#I hope whatever random nurse did this bit over 18 years ago is having a good time

[willowcrowned]

I'm currently clearing out old medical records (largely uninteresting) and found my discharge papers from when I was hospitalized as a little kid. and. well.

[all1e23]

Swallow [Pt.6]

Chapter: Barely Holding On

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Can two hopelessly damaged people find healing in each other?

Warnings:  Adulty themes. Yes, I’m a grown-up, and I said adulty themes. Heavy Angst (I know. What else is new with series right?) 18+

A/N:   I’m sorry it’s been so long between updates, but tbh this fic takes a lot out of me when I write it – it’s emotionally exhausting to write. If you want something to listen to while reading, I would recommend ‘It’s been a while’ and ‘Everything changes’ by Staind. I know some of you will be surprised by this chapter, but this has been a clear theme throughout the series. Send me love because I’m needy.  No beta. Read at your own risk. ;-)

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam though! Thanks!*

The days apart stretched into weeks and the weeks turned into a month, and with each passing hour, you found yourself struggling to put one foot in front of the other. You wanted to leave. It would be so easy to start your life over. You’ve done it once you could surely do it again. Nothing was keeping you in this shit hole of a town. You were still jobless after all this time being home. So much for nursing always being in demand and as much as you loved Clint, you were starting to suffocate under the weight of all the memories encompassing you. The only real tether to this town was the one reason you should leave it.

If there was ever going to be a reason for you to leave and never look back, Bucky was it.

And it wasn’t just affecting you anymore. Clint had not been to the club since the day you went on your ride with Bucky. He wouldn’t say what happened, but you haven’t seen his kutte in over a month, and Clint told Nat she wasn’t allowed to work the bar for a while. That didn’t go over well. If your dumbass brother had simply asked her not to she would have agreed but he had to go all caveman – he slept on the couch for a few nights after that.

Clint doesn’t always think things through when he’s upset. You might get that charming quality from him.

It’ had been a month since Bucky told you the truth, but it didn’t change anything, did it?  Bucky was still the same man you fell in love with �� flaws and all. It’s taken an embarrassingly long time for you to realize you were always going to come second to James Barnes and yet, you couldn’t stay away from him. No matter what happened or how hard you sought to keep your distance the pull between you was louder than any reasoning your brain could come up with.  

That’s how you knew you would end up here the moment you decided to come home – outside the clubhouse at two in the morning, fingers trembling as you typed in your old code. Your body sagged in relief as the light flashed green and the handle unlocked allowing you to slip in.

This was not the first time you crept into the clubhouse while everyone was asleep. It was the first time you had done it alone. The floor, couches and pool tables were covered in unconscious lumps and most snoring away. It wasn’t uncommon to see when multiple charters were getting together, patch overs, or family announcements. Whatever happened last night you missed one hell of a party. Times like these made it hard to be on the outside. Good times and bad, you were no longer a part of Bucky’s world, and it chipped away another piece of your heart every time it was shoved in your face.

“Y/n,” Steve said, hushed, careful of the people sleeping on couches around them. He was leaning on the bar watching you with an amused grin.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Steve chuckled quietly and walked towards you. “Shouldn’t you be at home?” He snarked back. You narrowed your eyes, but the corner of your lips curled up into a small smile. 

“Is his room still his room?” Steve nodded and followed you as you walked towards the back hallway stepping over the sleeping men on the floor as you went.

“Y/n?” You turned back to look at him brow raised in question. “If you go back there, it needs to be for good. I’m not telling you to take him back or saying you have to walk away. You should follow your heart but whatever you choose needs to be forever. He needs all of you. Not this half in bullshit. If you’re done, let him go.”

“I know.” You assured him. “That’s why I’m here, Steve. No more half in.”

--------

Torture.

Untold agony.

Plain and simple.

This last month has been sheer agony. Bucky hasn’t seen or spoken to you in over a month, and the only thing keeping him from completely wasting away was knowing you hadn’t skipped town. He half expected to wake up that first morning to find Clint beating down his door because you took off in the middle of the night again – a burning need to get away as far away from him as you could. Clint never came, and your jeep has been parked outside of Clint’s place since Peter drove it home.

There was a bit of contentment in all the anguish. A realization. Bucky needed to let you go, but it has never been that simple. If it were, he would have done it when your life was at risk six years ago.  Bucky’s been fighting to let you go since the day you left, and there were times when he thought he made it through and then there were nights like tonight where he didn’t believe he would ever be free of the ache that came from losing you. One of these days, he hoped, your love wouldn’t have this grasp on him anymore. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to live in a world where he no longer loved you.

