Oxalis, Mom and other Heart-Break
This plant is a Triangularis Oxalis, also called purple shamrock, and is supposed to be lucky. When she is happy and well cared for, she pops the most beautiful and tiny white flowers, which grow intermittently around the triangular shapes. She was given to my Mom by my cousin as a thank you for looking in on her son while she was visiting and caring for her father, my mother's brother, during his third and final cancer battle. My mom was very close with her brother, always had been, but particularly during these last several years as they both battled cancer. During my uncle's second battle, he had been visiting when he was diagnosed and ended up staying with my mother throughout the second battle. They, then, ultimately and unfortunately, were brought even closer when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The first time. When you battle cancer, you should never have to do it more than once, in my humble opinion. Ever. But, it happens. All the time.
Anyhow, Triangularis Oxalis. I admired the plant right away and helped my mom care for her as she is not the best at keeping plants healthy and, well, alive. But, this was one of many plants that we cared for together and kept going. The plant went on a journey. A lot happened to this plant, around this plant, and because of this plant. I remember one warm, sunny day, when Mom was still well enough, standing on her deck and repotting and splitting this plant, so I could take a piece home with me. This is a plant that doesn't have roots, per se, but instead grows from bulbs. So, you don't chop off a piece and propagate. You separate it, put it in new soil and pot, and it grows. Hopefully.
So we did this one warm, sunny day and then, we waited. Mom was discouraged because the plant looked pretty iffy after this transformation, separation, repotting, but I assured her, it would be fine. It would thrive. It would survive. I hoped. I didn't want mom to lose something that was important to her and loved by her.
It survived. It thrived. It grew and angled itself toward the source of the sun. It was beautiful.
We were talking again about repotting, separating, etc. when Mom got too sick to do so. It came on in a rush. Mom had been diagnosed with secondary cancer, brought on by the radiation treatment of her first cancer. Yes, read that again. My mom was diagnosed with secondary cancer, brought on by treatment of her first cancer. Because tests, invasive and painful tests, port placement, hysterectomy, chemotherapy and radiation could not possibly be enough to go through. Secondary cancer. Oh, and don't forget the tumultuous, torturous and life-altering colitis and cystitis that arrived, at nearly the first treatment of radiation, after all that chemotherapy. The kind where you can't go for a walk because you might have to use the bathroom and there is no waiting to get to the bathroom. Pain. Discomfort. Heart-breaking. Mom's reality.
I knew immediately when bladder cancer, secondary cancer brought on by radiation, was floated, that we would lose mom. I didn't know how long, but I knew we would lose her. She wasn't a super healthy lady when she was diagnosed with cancer the first time. But the second time, she had just withstood the greatest storm of her life and she was left a shell of a person. Fragile, thin, weak, worn. That was no way to go into battle. If you can call it a battle. I'm not a pessimist. I'm much the opposite. My family and friends would tell you I was one of those irritating optimists who always looks on the bright side. I was. I'm not sure where that optimist is now, but I lost her. During the battle. The first one. I'm not sure if she is going to come back. Occasionally, there are glimpses of her, but she is most certainly gone somewhere else, resting, maybe, from the battle.
Back to the plant. It ebbed and flowed. It was well, thriving, beautiful, at times leggy, a little wilted, in need of water, food, love. Some days, it was hanging by a thread. Other days, it looked like it could withstand any test and waved gently in the breeze, undeterred by what was raging around it. Mom and I talked about the plant. We sat around the plant. Looked at the plant. I watered and took care of the plant. And we both knew what was coming. And oh boy, did it come. Like a bad storm in the middle of the night. The kind the weather man told you was coming, told you to take steps to prepare, warned you it might be severe. And you tried to heed the warning, but there is only so much you can do. No folks, even if someone tells you it's coming, you cannot prepare for heartbreak. It comes, it shatters, you bleed and sob and beg for it to stop, to give you rest, a moment to catch your breath. But heartbreak doesn't care. It doesn't give you the moment you ask for, it doesn't ease or alter, except to come in waves. And you can only stay strong, upright, and unwavering for so long. Then, you give in. And look out. Look out.
Early in the summer, maybe too early - I don't know- I planted the Oxalis outside, in a large outdoor planter, with other plants. She didn't take it well. She looked unhappy, unhealthy, droopy and defeated. Realizing I had made a mistake, I dug her up, or so I thought, and brought her back inside. I was busy and dealing with a lot, so I didn't have a lot of time to baby her -either when she was in the outside pot or when I returned her to the safety and security of our home. I thought it was the last of her. And a few weeks later, she reminded me I shouldn't give up so easily, because she made a comeback. She peaked out a bit from the soil, and then around the other plants and flowers in the pot, until she was majestically standing, waving, blowing in the breeze. She was stunning and steady and wonderful. She was my mom's plant. She thrived, she bloomed, and she was a brilliant reminder of nature's beauty and strength. I needed that.
At the end of the summer, when the sun faded and the night came sooner, when the cacophony of summer sounds was silenced, the plant, along with all the others in the pot and the other two pots needed to be cared for, I was unable. My partner moved the pots into the upstairs hallway, to make it easier for me to get to, to care for, but I did not. For days, weeks, months, I did not. It got colder and the hallway was cold. The plants struggled. I struggled. The waves knocked me down, paralyzed me, left me trying desperately to keep my head above water, not because I was afraid of them, but I simply didn't want the people who loved me to hurt any more than they already were. Every time I walked past the pots, it was a reminder of the inability, the failure, the neglect, the pain. But, I was unable to react, to change the situation, to care for the plants. The water was just below the edge of my chin and I was getting so tired of holding my head up.
On July 11th, at 9:35am, my mother took her last breath. My sister and I were on either side of her. I looked at my sister's face and knew I didn't have to explain to her how I felt. It was written all over her face...the emotion, the pain, the defeat, the exhaustion, the heartbreak.
Some time in January, I finally took care of the plants. I trimmed off the dead parts, saved what I could, which was very little. Very little survived. I very narrowly survived. If that is what this is called. But, there was some Oxalis. I potted her, in two different pots. I doubted she would come back. She had been through it. Neglect, cold, she hadn't had her basic needs met. She had every reason in the world to just give up.
The first pot, the smaller pot, started to sprout pretty quickly. I shook my head and felt pretty amazed. But, there was a glimmer of relief. I had come close to writing her off as a loss. The second pot, well, she looked really rough. She was just a shambles. Very little left that was plausible for recovery. I doubted, and yet, I watered her, fed her, gave her optimal light. I guess I still had some hope. Today, I looked at her and there are tiny stems peaking through. They are small, fragile but they are there. Looks like she might survive. Thrive? Find some joy in the summer breeze again? Feel the sun on her face again? Stand strong against the odds? Not give up, no matter what surrounds her? She just might. I'm sure she'll have tough times again, hard days, face some neglect, but she hasn't given up just yet.
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