“Everything has changed, and yet nothing has changed.” My family is still my family. Our home is still our home. Life continues. We are grieving the life we once had, but we are also learning to live the life we have now.
My name is Catherine. I’m in my fifties now, and for more than 4 years I worked as an Operating Department Practitioner in surgical theatres. My job involved supporting anaesthetists, helping to intubate patients, and being part of the team that keeps people safe through surgery. It’s a role that requires calmness, skill, and focus. I loved it.
Outside of work, I am first and foremost a mum and a wife. I have three children – my son, 26, and my daughters, 23 and 20. They’re adults now, but I still call them my children. I’m also a wife to one husband, as I like to say!
If I had to describe myself in three words, they would be faith, family, and lifestyle. My faith is central to who I am. My faith isn’t just something I believe – it’s how I live my life. Family is the second defining factor. I love my family deeply, and that includes my church family. Being part of a community, sharing life, and supporting one another has always meant everything to me.
Lifestyle completes the trio. Before everything happened, I loved staying active going to the gym, gardening, and more recently, DIY. There’s a unique satisfaction in creating something yourself, whether it’s building a wardrobe or plastering a wall. Even when things go wrong, you simply think, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
That was me: a busy mum, a healthcare professional, a woman of faith, someone who loved being active and hands-on.
The day everything changed began like any ordinary day. My daughters were home, and we decided to go to the gym together. We didn’t plan to work out – just enjoy the steam room and sauna. But seeing a heated exercise class, we joined in. Afterwards, coffee seemed better than the sauna, and we headed into town to Costa. Plans shifted spontaneously, even pedicures came up as an idea, but I started feeling unwell. I asked my youngest daughter to drive me home.
At home, I felt overwhelmingly sleepy. To wake myself, I went outside to hang the washing. I remember hanging two pieces of clothing. Then, suddenly, an intense heat spread through my spine, down into my legs, followed by pain and numbness. At first, I could walk, but soon I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down.
My family helped me into a chair, and we called an ambulance. I was taken to Queen’s Hospital, and it took a while for me to be properly admitted to a ward., My children took turns staying with me day and night. Eventually, I moved through medical and neurological wards, trying to come to terms with my body’s sudden loss of control, unstable blood pressure, and excruciating pain – far worse than childbirth.
After extensive tests, doctors diagnosed transverse myelitis – spinal cord inflammation, sometimes triggered by a virus, though the exact cause in my case was unknown. I received high-dose steroid treatment and gradually stabilized. After nearly three months, I was transferred to the London Spinal Cord Injury Centre at Stanmore for specialist rehabilitation. Leaving Queen’s Hospital, which had started to feel like home, was emotional. Queens had been only twenty minutes from home; Stanmore was more than two hours away. I felt anxious and afraid.
When I arrived, I felt like a rabbit caught in headlights, unsure of where I was or what would happen next. But almost immediately, something changed. A nurse greeted me by name and offered tea and biscuits. The fact that she knew my name instantly made me feel welcome. They told me they had chosen my room specifically for me. When I looked up, I saw why. Through the window was a beautiful garden, and at the centre of it was a fountain. After weeks of staring at four hospital walls, suddenly I had a view – something alive, colourful, and peaceful. That garden was Horatio’s Garden.
The first time I went outside, the fountain was the first thing that greeted me. Water flowed gently, not splashing loudly but moving in a soft, calming rhythm. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. It was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. For a few moments, I almost forgot where I was and what had happened to me. It reminded me of something from my faith – the Garden of Eden. When I read about Eden in the Bible, it describes a place where God walked with people in the cool of the evening, a place of beauty and peace. In Horatio’s Garden, that was the image that came to my mind.
The garden quickly became a central part of my rehabilitation. It gave me space to leave the ward and step into somewhere that didn’t feel like a hospital. Just being outside changed my mindset and my energy. There were also so many activities to take part in. We did painting sessions where you could lose yourself in creativity. I remember thinking how two hours could feel like fifteen minutes when you were completely absorbed in painting something. We made cushions by cutting and sewing fabric, worked with clay, painted ceramics, and even pressed apples in a traditional press to make our own apple juice.
There were quiz nights, shared meals, and homemade cakes – a pineapple sponge with custard that I will never forget. After months of hospital food, something homemade felt like a luxury. But more than that, it felt like community. One of the most special features of the garden is the pods – small, sheltered spaces where patients and families can spend time together. On the ward, only two visitors are allowed at a time. But in the pods, my whole family could be together. There are five of us, so that made a huge difference. We would bring blankets and food, sit together, play music on a speaker, and spend hours talking and laughing. Sometimes it felt like we were having a party – home came to me.
One of my favourite memories was celebrating my brother’s 40th birthday there. Between our families, there were eleven of us, and we all fitted around the table inside the pod. We shared food, laughed, and played Uno together. It was a moment I will carry with me forever.
Living with a spinal cord injury has changed everything. I used to be five foot eight, able to reach the top shelf in any supermarket. Now I sit in a wheelchair, and the world looks very different. Even something simple like going to a shop requires planning – transferring into the chair, considering access, thinking about parking. But despite everything, I still say: everything has changed, but nothing has changed.
And in that journey, Horatio’s Garden has been a place of healing. It gives me peace on difficult days – a place to sit, watch the sunset, listen to the birds, and breathe. Sometimes I go there feeling completely overwhelmed. But I sit on a bench facing the evening sun, and slowly that calm returns. I often think about the story behind the garden – that it was created in memory of Horatio, a young man whose life was lost too soon. His family turned their grief into something extraordinary. Because of them, people like me have a place of comfort, beauty, and healing during the hardest moments of our lives.
For that, I will always be grateful. And when I leave here one day, I will carry those memories with me – of water flowing in the fountain, sunlight on the benches, laughter with my family in the pods, and the quiet peace of a garden that reminded me of Eden. It reminded me that even in the middle of loss and uncertainty, healing is still possible.