No, that was not a hurt he wanted to endure. This was all pointless if his heart doesn’t belong to you.

There was a soft knock at his door, and Bucky was immediately irritated. Steve checking in on him again. He did the same thing five years ago. Always stopping by at random hours as if Bucky was going to drink himself to death or something else equally stupid. He pushed his hair back out of his face not bothering to put a shirt on. If Steve wanted to bug him at two in the morning, he got to see Bucky in nothing but dirty ass sweatpants. Maybe he will think twice before waking someone up after this – not that he has been sleeping at all since your fight.

“Steve I swear to God–” Bucky stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath when he saw you standing on the other side of the door, wide-eyed and restlessly fiddling with your bracelets.  Damn, he should have put on a shirt. No words were exchanged – words weren’t needed when it came to you. He let go of the doorknob and stepped back giving you space to come in when you were ready. It needed to be your choice just like it would be your choice if the door stayed open.

You slipped into the small space he left ajar and quickly shut the door behind you. You both stared at each other unsure who should speak up first or what to say once you did.  His brow wrinkled, mouth opened and then shut. Bucky didn’t know where to start, Why are you here? What the hell took you so long? Is this what the end looks like? Two in the morning and dirty sweats? Because I’m done for if you leave again. I can’t go another day without you.

The stillness in the air made your heart pound against your chest threatening to break free and reveal all your weaknesses. Your eyes roam over his chest taking in the new additions to his skin. Your eyes followed the black ink along his left arm, ‘sine timore’ sticking out in the middle of his bicep as of reminder of what comes first. Every member had those words inked somewhere on their skin, and you hated them with everything you had There was only one addition you noticed – a date over his heart.

The date you met.

It had been added to the work he had over the left side of his chest, and your heart was heavy from the weight of your guilt and all the things you kept from him. Your fingers fiddled with the straps of your bracelets and with your heart pounding in your ears the soft brown leather slipped from your fingers landing on the floor between you.

Bucky’s eyes fell to your wrist trying to understand what you were doing, but the second he saw it, he knew. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, they were begging you for an explanation, and all you could give him was a shrug. Because you didn’t know why it was still there. You couldn’t count the number of times you had tried to get it removed, but it never felt right. No matter what how hard you endeavored you couldn’t erase him from your skin. 

He moved slowly towards you until your back was pressed flat against the closed bedroom door, his hand was on your wrist the second you were within reach and pad of his thumb pressing heavily against the swallow still imprinted on your delicate skin. Bucky bent forward slightly, his eyes watching you silently asking for your permission. It’s always had to be your decision. Yeah, in the past, he wouldn’t have held back at a time like this, but things were different now. Tattoo or not, you weren’t his, and you haven’t been his in years.

It’s taken him a long time to admit that, still, all Bucky could see was your lips.

Your chin raised silently giving him the permission he was seeking. His hips pushed into yours pinning you against the door, and his lips were on yours before either of you could think about the consequences. His lips brushed over yours, delicate and demanding – devouring every inch of you. A hand came up and cupped your jaw holding you still, your eyes fluttered closed letting his touch, his lips consume you entirely. Bucky didn’t let up until you were both panting and breathless.

He released your jaw and tightened his hold on your wrist as he pulled you back towards the bed, his grip loose enough that you could pull away not that you were going to. Your heart has been struggling to find it’s place since you returned and it finally found it.

--------

Bucky blew out a thick cloud of smoke and put out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray next to him. The sun had been up for a few hours now and there were hushed movements in the kitchen but he was in no hurry to move. There was plenty of reasons to not leave his bed this morning, and every one of them was wrapped up in you.

A soft orange light was peeking through the cracks in the blinds covering his bedroom window, setting a gentle glow against your skin. He stared at you laying in bed next to him, your back rising and falling steadily with each breath and your arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. Fuck, he really messed this up. Bucky didn’t want things to go down like that way this time. He was trying hard to not repeat his past mistakes, but it seemed Bucky couldn’t escape them no matter how hard he attempted to right all the wrongs he had done to you.

The thin white sheet was barely covering your lower half – a sight he never thought he would see again after your talk. He ached to be happy that you were here, but his brain wouldn't let go of every way this could go wrong. What was going to happen when you woke up? The whole night felt like a mistake. The rock sitting in his gut was telling him this was a mistake. It was too sudden, too rash and after everything that happened, he should have taken his time. The genuine fear was eating away at his heart telling him you were going to bolt when the realization of last night finally hit you.

