This is a 100% completely true story about a plant. In December of 2010, I went to the doctor and despite being almost twelve weeks pregnant, I found out that our unborn child had no heartbeat. As my life stands at this moment, it was the most heartbreaking thing that has ever happened to me and I did not take it well. People sent us things, as they usually do when they hear of someone mourning. We received sympathy cards and phone calls. We got a fruit basket. And my mother-in-law sent me a planter. It was a lovely planter. It was shallow, light brown, and was FULL of various green plants. The moment it arrived, I decided that it would be the perfect memorial for our little one. I would keep it and I would look at it and "Jude" would be remembered forever. (We had been indecisive about names, but I liked Jude for a boy or a girl. Now that we will never know the gender of what would have been our third child, Jude seems like the perfect name.)
The thing is, as I didn’t take the loss well, I kind of gave up for a little while. I stopped doing a lot of things and one of those things was watering the “memorial planter.” All of the plants in the planter died. They died a very slow death. I don’t know why I decided to neglect it… maybe I was bitter. Maybe I didn’t want to look at it anymore. Maybe I didn’t want the reminder. All I know is that I’d literally water all of my other plants that were around it and leave that planter dry. Michael would say to me, “Anna, that plant is turning brown. You should probably water it.” I would sigh and say, “I know,” and I’d roll back over on the couch, buried under my depression. After six months, all the leaves had officially dried up. There was no green left, there was no sign of life, just brown sticks coming out of the soil. Michael would say, gently, “Anna, that plant is dead, now. You should probably throw it away.” I would reply, “I know it’s dead. But it is the baby’s memorial. I just can’t throw it away. I’m not ready, yet.” So I stuck it up on top of a bookshelf, out of sight, out of mind. There it stayed for a year and a half.
Last year, a few weeks before Christmas, I was cleaning and I finally took the planter off the top of the bookshelf. I wiped the dust off of it and I was immediately filled with feelings of regret. I couldn't believe that I let the planter die. I saw that all that was left was one, single twig, with four brown crumbly leaves attached to it. A little, tiny, brown twig just barely sticking up an inch out of the soil. I pinched the twig between my index finger and thumb and pulled. It came out of the soil so easily; no roots holding it in place. I took the planter and the twig that was still pinched between my fingers and I held it over the garbage can, ready to dump out the dirt, toss the twig, and move on. And I just couldn’t do it. I couldn't throw it away. I set the planter down on the counter. I placed the twig back in the planter, carefully patting the soil to hold it in place, and for the first time in over two years, I watered it. I carried it into my home office – where I spend most of my time – and I cleared a spot on the table by the window.
From that day on, every Sunday, when I watered my other plants, I would come into my office and I’d water the twig. I could tell by the way Michael would look at me that he thought I was fighting a hopeless cause. It was a dried up, dead twig, with no roots. "But I can tell it's growing," I'd tell him. "It's taller than it was last week!" It didn't take long to realize that I was right. It was growing. A few weeks after I started watering it, it was significantly taller than it had been and the brown leaves were starting to turn green. Then, after a few months, an amazing thing happened. She sprouted more leaves! She was alive and growing! I knew then that she was going to be okay… that I was going to be okay.
I know that I will never fully recover from my loss. No mother who loses a child, no matter what age, ever does. I know that it's silly to think that because I brought a plant back from the dead that all my problems are behind me. They are still ever present, with many more to come. But what this plant did is give me what every person who grieves needs: Hope. Hope that there will be a tomorrow and that it will be better than yesterday. Hope that when all seems lost, miracles can happen. And hope that with the right amount of determination, nothing is impossible. I'm not saying that tomorrow will definitely be better than yesterday. Or that miracles happen daily. Or that it only takes determination to accomplish the impossible. I'm saying that as long as you have the hope that these things will happen, all is not lost. It is only when we lose hope that we lose the ability move forward.
The boys were too young to have been impacted by our loss. They don't remember that I had been pregnant. We don’t talk about it in front of them and they have never heard the story behind the plant in my office. Despite that, I am constantly finding little toys that they leave in the soil of the plant. They don’t do that to any other plants in the house, but every once in a while, I find a Lego figure or an action figure or a pencil or a Happy Meal toy laying in the soil, at the base of the plant. It’s almost as if they are leaving “gifts” for their lost youngest sibling.
Sometimes, when I’m alone in my office, I look over at my plant with amazement, as I see what she looks like now: Tall, full, green, strong, and beautiful, with new spouts appearing every week. This plant is no longer just a memorial to our lost baby. She has become so much more.
I like to name my plants; I always have. Of course I had to christen my miracle plant, "Jude" - not only for our little one who was not strong enough for this world, but also for St. Jude, who is the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes.
