10/06/2026
Hey ya'll! I know it's been a while, but I wanted to get ya'll a quick dahlia and health update after my appointment with a specialist in transverse myelitis.
I absolutely love starting dahlias from seed because their genetic variation is so vast, predicting what the offspring flower will look like is impossible. Furthermore, both the color and shape can change expression throughout the season with the weather. They truly are amazing, chaotic, wonderful, uncontrollable plants and they make me so happy. The first two pictures are from a dahlia that I started from seed and has two different shape expressions on the same plant. The yellow dahlia is also one that I started from seed as has the peony varient expression. I'm hoping to cross both with some of these more full double blooms we purchased this summer over several generations to create new varieties. I can't wait to divide all of these beauties this spring! ❤️
Some of you know that the last year has looked very different for me than I ever expected it to.
About a year ago, transverse myelitis completely changed what my body is capable of. I went from being an extremely active person who could work long days without thinking twice about it to having very real limits on how long I can stand, walk, or be physically active before my symptoms significantly worsen.
This hasn't just affected my work. I haven't really been doing anything recreational since this happened because, quite honestly, I haven't been physically capable of it. I haven't gone to concerts, festivals, movies, hiking, picnics, or other outings. I even had tickets to a concert and ended up not going because it was hot that evening and the venue was standing-room only. Between the heat, the standing, the walking, and the symptoms that follow exertion, it simply wasn't something my body could manage. For the most part, my world has been reduced to medical appointments, physical therapy, and the occasional grocery trip and Phoenix Acres has changed dramatically too.
Mom has been doing approximately 99% of the physical farm labor while I've been dealing with this. I contribute where and when my body allows, but I am not out there doing the day-to-day physical work of running a farm. That has been an enormous adjustment for both of us.
So, when I went to the Bodford Family Transverse Myelitis Clinic last week, I wasn't expecting one of the most meaningful parts of the appointment to be a conversation about a wheelchair. There were two doctors and a pharmacist in the room with me, and my appointment lasted about two hours. They took what may be the most thorough medical history I've ever had taken. More importantly, they listened. They are doing an extensive workup to try to figure out what triggered my transverse myelitis in the first place.
They tested for a number of potential causes, including hepatitis B and C. Thankfully, both were negative—which was particularly reassuring given a previous occupational exposure to hepatitis C during my years as a paramedic. They also started me on a new medication, oxcarbazepine, to see if it can reduce some of the jerking and spasms that become worse when my nervous system gets fatigued. I'll be going back in about three months for new imaging and another follow-up.
The wheelchair conversation really stuck with me. I brought it up. I told them I was considering getting a wheelchair so that I might eventually be able to participate in longer outings again and they were completely affirming of the idea and they didn't tell me that I should just work harder at walking. They didn't suggest that using a wheelchair meant I was giving up. Instead, they encouraged me to think of it as a tool that could potentially allow me to do things that my current physical limitations make impossible.
That hit me harder than I expected. I don't want a wheelchair because I don't want to walk. I want one because I want to be able to participate in my own life again. I want to be able to go somewhere without having to ask myself whether I'll physically be able to make it from the parking lot to the entrance. I want to be able to attend an event without wondering whether there will be somewhere to sit. I want to be able to go somewhere outdoors without the heat turning my nervous system into a screaming mess. I want to be able to spend time with people without knowing that simply getting there may leave me unable to function afterward and, someday, I'd like to be able to go to a farm event, a garden, a festival, or a concert again not because I've suddenly recovered but because I've found another way to participate. That distinction is really important to me.
I've spent a lot of the last year feeling like I have to prove that I'm trying hard enough. But I'm beginning to understand that using accommodations and mobility aids isn't giving up. It's adapting to reality and that's something I'm going to have to learn to do with Phoenix Acres, too.
Right now, Mom is carrying the overwhelming majority of the physical workload. I'm still part of the farm, but my role has necessarily changed. Some days I can contribute a little. Some days I can't. There is a lot of work happening here that most people never see, and an enormous amount of it is being done by my mom while I work on figuring out what my body will and won't allow.
That isn't where we expected to be but it is where we are and we're figuring it out one day at a time.
I'm not magically better but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I have a medical team that is actually looking for answers, taking my limitations seriously, and helping me figure out how to live a meaningful life within those limitations. For me, that's a pretty damn big step forward.
Thank you to everyone who has continued to support Phoenix Acres while we've been navigating this unexpected chapter. Your patience, encouragement, orders, shares, and interest in what we're building mean more than you know.
The farm is still here, we're still growing, and we're figuring out what that looks like now.
