TThe life I loved came to an abrupt end when I was diagnosed with severe myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), also known as chronic fatigue syndrome, in 1997. For years my world revolved around bedpans, bed baths, wheelchairs and stair lifts. Then an unexpected gift began to revive a sense of joy I thought I had lost forever.
I grew up in a gardening household. As a child I helped my father tend his precious roses, rake the lawn and bring home the strange-looking leeks and cauliflowers he grew on his allotment. He was my hero and I was never far from his side until he died when I was only 11. From that moment on, gardening lost its appeal: the memories were just too painful. I have turned my back on everything green.
In my 20s and 30s, I chose a career in the city: I worked in London and Manchester as a marketing consultant for brands such as Pepsi and Sony. The closest link I had to all things green was the vase of dead flowers on my desk.
Then, aged 32, a year after my diagnosis, I collapsed in a Sainsbury’s car park. I had to be carried to the car by my husband, Andrew, and then to our bed. Neither of us realized that it would take five years before I was physically strong enough to walk down the stairs on my own again. I was struck by the most severe form of ME – a physically debilitating disease for which there is no cure.
Before I got sick, I thought ME was just about being tired. How blissfully ignorant I was. For most of the two years, I was little more than a breathing corpse. All I could do was lie in a darkened room in constant pain, unable to talk, walk, sit or stand. I had to be spoon-fed, watered, washed, clothed and cared for by my family. My career was over. Those wonderful memories of being outside with my beloved father remained deeply hidden.
After two years the severe light sensitivity went away, but I would be virtually bedridden for another three years. However, during that time I started taking small steps. Literal. I started walking from my bed to the toilet without assistance. I started feeding myself. I started sitting in a chair for 10 minutes a day. I started putting on my own socks.
But after five years of this hell – including hospital stays interspersed with terrible relapses – I was broken. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The toll this cruel disease had taken on me was enormous. I was a shadow of my feisty, confident and fun-loving self. Now I was constantly anxious, nervous, and discouraged. Some days I just wanted to sleep forever so I could join my dad and feel safe again. I thought about suicide, but something inside stopped me.
Then one day my dear mother brought me my breakfast. On the tray was a small, beautiful potted plant, with dense heads of small, coral-pink flowers. “Something you have to take care of,” she explained. I looked at her in disbelief and thought, “I can’t even shower myself – how on earth am I supposed to do that?”
But it was on my windowsill. And you know what? That little plant changed everything. Helpless as a baby, just as I had been, it needed me. For everything. So when I woke up every day, this was the first thing I looked at. Did it need water? Did the leaves need to be wiped off? Did it need to be fed? Did it need more sun? More shade? That little plant gave me purpose. Watching it grow – the little buds forming, the flowers coming to life – gave me a sense of joy that I thought I had lost forever.
That plant, one kalanchoe, bloomed. It made me realize that in order to heal, I had to get outside. I had to start gardening. I had to return to my past to move forward. I had to put my hands in the ground, smell the grass and touch the trees. I needed that connection to nature that I had taken for granted as a child and lost as an adult. My body needed it. My mind needed it. If I was ever going to find peace, I needed it.
So getting into the garden became my goal. It took another year before I was strong enough to try – and that required installing a stair lift – but I went outside.
And it was magical. I still remember sitting outside in my wheelchair and feeling the sun on my face for the first time. I felt hope: that I would get better, that this life with a severe disability would not be the end of my story. And I felt my father with me. Strong.
At first I could only manage five minutes a week. But I worked my way up to five minutes a day, then ten, then twenty and more. Some days the gardening activity consisted of sitting in a chair for half an hour, watching the bees, listening to the sounds and enjoying the smell of my flowers, but that was okay.
Over the next ten years, gardening helped me rebuild my life. As my plants grew stronger, so did I. As my garden grew bigger, so did my world. My illness had robbed me of my health, confidence and joy. Going back to my roots – gardening and growing food again – gave them back to me. I am grateful every day for the small, beautiful potted plant that led me back to gardening – and back to life.
Grow your own food Lady Muck Style by Catherine Saunders is available now (Timga Publishing, £10.99)