His knuckles grazed down the back of your arm as you began to stir.  Time to face the music then. You reached out in your sleepy haze and wrapped an arm around his waist attempting to pull him closer to you.  He obliged and grinned at the sight of his name scrolled on your ribs following the curve of your left breast. Bucky was the only one that knew it was there and he wanted to keep it that way – or he thought he was the only one. A pang of jealousy washed over him as his mind wandered to the five years you were gone, and he wondered how many men have seen it.

Probably better if he doesn’t dwell on ‘what ifs’ this morning. You were there in his bed, and that was all that matters. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your temple. The heady scent of cigarettes and soap pulled you from the soft waves of sleep you were floating in.

“Hi,” You croaked, hoarse from sleep as you caught his eyes.

“Hey.”

Bucky smiled and ran his left hand down your back letting his hand rest on your lower back, fingers skimming the edge of the sheet. He could just not say anything. You could both avoid the inevitable and live in this little bubble for a few moments longer, but it would be an insult to both of you. Bucky knew all too well he can’t hide from what’s beyond that door and all that was expected of him.

“We should talk about last night, pretty girl. Last night was incredible. Unexpected but incredible. I thought–” He ran his right hand along his jaw. “It’s been over a month. I thought I lost you and all this. Then you show up here in the middle of the night, and we slip right back into old habits.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Buck.” You admitted before he got any further because it was the truth. You didn’t know what you were doing when you showed up at his door, all you knew was this is where you should be regardless of the history you shared and the warning bells that were echoing, loudly, in your head.

“Clint?” 

You answered him with a simple head shake. No, Clint didn’t know you were at the clubhouse and in bed with Bucky. Though he would be figuring it out here any minute when he went to wake you for breakfast only to find an empty bed and a hastily written note stuck to mirror above your dresser.

“We can chalk up to lingering feelings and a late-night mistake. No one has to know,” Bucky breathed, distressed and worn from the sheer thought of having to forget the feel of your skin under his hands. 

“Steve knows.” You whispered, “He caught me trying to sneak in.”

Bucky chuckled as his fingers slipped under the sheet and ghosted over the delicate skin hiding beneath the covers.  “Okay, just the three – or, four of us have to know.”

“Peggy?”

“Yeah, he definitely told Pegs.” He said with a roll of his eyes. “Steve spills everything the second they are alone. They won’t say a thing if I tell them not to. Say the word, and it’s forgotten.”

It would be easy to claim it was all a foolhardy slip-up spurred from the closure neither of you was granted years ago. There was no doubt that there were flames still burning, embers still smoldering for him – there would always be pieces of you lingering within his soul. Forgetting would be the easy out for you both.

“What if I don’t want to do that.” You whispered, soft and hesitant, a silent tremor in your voice.

“Do what, baby?”

You’re either in love with him, or you’re not.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen, but I’m scared this is going to blow up in my face again.” You mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.  “I think I’m addicted to you. There are good reasons they say addictions break you down and tear you apart.”

“I promise you nothing is going to break you down again,” Bucky swore, scrambling not to lose this second chance.  “I know there are more than enough reasons for you to never trust me again and I know you deserve better than me, but I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to make us work this time.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat watching your fingers trace the swallow on the top of his hand. Steve was right, and man did you hate it when he was right. You couldn’t continue to be half in, one foot out the door always ready to run if something doesn’t go your way. You either loved him, or you didn’t, and you needed to make a choice. Right then. The right decision was palpable, and you knew what choice you were going to make.

“If we do this you can’t hide things from me. Even things that might hurt me and all the things that you’re scared of. You have to show me all of you, even the broken pieces you don’t want me to see.”

“Baby.” He sighed and let his forehead rest against yours. “I’ll show you the broken parts of my soul if you promise not to run when you see the monster I am because of them.”

“You are many things, Buck,” You whispered softly. “But a monster isn’t one of them.”

Doubt and worry were flashing vividly in his eyes. You could practically hear his mind racing as he tried to figure it all out that very second. He needed it all planned out before either of you made it out bed and that wouldn't happen. It wouldn’t be that easy. Your relationship was too complicated for that. Bucky brought your hand up and placed a gentle kiss to your wrist – The two of you were gonna have a chat about that here soon you had a strong suspicion.

“What does this mean?” He asked finally.

