Since the early days of COVID, my front-yard garden of brightly colored paper hearts has become well-known in our community. I’ve posted cutout neon hearts that read things like “Look at you with your COVID hair, you’re gorgeous!” or “Hug your bubble,” or my family’s favorite, “Don’t stand so close that we can smell your farts!” Because I’m often outside tending the flowers and grasses, people walking by will stop and tell me how much they enjoy the garden and the paper hearts. Or they’ll read the hearts out loud and laugh, and sometimes they take pictures with their phones.

It’s been a very satisfying way to engage with folks during COVID-19, because they’re usually on the sidewalk and I’m at least two meters away in the dirt. So we’re distant enough for safety, close enough to enjoy each other’s company. Each moment, each conversation perks me up and reminds me that most of us are really craving social interaction.

But I have a little secret. My garden of hearts is both dropping me into and taking me out of my comfort zone.

See, I’m good with a “hello” and “how are you,” but if I am plucked out of deep concentration and I attempt to communicate with anything more complicated, I sometimes end up sounding like this:

“Thank you, grow nice rain is flowers day sunny weather.”

And almost immediately my shame and embarrassment punches me in the mouth and whispers, “You dope. You sound like a moron.”

Which leads to more flummox, and I freeze, wishing my brain would command my mouth to say something intelligent. Please.

During one of my brain injuries, this happened. I live with a mild form of aphasia and semantic paraphasia. It means sometimes I can’t remember words or, as I described in my previous sentence, I know what I’m trying to say but the words come out in scrambled order, and I couldn’t repeat them to save my life.

Like the frustration of forgetting, the word scrambling is exacerbated by stress, anxiety, and physical and emotional exhaustion. Most of the time, I’m kind to myself, and I try to reassure myself that as an author, I have a pretty solid command of the English language. I reflect: Am I tired? What have I done today? Am I under unusual stress?

But honestly, sometimes my scrambled tumble of nonsense makes me want to crawl under the daffodils I just planted. And stay there. Ugh. Dopey McDope-Dope.

And then, despite the agonized grimace slicing my face in two, I cut myself some slack.

We’re all under an extraordinary amount of stress right now. Anxiety feeds on the unknown and the uncontrollable, and COVID-19 has enough of that to exhaust us all.

The garden of hearts has proven to be a conversation starter, an icebreaker. It’s been wonderful that way. Meeting and chatting have been soul-soaring, and I’m super chuffed at creating something that makes people smile.

And it’s also helped me normalize the fact that my garbled gobbledygook is part of me but doesn’t define me. One of the tenets of brain rehabilitation teaching is to observe the behavior but look to the brain. My words don’t get mixed up because I’m stupid; rather, there’s a part of my brain that doesn’t spark as well as it should. Don’t confuse the symptom with the root cause.

Yes, “Garden thank beautiful glad beats rainy” might draw a few blank stares, but at least my not-so-chosen words are positive. I’d be a lot more embarrassed if I were to say something like “Squirrels kill go damn away rat want buggers.’

So as much as I had planned the garden of hearts to buoy the spirits of neighbors and passersby, I think it’s helped me realize I’m ok too. It’s an unintended gift that I would be wise to appreciate.

Catherine Kenwell is a Canadian author and brain injury awareness advocate. Days before her 50th birthday, she sustained a life-changing brain injury, then lost her career and joined the circus. She recently co-authored the bestselling NOT CANCELLED: Canadian Kindness in the Face of COVID-19. She is published in both horror and creative non-fiction genres; her work has been published in several editions of Chicken Soup for the Soul, and in horror anthologies from Black Hare Press, HellBound Books, and Books of Horror. Catherine also serves as Chair of The City of Barrie’s Accessibility Advisory Committee. Find Catherine at: www.catherinekenwell.com

Header image by Catherine Kenwell