The Diagnosis – Systemic Failure in the Garden

The July humidity in Asheville is heavy enough to weigh down your lungs, creating a sensation not unlike the air in a waiting room when the prognosis is poor. In the summer of 2022, two months after my husband, Henry, succumbed to congestive heart failure, the atmosphere inside our bungalow felt sterile. After forty years working the floor as an ICU nurse and five as Henry’s primary caregiver, my body was conditioned to listen for the rhythm of machines. When the silence finally hit, I found myself drifting, unable to anchor myself without a patient to monitor.