“It means,” You said, interrupting the raging thoughts you knew were surging in his head. “We are going to take things one day at a time.”

“One day at a time,” Bucky repeated. “I can do one day at a time.”

Slow and steady. Bucky could do that if that’s what you needed. He would do whatever it takes to make this forever.

Forever won’t happen overnight, but he can make it one day at a time.

Previous // Next

[wendyimmiller]

Gardening For Health – Part II

So long ago that I can’t remember when, I gave up on the idea of having any real pride in myself. It wasn’t what anyone would call a decision. No momentous occasion or anything. I just don’t really know that pride ever mattered that much to me. If I had any left, whatever there was was finished off by four years at a Jesuit college. Because, in case you don’t know this, Jesuits exist to convince young minds that one’s trajectory through life is subject to so many random social, physical, mental, and economic rolls of the dice that one’s own accomplishments are just a small part of a very large equation. That said, I do my best, take advantage of the good breaks and shake off the bad, and, more recently, try to live a good enough life. So when and if I take my own pride into consideration these days, it’s less about something good I’ve done and more about something stupid I hopefully didn’t. “Hey y’all, look at me” kinds of things. Yeah, my pride is mostly focused on keeping those to a bare minimum.

That being said, I must share my proudest moment ever. It happened two years ago, and I was on drugs. Morphine, to be exact. I was just coming around following surgery and hazily listening to a conversation between the nurse and my wife. At some point the nurse happened to mention that my urine had good color. My urine had good color! Lord have mercy, I almost burst! Too far gone to speak, I simply basked in the moment like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon filled to floating with enormous, joyful lightness. Even now, soberly aware of the ridiculousness of it, I can still feel a little pulse of that joy. Such was just one of countless anomalous moments—sometimes surreal, usually all too real—that I went through while “surviving” c-c-cancer.

A cancer diagnosis launches you on an imagination-fueled, internet-misinformed, emotional and intellectual odyssey, even as your body suddenly becomes a whack-a-mole game for doctors and technicians. The word “survive’ is accurate. Really nails it. Because whether you make it don’t, surviving the process is about all you really manage.  Everyone says great upbeat stuff like, “You’ve got this”, or, “You’ll kick butt!” but all you really do is what you’re told. You go to appointments. Lots of appointments. You take drugs. You do treatments. Go in for tests. Wait and wait and wait on results. Have surgery. You never really feel like you’re in control or doing anything to impose your will on the situation. At least I didn’t. Never had that LeBron James taking over the game for a win moment. Sure, I prayed, remembering every time I did all those friends and family I’ve prayed for that never got better. Some people try to become their own experts. I didn’t bother. Nor did I have any faith in miracle diets, exercises, meditations, trinkets, powders, or crystals. Nope. I just hit my marks, relied on 21st century medical science, and hoped for the best possible outcome.

Longwood.

Oh, and I checked my dignity at the door. Big time. Prostate cancer requires this, in my opinion, more than most cancers. Doctors, nurses, interns, students, spouses, cleaning crews, paid spectators, preschool classes, all parading through and crowding around in small exam rooms while probing things are going in and other things are coming out. I found myself here, my clothes over there, people taking fluids, handing them off, and sometimes ducking them as they fly across the room. The worst was when I was wearing a hospital gown that simply wouldn’t stay tied shut and had a mile or two of corridor to cover between different exams with three waiting rooms, a news crew, a gift shop, and a cafeteria along the way. Eventually, I was so devoid of dignity that–and this is true–I crafted a euphoric group text to my wife, mother, and sisters that I had finally had my first poop since surgery.

I should probably tell you now that I had a very treatable form of prostate cancer. The surgery was successful. No radiation. No chemo. They tell me I have less than a 1% chance of dealing with it again. I was and am extremely fortunate and very grateful. I’m almost embarrassed to call myself a “survivor”, knowing that so many others have gone through so much worse. Still, I’ve got to say the process did take over nine months. Six months of that fell into what my sister, the hospice administrator/RN, calls the “information void”. This translates as “the imagination run amok period.”  So when the doctor says it could possibly be cancer but probably isn’t, the mind fills in the gray area with, “Oh God, it’s cancer.” When he says, “You have cancer, but you’ll be fine,” that means, “Start planning your funeral.” When the technician refuses to venture an opinion on a CT scan, deferring to the doctor who will eventually read it, the only possible explanation is that they’re thinking, “I don’t get paid enough to tell people this kind of crap.” Six months of this! And my mind never wearied of tumbling like a gymnast through all the permutations. But, eventually, it all got sorted out. I went in, had a prostatectomy twofered with three open hernia repairs, experienced the world’s proudest urine-related moment, and then I went home to keep on keeping on, using as a role model any dog’s total mood transformation following a cone-of-shame removal.

