold many things in a pinch. I’ve always had a dirty mouth figuratively, but now literally as well. My feet ached after a short time standing. So, I learned it was ok to work slowly, ask for help, and take frequent breaks.

Seeing my struggles, my parents even came one day to help in the garden. At one point in the fall, I sat on the patio with my ankle up, watching my husband and both of my parents tend to the garden for me. I was overcome by this expression of love and could hardly believe my eyes. This was one of the most touching moments for me to see my parents painfully kneel down on their hands and knees to pluck weeds from the patio pavers or balance awkwardly to reach blooms in need of deadheading simply because they knew what I wanted without me telling them and they wanted to help. I’m 43 years old. I haven’t needed their help in many years. But here was a reminder of how it all began. My love of gardening started with them. I began my own journey as a gardener by helping them. It was also a poignant reminder that I will never outgrow my parents and that my parents will never outgrow their need to parent me.

As I gave myself permission to slow down but remain passionate about my garden, my depression lifted. Putting down the garden for the winter this year didn’t look anything like it did in recent years. It took twice as long, and I did 70% less. But we got it done. Things didn’t go as planned, but there’s hope for next year. In a few months, old friends, such as winter aconites, snowdrops, bluebells, and hellebores, will be returning. When they return, I will not be sad and uninterested. That’s no way to greet friends. I will greet them as I do every year, with enthusiastic squeals and camera clicks. I will dote on them and love them with abandon.