Standing in my daddy's garden while the breeze of coastal winds rustle the leaves of the palms, I realize how roots of green thumbs are developed. Courtyard under towering ficus trees, amidst elephant ears, ferns, coleus, ivy, philodendrons and other greens of which I do not know names, surround me, and in it, I am still. Beauty abounds, all created by my daddy's hands. Trail leads to orange and papaya trees. A wooden bench exhibits a bowl of the last of orange citrus; fruit of a nearby tree, almost bare now, its growing season over. Yet another leads to a fruit-laden lime tree, branches breaking under the weight of acrid balls of green. A tree started by my mother years ago; a tree in full bloom. And then in the distance, I see a bush. My mind wanders. Just a couple of rose bushes lining a plain wooden fence...and still ...my mind wanders.
A hospital room...feelings of pain rip at my chest as memories push through neurons buried by seven years of life. It gets hard to swallow. I sit at a bench yet the memories still flood. I.V poles, Foley catheters and a weak, exhausted, and yes, a bitter woman lay in a bed. A bed familiar to a sick body, silhouetted... imprinted by the form of a frail lady who had overstayed her welcome long ago.
This day had been a hard one. News of a delayed release had dampened scant spirits and the thought of being poked even just one more time on arms and fingers already purple and bruised from CBC's, cultures,and glucose sticks became too much to bear.
She spit venom. It had become harder to care for her. Yet, as a family we scrambled, struggled to keep it together as she wasted. Overriding her now was an altered hostile personality due to daily doses of steroids; futile attempts to keep a fourteen-year old's organ in a fifty-six year old body. The softer disposition of a once strong lady was becoming harder to remember. Bitterness emerged through retinas worn by disease. Half-seeing eyes stared into space, effects of lost sight from years of diabetes. And anger. Much anger, from having life ripped away from her, robbing her of the productive and successful lifestyle she had become known for.
The relationship between them bore evidence of strain. My father bitter as well, from having lost the vibrancy of a wife of his youth and managing the changes of the foreigner that had taken over her body. It had been too long since a kind word had been spoken between them. In her neurosis and loss of esteem she had become suspicious, paranoid and he brunted the blows of her fury. Nights in contorted positions in recliner beds, fitful and interrupted winks had worn away patience, empathy and heart in his resolve. A good man had become weary.
I used to call it reverse CPR. 'She is sucking the life out of me,' I would tell my husband after my week of caring for her through restless nights. I could see myself bend over her and begin to breathe life into her mouth and nostrils as she clutched her hands around my shoulders and inhaled deeply the air from my lungs, choking me of the little I had.
She didn't mean to. Most times she suffered silently; she suffered long . At others, she tried desperately to cling to life, taking others to the edges of her death.
This day I had had enough. My father had gone to work after a horrible exchange of words. I needed to do something. I couldn't bear to see a beautiful marriage, which was all I knew before her disease, be ripped apart. --Lord! Help me--silent pleas only spoken through a groaning heart.-- Give me wisdom-- I prayed after another lunch at the hospital's cafeteria. Then I saw the rose bushes through a paned glass, beyond an atrium, as beams of light washed over the salad bar. That's it. I didn't know what it would take but my mother needed to go to this garden. She needed oxygen and no longer from a tube coming from tanks in a wall.
After much opposition from nurses and patient alike, I did it. After disconnecting IVs and hooking a Foley at chair-side, I rolled her into a clear blue day at an atrium surrounded by beds of roses, no doubt provided by a wealthy donor to a small, community hospital.
'Do you see them, Mama?' 'No puedo,' she uttered as I found a bench to settle in. I knew she couldn't see them...she could barely see me sitting two feet in front of her eyes, but I was hopeful. She could at least see the colors and their forms. Couldn't she? I told her to stand still as I would go to prune stalks and bring them to her. ' No me dejes,' she cried. I'm only leaving you for a few seconds. I return placing a bright yellow and a melon-colored rose in the palm of her hand. She leans her head back and breathes deep, their fragrance wafting up nostrils dried from weeks of nasal cannulas. The wrinkle of her brow disappeared. Silence. Then more silence. A tear drops from her face.
'A tu papa le encanta el jardin. Todo le crece.' Yes mom, he sure does love the garden and he can make anything grow. For the first time in many months, I hear an accolade to a man who was not present to hear it. The next hour was filled with glorious conversation, about everything and nothing at all. Our hearts connected as we basked in a wedge of nature in the middle of infirmity, an unlikely place.
As I glanced at the wilting flowers clutched in her hands, I realized it was now time to return for her afternoon meds. We need to head back mom. 'No! No quiero volver a ese infierno.' I knew what she meant. That inferno was the last place I wanted to take her. But your flowers are wilting. We need to put them in some water. She placed her gaze upon them and choked out through lumps in her throat, 'Como la duena.' The words cut through my soul...yes, just as it's owner. She sat up and said she would like to take her cuttings and place them in some water to give to Dad. He would make them grow in a corner of the yard. Somewhere.
That evening my daddy returned, ever so faithful. I reached for the Ziploc with the cuttings of the rose bush and I said. 'Papa, mama te tiene un regalo.' Confused he picked up his gift. I told him what had transpired in his absence. The blooms had wilted, I told him, 'Mama dice, -Como la duena.' His eyes welled with tears. He bends over her bed and hugs her. My mother encourages him to plant them somewhere because he is a great gardener. He could make anything grow.
The next morning, as I go to leave after a long night in a most wretched chair, dad walks in with a huge bouquet of sweet-smelling roses. Mother lit up brighter than the blooms set before her. I pick out the prefab card snuggled among the thorns and I read it to her. Scribbled in his writing were these words: 'Estas flores tambien pronto se marchitaran, pero mi amor por ti nunca se marchitara.' --- These flowers will soon also wilt, but my love for you will never wilt.---
Mother died a couple of months later. And dad was true to his word.
~~~He keeps loving her even still.~~~
I look at the rose bushes and wonder if any of them come from those clippings, planted in that Somewhere. I think of asking dad. Then...I think again. What is there left to ask?
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