All of my follow up test results since have been good, and I’m grateful that my situation had a great outcome.  I’m well aware that it isn’t always so. My youngest sister died of cancer when she was 25 years old. Cancer has been all around me my entire life, and it has almost always meant that bad news gets worse. During my six or so months of information void, a friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died. During the hours and hours of time I sat sagging in waiting rooms and hospitals, I tried very hard not to overly notice others with situations far, far worse than mine.

Throughout the process my garden was a crutch. Before an important appointment or after a bad one, you would sure as hell find me walking around and finding distraction or comfort or hope and sometimes God in my little scratches of design—favorite plants gathered in the sunlight, sprouting from the good, rich earth.  My family and friends were wonderful, and their love and support was a given, but my garden was where I could go to be alone, to process, and to pull it all back together. And I wondered, while I kept my eyes dutifully aimed at my phone in dismal waiting rooms, if these other patients had gardens or some other green spaces into which they could get their heads out of prognoses and patient plans and into a place that allowed them to feel the planet and gather perspective?

A green roof at Mercy Hospital West in Cincinnati. Many rooms look out onto this.

The room where I spent five days on morphine, consisted of four walls, a bed, a TV, an IV stand, and a myriad of discarded Jell-O cups. That was about it. Since then, I’ve toured a few newer hospitals that were built so every room looks out onto some form of nature, whether it be a woods, a green roof, or gardens. I think this is great, and I believe the research which suggests that such investment pays off with better outcomes, quicker recoveries, and even fewer pain meds. I believe that with every fiber in my being.

The Great Rift Valley in Kenya, on the road into Nairobi.

Great works of art can take your breath away, and make you feel, think, or even just stare without words to utter. Buildings soar and amaze. Cathedrals inspire. The works of Shakespeare have stood as pinnacles of literature for five centuries. Any of the world’s religions can guide, console, and offer hope. And all of that is good stuff. Important stuff. But I recently stood on a cliff overlooking the Rift Valley in Kenya and looked out over the very cradle of mankind, and it still looks every bit the part. Horizon to horizon of primitive, verdant wonder. Wild. Big. Beautiful. Primordial. I get goosebumps just remembering. I can’t imagine I ever won’t. For it is from that ground that we as a species came. Those savannas, the sights and smells, are still in our DNA. Everybody should stand there once. Everybody should feel that feeling. To share in what we all share. And as a gardener I couldn’t help but to think that the Garden of Eden, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the great early gardens of Islam, the Temple gardens of China and Japan, Versailles, Longwood, Sissinghurst, my garden, your garden are the human spirit’s attempt to momentarily capture that lightning in a bottle. To remind us of home. To fill our hearts. Feed our bodies. Warm our souls. Allow us to grow even as we’re dying.

Versailles.

Gardening For Health – Part II originally appeared on Garden Rant on July 18, 2018.

from Gardening http://www.gardenrant.com/2018/07/gardening-for-health-part-ii.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[athertonjc]

Gardening For Health – Part II

So long ago that I can’t remember when, I gave up on the idea of having any real pride in myself. It wasn’t what anyone would call a decision. No momentous occasion or anything. I just don’t really know that pride ever mattered that much to me. If I had any left, whatever there was was finished off by four years at a Jesuit college. Because, in case you don’t know this, Jesuits exist to convince young minds that one’s trajectory through life is subject to so many random social, physical, mental, and economic rolls of the dice that one’s own accomplishments are just a small part of a very large equation. That said, I do my best, take advantage of the good breaks and shake off the bad, and, more recently, try to live a good enough life. So when and if I take my own pride into consideration these days, it’s less about something good I’ve done and more about something stupid I hopefully didn’t. “Hey y’all, look at me” kinds of things. Yeah, my pride is mostly focused on keeping those to a bare minimum.

That being said, I must share my proudest moment ever. It happened two years ago, and I was on drugs. Morphine, to be exact. I was just coming around following surgery and hazily listening to a conversation between the nurse and my wife. At some point the nurse happened to mention that my urine had good color. My urine had good color! Lord have mercy, I almost burst! Too far gone to speak, I simply basked in the moment like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon filled to floating with enormous, joyful lightness. Even now, soberly aware of the ridiculousness of it, I can still feel a little pulse of that joy. Such was just one of countless anomalous moments—sometimes surreal, usually all too real—that I went through while “surviving” c-c-cancer.

