On 19 October 2007, my eldest sister went canoeing on the River Eden in Cumbria and never returned. Her canoe capsized, trapping her under cold water; poor mobile signal delayed help, and despite resuscitation efforts, she died at age 47.
Fifty miles away, I was seven months pregnant, eating stew and discussing baby names. When the phone rang, I ignored it. My husband took the second call, and my life split into before and after. I had not sensed her death; I retched up my stew as grief hit.
Shock triggered early contractions and dangerously high blood pressure. Nurses urged me to think of the baby, so I suppressed my grief. Two months later, my son was born at home. His birth remains entwined with her death; motherhood became a mix of love and immobilising grief.
In 2012, we moved to a new build estate. Struggling to cope after years of bereavement, I decided to plant a garden. My son and I planned it together, using permaculture techniques. The soil was thin over rubble, but we built beds from leaves, wood, and kitchen scraps, and planted seeds from wayside weeds.
As the garden grew, so did I. Each plant I sowed helped heal the grief I had swallowed down. The garden became my way back to life, to my son, and to myself.
