Buzzards

The turkey buzzards have returned. That means Spring is arriving and I should be planning my garden. But that planning isn't happening. Instead I'm overwhelmed with everything associated with this illness. Dreary and cold January disappeared behind a whirlwind of doctor visits and a long hospital stay. Had it been a January in the past, you would have found me, most evenings, curled up on the couch with a cup of hot tea and seed catalogs... dreamily flipping pages, circling descriptions and making notes. By now I would have seed packets in hand, sketching out the garden and planning what to plant where.

That was before the illness. This year is different. Now I'm different.

The medicine, I hear, will make me sensitive to the sun and I will burn quickly. I'm supposed to be careful around soil and be cautious of warm, humid days. Dirt and sweat could contaminate the central line that runs directly into my heart. I cannot bend over easily because I can faint and I cannot lift heavy things. I am also tethered to a continuous source of oxygen. Now getting outside just to plant a few seeds is a monumental task.

This illness is forcing me (and my family) to rethink things, to re-prioritize, and to ultimately give up on some things... even the things I enjoyed doing. Things are different. Remember the spoon theory? What do I really want to spend my spoons on? I have to ask these questions every day, for every task: Is it worth it? Does it make me happy? Do I have a choice? Is there another option? A different way?

A different way?

I plan to plant a few things in the garden but I don't have the energy or time to create something spectacular. It will probably be a bit sparse and more than likely, not as well tended. But, after further thought, the garden doesn't have to be spectacular. That is because just BEING HERE to watch it grow will be spectacular.

Indeed. The turkey buzzards have returned, but Spring will have to be different this year.