A cancer diagnosis launches you on an imagination-fueled, internet-misinformed, emotional and intellectual odyssey, even as your body suddenly becomes a whack-a-mole game for doctors and technicians. The word “survive’ is accurate. Really nails it. Because whether you make it or don’t, surviving the process is about all you really manage.  Everyone says great upbeat stuff like, “You’ve got this”, or, “You’ll kick butt!” but all you really do is what you’re told. You go to appointments. Lots of appointments. You take drugs. You do treatments. Go in for tests. Wait and wait and wait on results. Have surgery. You never really feel like you’re in control or doing anything to impose your will on the situation. At least I didn’t. Never had that LeBron James taking over the game for a win moment. Sure, I prayed, remembering every time I did all those friends and family I’ve prayed for that never got better. Some people try to become their own experts. I didn’t bother. Nor did I have any faith in miracle diets, exercises, meditations, trinkets, powders, or crystals. Nope. I just hit my marks, relied on 21st century medical science, and hoped for the best possible outcome.

Longwood.

Oh, and I checked my dignity at the door. Big time. Prostate cancer requires this, in my opinion, more than most cancers. Doctors, nurses, interns, students, spouses, cleaning crews, paid spectators, preschool classes, all parading through and crowding around in small exam rooms while probing things are going in and other things are coming out. I found myself here, my clothes over there, people taking fluids, handing them off, and sometimes ducking them as they fly across the room. The worst was when I was wearing a hospital gown that simply wouldn’t stay tied shut and had a mile or two of corridor to cover between different exams with three waiting rooms, a news crew, a gift shop, and a cafeteria along the way. Eventually, I was so devoid of dignity that–and this is true–I crafted a euphoric group text to my wife, mother, and sisters that I had finally had my first poop since surgery.

I should probably tell you now that I had a very treatable form of prostate cancer. The surgery was successful. No radiation. No chemo. They tell me I have less than a 1% chance of dealing with it again. I was and am extremely fortunate and very grateful. I’m almost embarrassed to call myself a “survivor”, knowing that so many others have gone through so much worse. Still, I’ve got to say the process did take over nine months. Six months of that fell into what my sister, the hospice administrator/RN, calls the “information void”. This translates as “the imagination run amok period.”  So when the doctor says it could possibly be cancer but probably isn’t, the mind fills in the gray area with, “Oh God, it’s cancer.” When he says, “You have cancer, but you’ll be fine,” that means, “Start planning your funeral.” When the technician refuses to venture an opinion on a CT scan, deferring to the doctor who will eventually read it, the only possible explanation is that they’re thinking, “I don’t get paid enough to tell people this kind of crap.” Six months of this! And my mind never wearied of tumbling like a gymnast through all the permutations. But, eventually, it all got sorted out. I went in, had a prostatectomy twofered with three open hernia repairs, experienced the world’s proudest urine-related moment, and then I went home to keep on keeping on, using as a role model any dog’s total mood transformation following a cone-of-shame removal.

All of my follow up test results since have been good, and I’m grateful that my situation had a great outcome.  I’m well aware that it isn’t always so. My youngest sister died of cancer when she was 25 years old. Cancer has been all around me my entire life, and it has almost always meant that bad news gets worse. During my six or so months of information void, a friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died. During the hours and hours of time I sat sagging in waiting rooms and hospitals, I tried very hard not to overly notice others with situations far, far worse than mine.

Throughout the process my garden was a crutch. Before an important appointment or after a bad one, you would sure as hell find me walking around and finding distraction or comfort or hope and sometimes God in my little scratches of design—favorite plants gathered in the sunlight, sprouting from the good, rich earth.  My family and friends were wonderful, and their love and support was a given, but my garden was where I could go to be alone, to process, and to pull it all back together. And I wondered, while I kept my eyes dutifully aimed at my phone in dismal waiting rooms, if these other patients had gardens or some other green spaces into which they could get their heads out of prognoses and patient plans and into a place that allowed them to feel the planet and gather perspective?

A green roof at Mercy Hospital West in Cincinnati. Many rooms look out onto this.

