In Search of a Green Thumb

I’ve decided to “go green” for the winter. No, I’m not buying a hybrid car or recycling my grey water. I’m simply bringing as many plants inside as I can. I'm greening up the pad, if you will. The only problem is my track record as an indoor gardener is a bit rough.

It’s a love hate relationship, really: I love the plants, they hate me. A bit of a bummer to someone who enjoys indoor plants a whole lot, but this time I’m going to get it right. I can feel it.

Perhaps it’s the hour-long conversation with the gardening experts at Algren Appliance that boosted my confidence; their no nonsense advice in potting soil and fertilizer feeding really revved me up. But whatever the catalyst, I’m happy to have started this journey into purification of air and just plain lushness to contrast with the barren, disgusting bleakness of winter.

It all started with an inherited spider plant that has been around since I can remember. It sits in the corner of my kitchen, long overgrown tentacles drooping to the floor and mixed in with the growth are little spores just waiting to be plucked and potted. So I did just that and plunking them into pots, I eagerly waited for them to grow.

They died. No matter how much I cooed and coaxed the little buggers to fight, they just kept losing their green and started sagging in the leaf department. It was quite disappointing, really. But I did walk away with a lesson learned: Too much water and not enough sun is a bad combination. Duh.

So when I went to the local farm stand the other day and saw that herbs were 3 for a dollar, I just couldn’t resist. I mean, who can pass up fresh herbs in the kitchen, right? Maybe herbs would be the revival (or creation of) my green thumb!

After potting and planting, fertilizing and watering, transplanting and arranging, I’ve created a little green oasis in my home. I have herbs aplenty, spider plant spores galore, relocated outdoor plants and even some clippings of a Hydrangea tree from my mother-in-law I’m attempting to root and plant as my own. Now I just hope this thumb turns green, otherwise I’ll have quite the mess on my hands.

Sockin’ It To The Dempsey Challenge

 

It’s still raw, the fact that I lost my mother. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I think I hear her calling to me, the way she used to when I took care of her. Other times I lay in bed, haunted by things I should have done better, could have done better, and I cry. It’s this overwhelming feeling of guilt, not because I’ve done something wrong, but because there was nothing more I could do.

She passed away. Moved on. Whatever you want to label it, the truth of the matter is that she is, in fact, gone. I can’t touch her. I can’t smell her. I can’t complain to her, laugh with her, cry, cook, clean, dance, bitch, yell or share with her tangibly. All I have is her memory, and I’m scared of it fading.

My heart hurts—literally hurts—with a longing to see her again, to have a spare second, another moment… anything. I wrestle with my emotions, try to put them in check to my current reality, but grief always seems to seep in unannounced and pungent.

When I was living and taking care of Mum this past year, I ran in the mornings. I ran to relieve the pressure; to take a breather from being a caregiver. The mornings I’d slack, not wanting to put on my sneakers and hoof it outside, she’d nudge me out, reminding me to go because she knew I needed it. And truthfully, she probably needed it as well, to know I was doing something for myself and coming back to her refreshed. It was an important part of our new relationship, those morning runs.

This past Sunday I ran. I ran for my mother as part of Team Black Socks, fourteen friends and family members banded together in honor and memory of her, participating in The Dempsey Challenge. A walking, running and bicycling event, it’s in support of those fighting cancer, those who have survived it and the families of those affected by the disease.

The air crisp and the sky overcast with a blanket of grey, it was ideal weather for a 5k run. I started out with the hundreds of other participants, my pace steady and my breathing only slightly labored, and as another hill rose on the horizon, I dug in, determined to finish the entire course. At times tears swelled up and that hurt, that hurt in my heart, made it difficult to go on. Memories flooded back to me, grief bubbled up, but I continued for her: For every smile she gave in the face of grave diagnosis, for every joke she made to deal with her pain, for every bit of fight she tackled the illness with bravely and courageously and for everything she was and always will be.

The quiet rhythm of feet on pavement was broken by a woman behind me as she shouted encouragement to herself: "You can do this! Only one more mile to go! My father went through three years of pain, I can go through 3 miles. Dig! Dig in!” It struck deep inside me and through her words, we came together as mourning daughters, fighting the road under our feet just as our parent had their battle with cancer.

Crossing the finish line, tears streamed my face. I was both relieved and saddened that the race was over. I had been dedicated to this event for the past five months, a way for me to keep my mother alive in my everyday thoughts, to keep her memory from fading. No what?

As I found a spot near the finish line, I watched as my brother and his girlfriend, my friends, mother-in-law, my mother’s college friends, my husband and father-in-law crossed the finish line, each proud to have completed the course, each touched by the reason we were united today.

 

 

Our team raised over 5,900 dollars for the Dempsey Center, a lifeline for me during my mum’s illness, and in total the event raised more than 1 million. Generous donations from friends and family to our team over the past five months inspired us on a daily basis.  But more than money, the donations remind us of how loved our mother was, how she touched peoples’ lives. We will never forget that. We will never forget her. Ever.

I’ll keep running.