In the southwest corner of our backyard is my garden. When we first moved into our home, over a decade ago, the yard had been neglected, and was overrun with devil grass and weeds, dying trees, and a few unidentified creatures. Before long, though, we'd cleaned it up, made it our own.

Our kids had been raised in apartments as infants and toddlers, and now, as they came of age for school, they had a backyard for playing ball and swinging on the swing set. This great stretch of grassy yard was all theirs, except for the southwest corner. That was to be my garden.

Over the years I turned my 125 square feet of dry southern Arizona dirt into fertile soil. I was becoming a better gardener, growing a variety of herbs and vegetables. It was February of 2005, and I was planning my best garden ever.

Then my husband had what the doctors refer to as a cardiac incident, and needed stents to open his arteries.

Over the next four months my husband was in and out of the hospital. The stents failed, and in May, he needed a triple bypass.

When I wasn't at the hospital, I would go out to my garden. When my husband was home recuperating, I would spend time in the garden as he napped. When he returned to work, I spent more time in the garden. I kept planting, nursing the seedlings, cajoling life from the soil. By the time my husband needed the bypass, I had broccoli, sweet peppers, hot peppers, cucumbers, zucchini, and melons. Great quantities of thyme, basil, rosemary and sage spread and blossomed throughout the garden. To stand at the lattice fence and look at the leafy growth, the climbing vines, the burgeoning fruit, the flowering herbs, was to gaze on a bit of paradise.

I was convinced that as long as I had a productive garden, as long as this patch of dirt could bear life, as long as these plants could grow and flourish, my husband would get well. So sure was I of the correlation between the health of this garden and the health of my husband that I came close to tears when one of the broccoli plants began to die.

I told myself that I was being silly, superstitious, irrational. I told myself that my husband would get well whether the broccoli grew or not, that his well-being was dependent on medicine and proper care. But I wasn't convinced the doctors and the pills would be enough.

After his surgery in May, he was off work for two months. Every chance I had I went out to the garden and tended to the plants. I nursed them with as much care as I did my husband. The garden thrived. My husband grew stronger.

One early morning in June I was in the garden, when I heard the back door open. I looked over, and saw my husband walking toward me as I stood between the bushy rosemary and sprawling thyme. He had lost weight, and was still pale; it had been so long since he'd been in the sun. He made his way to the garden and leaned on the fence.

"Wow," he said, smiling, obviously impressed. "This is the best garden you've ever had."

I knew in that moment that he would be all right. I understood why I had worked so hard to grow this garden, and why I was sure it was part of my husband's healing process. The nurturing and care of these plants had given me direction. I'd drawn inspiration and solace from this earth's abundance and in our time of need, my family and I had the power to triumph in the face of crisis.

By September, many of the plants had gone through their growth cycles and were dying back. My husband, though, was, and still is, healthy and strong. I continue to tend this bit of paradise, and each season I plant and nurture, always grateful for the care this garden gives to me.

Learn more about this author, Shelly Mcrae.
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