The room where I spent five days on morphine, consisted of four walls, a bed, a TV, an IV stand, and a myriad of discarded Jell-O cups. That was about it. Since then, I’ve toured a few newer hospitals that were built so every room looks out onto some form of nature, whether it be a woods, a green roof, or gardens. I think this is great, and I believe the research which suggests that such investment pays off with better outcomes, quicker recoveries, and even fewer pain meds. I believe that with every fiber in my being.

The Great Rift Valley in Kenya, on the road into Nairobi.

Great works of art can take your breath away, and make you feel, think, or even just stare without words to utter. Buildings soar and amaze. Cathedrals inspire. The works of Shakespeare have stood as pinnacles of literature for five centuries. Any of the world’s religions can guide, console, and offer hope. And all of that is good stuff. Important stuff. But I recently stood on a cliff overlooking the Rift Valley in Kenya and looked out over the very cradle of mankind, and it still looks every bit the part. Horizon to horizon of primitive, verdant wonder. Wild. Big. Beautiful. Primordial. I get goosebumps just remembering. I can’t imagine I ever won’t. For it is from that ground that we as a species came. Those savannas, the sights and smells, are still in our DNA. Everybody should stand there once. Everybody should feel that feeling. To share in what we all share. And as a gardener I couldn’t help but to think that the Garden of Eden, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the great early gardens of Islam, the Temple gardens of China and Japan, Versailles, Longwood, Sissinghurst, my garden, your garden are the human spirit’s attempt to momentarily capture that lightning in a bottle. To remind us of home. To fill our hearts. Feed our bodies. Warm our souls. Allow us to grow even as we’re dying.

Versailles.

Gardening For Health – Part II originally appeared on Garden Rant on July 18, 2018.

from Garden Rant http://www.gardenrant.com/2018/07/gardening-for-health-part-ii.html

[turfandlawncare]

Gardening For Health – Part II

So long ago that I can’t remember when, I gave up on the idea of having any real pride in myself. It wasn’t what anyone would call a decision. No momentous occasion or anything. I just don’t really know that pride ever mattered that much to me. If I had any left, whatever there was was finished off by four years at a Jesuit college. Because, in case you don’t know this, Jesuits exist to convince young minds that one’s trajectory through life is subject to so many random social, physical, mental, and economic rolls of the dice that one’s own accomplishments are just a small part of a very large equation. That said, I do my best, take advantage of the good breaks and shake off the bad, and, more recently, try to live a good enough life. So when and if I take my own pride into consideration these days, it’s less about something good I’ve done and more about something stupid I hopefully didn’t. “Hey y’all, look at me” kinds of things. Yeah, my pride is mostly focused on keeping those to a bare minimum.

That being said, I must share my proudest moment ever. It happened two years ago, and I was on drugs. Morphine, to be exact. I was just coming around following surgery and hazily listening to a conversation between the nurse and my wife. At some point the nurse happened to mention that my urine had good color. My urine had good color! Lord have mercy, I almost burst! Too far gone to speak, I simply basked in the moment like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon filled to floating with enormous, joyful lightness. Even now, soberly aware of the ridiculousness of it, I can still feel a little pulse of that joy. Such was just one of countless anomalous moments—sometimes surreal, usually all too real—that I went through while “surviving” c-c-cancer.

A cancer diagnosis launches you on an imagination-fueled, internet-misinformed, emotional and intellectual odyssey, even as your body suddenly becomes a whack-a-mole game for doctors and technicians. The word “survive’ is accurate. Really nails it. Because whether you make it or don’t, surviving the process is about all you really manage.  Everyone says great upbeat stuff like, “You’ve got this”, or, “You’ll kick butt!” but all you really do is what you’re told. You go to appointments. Lots of appointments. You take drugs. You do treatments. Go in for tests. Wait and wait and wait on results. Have surgery. You never really feel like you’re in control or doing anything to impose your will on the situation. At least I didn’t. Never had that LeBron James taking over the game for a win moment. Sure, I prayed, remembering every time I did all those friends and family I’ve prayed for that never got better. Some people try to become their own experts. I didn’t bother. Nor did I have any faith in miracle diets, exercises, meditations, trinkets, powders, or crystals. Nope. I just hit my marks, relied on 21st century medical science, and hoped for the best possible outcome.

Longwood.

Oh, and I checked my dignity at the door. Big time. Prostate cancer requires this, in my opinion, more than most cancers. Doctors, nurses, interns, students, spouses, cleaning crews, paid spectators, preschool classes, all parading through and crowding around in small exam rooms while probing things are going in and other things are coming out. I found myself here, my clothes over there, people taking fluids, handing them off, and sometimes ducking them as they fly across the room. The worst was when I was wearing a hospital gown that simply wouldn’t stay tied shut and had a mile or two of corridor to cover between different exams with three waiting rooms, a news crew, a gift shop, and a cafeteria along the way. Eventually, I was so devoid of dignity that–and this is true–I crafted a euphoric group text to my wife, mother, and sisters that I had finally had my first poop since surgery.

