Gardening with chronic illness

Tips for gardening with chronic illness are in the pictures at the bottom of this post.

Time is ticking.

I’m frustrated. I can’t get it together. I have 9 m2 to take care of and I can’t get it together.

I’ve been in a flare-up for about two weeks, and if yesterday’s severe headache and light intolerance are any indication it will take at least another week, maybe more. Could be a month, could be more.

I haven’t been able to garden at all. I’ve had to ask my partner to water, and he does not love it but he did. Feeding plants is a thing of the past. A couple of plants are waiting to be planted out. Not too many. I gave ten seedlings away because I can’t decide where they need to go but more than that, I just can’t do it. Now I have just four to plant out as soon as possible and it feels like I need to climb a very steep mountain.

The garden photographer who was here in spring said she could come again in August. I’ve been so excited and planning for this, for things to be in bloom. But I can’t imagine I’ll be ready. I want things to be really good. Also, I want her to be able to walk on my balcony and not stumble over (too many) things. I want the house to look presentable-ish. I want myself to look presentable-ish. But when will I be able to wash my hair?

The dining table is covered in administrative business. The couch is covered in gardening books, seed packets, socks, letters. One third of it is permanently reserved for the mess, one third for me, one third for my partner. In front of the couch lies the stuff I bought on a whim to become an at-home amateur garden designer. Drawing board, tracing paper, all sorts of pens and pencils. I made a design this week (on the computer, because all of this hadn’t arrived yet), and that’s probably why I feel so horrendous. I was enthusiastic and I overdid it. With my disease I have to pay for such things for a long time, because of a delayed effect on muscles and several bodily processes. It’s happened before, and will happen again.

The drip irrigation system, bought after much consideration and to lessen the dependence of my plants on my health, is 2/10 parts installed, the rest of the system laid out and ready on the living room floor, looking increasingly dishevelled as the weeks go by.

All these things are signs of what’s happening in my mind, I think. Of how I can’t get it together. It’s hard to explain that I can’t think like I used to, I can’t get a handle on things. The best thing, I’ve learned, is to let ‘to do’s’ go and ignore until better times arrive. To ask for help where needed, but not make a plan.

I used to love making plans. My mind a machine, everything solvable. In my relationship, I was the one who liked doing these things. But now, when I make plans, they are lists of all the things that I’m unable to do, can’t achieve, don’t know how to begin to explain, ask too much of an already overworked partner, require further investigation, endless, overwhelming. There are people who want to help. But even asking for help takes preparation, planning and coordination. If we do that, we won’t have time for anything fun, and then what’s the point?

Sometimes there’s a lucid moment and things get done. But usually, neither I nor my partner have the energy for it after, now three years, taking care of me. The extractor hood in the kitchen doesn’t work. There’s a large crack in the (already very ugly) glass door between the hallway and the living room. There have been squares of test paint on walls for two years. Crooked things. Things that should be checked.

This isn’t solvable, and it’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it. We do what’s necessary in this house. And we have help, for the necessary things.

All the energy and planning skills I do have left go into this tiny garden. It’s a lot more joyful and easy than the technicalities of extractor hoods. And I get it done, in some way or another, at some time or another, with help.

It’s so nice. Manageable, most of the time. It gives me a huge sense of achievement and pride. Everything that I can’t get done elsewhere, can’t do, it doesn’t matter. I have this garden and this is good.

It still is very good, as I look at it right now. What do I have to complain about? I just need to clear the path somehow. And hide the empty pots. And perhaps it would be nice if the door could close without having to move everything.

Who knows, this flare-up could be over soon and I could forget this period. Maybe I’ll recover and my muscles and head and heart will cooperate again and I’ll have it all ready in one or two weeks.

And if not, I’ll have to be honest, with myself and the photographer: my house is a mess, the garden is not how I wanted it, but this is what it is. And maybe that’s good enough? Maybe this is, in the end, just a very ordinary case of perfectionism?

I made this series about how I garden with chronic illness:

I recommend viewing these on a smaller screen, or making your email/desktop page smaller, to see the full pictures at once.

Thank you for reading. I’d love to hear what adjustments you’ve made to make gardening easier with a limited body (any kind of limit, I think we all have something)?