Ivy

The curse kicks in every September. I wish my family had warned me but they don’t like to talk about it. Maybe they’re ashamed – our dirty family secret? Perhaps they thought it would skip a generation?

It didn’t. My fortieth birthday triggered the curse. Ivy started growing through my skin. At first, there was just the odd tickle but nothing to concern myself with. I didn’t notice the roots forming.

When winter arrived, the ivy suckers grew deeper. Now, every inch of me ached. I visited doctors and specialists but they were powerless against curses.“Sleep hygiene, diet, exercise, CBT and waiting lists,” was all they could offer. They couldn’t rip the ivy from me. It was destined.

As winter darkened, the ivy’s grip tightened. I woke one day, bound to the bed, immobile. I tried to escape but pain ripped through me. I had to ask my partner to make me porridge and tea when he visited that evening. I'd moved past hunger  – the pain of the ivy suckling on me was too distracting – but I knew I had to sustain myself. I needed strength to stop the plant from consuming me. It was a demanding parasite.  I felt sick as it feasted.

Every day that the ivy grew dragged me deeper into my bed. As its indigo berries emerged, so did the pollinators, making my ears buzz with their constant feeding. They tickled, but every time I tried to scratch, they moved.

I didn’t resent them. After a while, it became easier to block them out, but the constant noise made me grumpy. My partner had to remind me to say please when I asked him to feed me. The ivy would not allow me to feed myself.

The first year was the hardest. Every day brought fresh pain. The plant found new pathways, first digging into my feet, until the bones were separated from their joints and toes pushed from their sockets at unnatural angles; then weaving up my leg and suckering deep into my sciatic nerve. I had to call the acupuncturist for that one. His gentle needling persuaded the ivy to change course, but the pain lingered.

I discovered that I could shape the ivy, to an extent, with careful use of massage, plant oils and a tennis ball in a sock. It only softened the pain, persuading the ivy to put down shallower roots, but at least I felt as if I was doing something.

Lying in bed was bad for my brain but every time I moved, so did the ivy suckers buried in my flesh. It was too tempting to take tablets, sleep away the agony and wait for it to end. If it would ever end? Being conscious while the ivy grew intensified the pain, but I didn’t want to sleep my life away.

It did end, thankfully, in the Spring. The curse only covered six months of the year, as curses often do. Once the Spring Equinox brightened the days, the ivy started to peel from my skin. Every day brought more respite, along with intense energy and renewed appreciation of my mobility.

I tried to make the most of the brighter days but the damage the curse had done was clear. My body was different, forever changed. So was my mind. I seized the day so hard that I put my back out. Ivy can damage the substrate that supports it – even flesh.

I tried to learn more about the curse but it was hard to find accurate information: and too many people exploited other people’s suffering by offering bogus charms to break the spell.

My parents were loath to discuss it. They admitted the curse came through both sides of the family, but closed the subject down when I pushed for answers. I wanted to ask how they coped, how they’d hidden it from me for so many years, but they were tight-lipped and uncomfortable. I had to face the curse alone.

The second autumn confirmed my fears. Part of me had hoped I was over-reacting: that I was ‘better’ now. But the inclement summer meant my body had barely recovered before new ivy shoots appeared: first travelling down my spine, twisted from its past pressures; then extending down my hip, suckering deep into my knees and ankles.

The ivy made me unstable. I tried to cut it back, to stunt its growth with tight control. It helped a little, but I couldn’t destroy it without destroying myself, and eventually, I was bound to my bed once more. At least this time, I had some hope it would end. Hope is a thing with secateurs.

Spring came late that year. Waiting made the appreciation all the sweeter, and the high even higher: it is hard to comprehend the joy of being pain-free until it becomes a constant companion. I'd underestimated the pleasure in lack of pain. Now, every easy moment offered simple joy.

My partner was used to the ivy now, lovingly tending me through the dark winter months, if clearly relieved when April arrived. We spent the summer playing and laughing, creating and loving. And preparing.

This year, I am ready for the ivy. I have a bedside bookcase full of books, a pen full of stories to tell, houseplants to befriend the ivy, boxes full of crafting supplies and notebooks galore. I can’t break the spell, but I don’t hate the ivy. It makes me rest and contemplate. It shows me that people can love me even when I’m immobilised and unable to produce anything beyond natural growth. It makes me creative in bed: my home is filling with my art. As I'm removed from the outside world, I'm compelled to show my inner world through my creations.

The ivy is part of me, whether I want it or not. So I accept it and try to support it with food, light, water, and care. I look for its beauty, admiring the symmetry of the leaves' veins; wondering at its ability to feed bees when there is little sustainance elsewhere; watching the way it grows, echoing the way my own cells once grew.

One day, I might find out why the curse affected me, and not my siblings: probably a first-born thing.

One day, I might break the spell and win priceless treasure: returned mobility.

Until then, I will lie here from autumn until spring: ivy sprouting from my neck, shoulders, back, hips, knees, ankles and toes, bound to my bed by tight ropes of plant, life buzzing around me and feeding off me as I watch.

And grow.