My Plants Have Died. WHY.
Another installation in my July theme on "Retreat."
When Mom was dying from cancer laced with dementia in the cottage attached to the house, I was intimately involved in every aspect of her life.
I took pride in making her a hot breakfast while I looked for signs of pain, dialed the meds up and down accordingly, read the newspaper aloud in a comedic voice, took her to the bathroom, cleaned her up if need be, pushed her wheelchair out to the car and drove her to a senior day care center while singing songs I hoped she could remember.
I’m grateful to the gods of memory for planting lyrics, melody, and harmony in places where it’s harder for disease to find them. Those moments of the two of us in the car singing along with Kenny Rogers, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Beatles brought us both a dash of joy.
___
But joy was not prevalent for much of late 2024 through early 2025.
On the days when I felt the worst – about IT, about her, about me – I retreated to my kitchen counter to tend to my plants. Each got what I knew of their need: Water. Light caresses. Sun. A rotated pot. A wee bit of misting. Gentle conversation.
Mom was deteriorating next door, but I was capable of helping something live. Even if I could do little for Mom, I still had something to give. I’d go to her cottage for my shift. Return to the plants. And over and back and over and back for what felt like forever.
_____
One day this past December, a friend of Mom’s was visiting from out of town, and I went over to check on how things were going. When I walked in, Mom looked up at me and said, “Thank you for coming. Since I hardly ever see you, I …."
I couldn’t bear it.
I cut her off because it was a trope from the past. I hadn’t heard this in YEARS.
Way before she got sick, we’d been living together but independently, and Mom criticized me for not spending enough time with her. I tried to explain that, other than my partner and my kids, I saw her more than I saw anyone else, including ANY friend. I thought we’d gotten past it.
But that December day, there it was again. She didn’t even SOUND like her current self. It was the exact voice of critique that she’d wielded in the past. I cut her off because it didn’t seem like the dementia – it seemed like a truth unearthed from the deep, coming out as clear as her favorite Beatles song. Which told me she MEANT it.
I felt distraught that my mother had spent so many years pre-dementia feeling so neglected by me. And I felt angry that she would think me capable of such neglect, and not regard what I was able to give as ENOUGH.
I smiled tersely and said, “Mom, I see you every single day. I'm the one who makes you breakfast. I'm the one who takes you to the senior activity center. I'm the one who takes you to church.” She looked at me wide-eyed, and said, "Yes I know." The visiting friend had the good sense to simply look away.
I rushed out of Mom’s cottage and came back over to my plants on the kitchen counter.
Mom had been the botanist, the scientist, the one with the greenest of thumbs, but I’d never been able to keep plants alive. Yet on that December day, and the January days, and February days after when all hell was breaking loose in my central nervous system and it felt like Paul Revere was shouting in my mind, my plants helped.
The persnickety orchid bitches became my nemesis. They were confounding, and it took me a lot of time to understand them. But on a day in late February 2025 when I’d managed to bring the magenta queen back into full bloom, I almost cried and was so proud I had to photograph it.
Mom died a mere five days after I took this picture. She’s now been gone for four months. One by one, my plants began to fade, and drop their petals and leaves. I mean, I think I was tending to their needs just like before, but it was no longer enough, or it was too much. I don’t know.
Seeing my plants in decline saddened me so much that I gave up trying. Then I threw them out so I wouldn’t have to watch the inevitable happen. Had I retreated from them, or were they retreating from me? Was it a different energy?
Maybe you’ll tell me.
xo
My July theme is “Retreat.” Become a paid member of the Pod and receive a link to a group discussion on what “Retreat” means to you (the Zoom call is July 20 from 2-3:30pm Pacific). You’ll receive the link to register for the call - plus other links and goodies - upon upgrading your subscription.
Julie, this resonated with me deeply. With my Mom in memory care now, the dementia has made her quieter and dare I say, gentler too, but the other day a harsh critique of comparison with a sibling (often a part of the old relational dynamic) came in the form of a gushing compliment of the “long lovely visits” the other sibling gives her. I firmly stopped her and felt the need to correct, by reminding, their visits may be so long and lovely but my devotion to you includes shopping and Dr. appointments, bill paying and numerous Dr. or facility calls, and communicating with friends and family since you no longer write or answer your phone, and tending the plants you so love, plus delivering every item requested, and visiting multiple times weekly —even if shorter visits than the other - I do so much. And she simply said, “I know.”
I went home that day and was not interested in tending to another thing, or another person. I took a pause. A pause whether for grief or overwhelm or for a moment to reframe, a pause is necessary sometimes.
I loved reading of your devotion to both your mother and your plants, especially that bitchy orchid but maybe it’s your book that needs the tending now. Maybe the words need planting on the pages both for you and for the many readers and followers, like me, who are nurtured and supported by your writing and sharing.
Thank you!
In the last months of your mom’s journey, I found your Instagram. Your posts accompanied and comforted me as my mother was diagnosed with dementia and more. Your words and your honesty are truly a gift. It is a different time now.
I will watch, listen and read with great admiration and gratitude.
This piece made me so sad, Julie. I knew your mom so long ago, and feel like I know you. I have no doubt about the depth of your connection and love for each other. Her best self (and none of us are that all the time) would not want you to EVER feel you hadn't done enough. Ever.
In my own life, plants are living and fickle beings. Way too often they shrivel in my care, except for succulents, who luckily thrive in my SoCal life whether I ignore them or not. They seem to follow that old cliche, If you love something (someone) let it go.
Sending comfort ...
Rachel