I should probably tell you now that I had a very treatable form of prostate cancer. The surgery was successful. No radiation. No chemo. They tell me I have less than a 1% chance of dealing with it again. I was and am extremely fortunate and very grateful. I’m almost embarrassed to call myself a “survivor”, knowing that so many others have gone through so much worse. Still, I’ve got to say the process did take over nine months. Six months of that fell into what my sister, the hospice administrator/RN, calls the “information void”. This translates as “the imagination run amok period.”  So when the doctor says it could possibly be cancer but probably isn’t, the mind fills in the gray area with, “Oh God, it’s cancer.” When he says, “You have cancer, but you’ll be fine,” that means, “Start planning your funeral.” When the technician refuses to venture an opinion on a CT scan, deferring to the doctor who will eventually read it, the only possible explanation is that they’re thinking, “I don’t get paid enough to tell people this kind of crap.” Six months of this! And my mind never wearied of tumbling like a gymnast through all the permutations. But, eventually, it all got sorted out. I went in, had a prostatectomy twofered with three open hernia repairs, experienced the world’s proudest urine-related moment, and then I went home to keep on keeping on, using as a role model any dog’s total mood transformation following a cone-of-shame removal.

All of my follow up test results since have been good, and I’m grateful that my situation had a great outcome.  I’m well aware that it isn’t always so. My youngest sister died of cancer when she was 25 years old. Cancer has been all around me my entire life, and it has almost always meant that bad news gets worse. During my six or so months of information void, a friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and died. During the hours and hours of time I sat sagging in waiting rooms and hospitals, I tried very hard not to overly notice others with situations far, far worse than mine.

Throughout the process my garden was a crutch. Before an important appointment or after a bad one, you would sure as hell find me walking around and finding distraction or comfort or hope and sometimes God in my little scratches of design—favorite plants gathered in the sunlight, sprouting from the good, rich earth.  My family and friends were wonderful, and their love and support was a given, but my garden was where I could go to be alone, to process, and to pull it all back together. And I wondered, while I kept my eyes dutifully aimed at my phone in dismal waiting rooms, if these other patients had gardens or some other green spaces into which they could get their heads out of prognoses and patient plans and into a place that allowed them to feel the planet and gather perspective?

A green roof at Mercy Hospital West in Cincinnati. Many rooms look out onto this.

The room where I spent five days on morphine, consisted of four walls, a bed, a TV, an IV stand, and a myriad of discarded Jell-O cups. That was about it. Since then, I’ve toured a few newer hospitals that were built so every room looks out onto some form of nature, whether it be a woods, a green roof, or gardens. I think this is great, and I believe the research which suggests that such investment pays off with better outcomes, quicker recoveries, and even fewer pain meds. I believe that with every fiber in my being.

The Great Rift Valley in Kenya, on the road into Nairobi.

Great works of art can take your breath away, and make you feel, think, or even just stare without words to utter. Buildings soar and amaze. Cathedrals inspire. The works of Shakespeare have stood as pinnacles of literature for five centuries. Any of the world’s religions can guide, console, and offer hope. And all of that is good stuff. Important stuff. But I recently stood on a cliff overlooking the Rift Valley in Kenya and looked out over the very cradle of mankind, and it still looks every bit the part. Horizon to horizon of primitive, verdant wonder. Wild. Big. Beautiful. Primordial. I get goosebumps just remembering. I can’t imagine I ever won’t. For it is from that ground that we as a species came. Those savannas, the sights and smells, are still in our DNA. Everybody should stand there once. Everybody should feel that feeling. To share in what we all share. And as a gardener I couldn’t help but to think that the Garden of Eden, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the great early gardens of Islam, the Temple gardens of China and Japan, Versailles, Longwood, Sissinghurst, my garden, your garden are the human spirit’s attempt to momentarily capture that lightning in a bottle. To remind us of home. To fill our hearts. Feed our bodies. Warm our souls. Allow us to grow even as we’re dying.

Versailles.

Gardening For Health – Part II originally appeared on Garden Rant on July 18, 2018.

from Garden Rant https://ift.tt/2uvrx2o