Somewhere That’s Green*

This is a season of hope, but also of loss. Of missing out. Of weird little heartbreaks which spring up unexpectedly.

It’s been interesting to observe which new thing is easy to move through, to get used to, and which event brings up a big emotional response. For instance, Chinese New Year was meant to be a big London theater trip for Michael, Benjamin, and myself. We had big plans to meet up with so many friends and see a show every single day for a week. While we booked theater tickets far in advance, I didn’t book airfare until just a couple weeks before we were meant to travel. I splurged on economy plus as the route was long, and the travel we’d be doing later in the year would be free thanks to heaps of airline miles. I bought non-refundable to save a little, because with just a couple weeks until travel, what could possibly come up to keep us from going?

A longtime, serious proponent of travel insurance, I foolishly waited a couple days to buy it because we were so busy preparing for my birthday and Christmas. But a couple of days were all it took for the absolute unimaginable to happen. It was among the first things Leukemia would steal from us, and it was a big one.

Pro-tip from a (usually) pro-traveler: Always book travel insurance the moment you get that airline confirmation number, especially if you book non-refundable airfare. If you’re relying on your credit card’s travel insurance, double check what it actually covers. You may be stunned to find it doesn’t cover as much as you think it does. In our case, it covered only about 20% of the cost of Michael’s ticket, and none of mine.

We pushed Ben to go on this dream trip without us, and our friends there made it utterly magical despite the fear and worry he carried with him. Our gratitude overflows to Nick and Allan for their hospitality and to Laura for the most awe-inspiring backstage experience. The way they stepped in big time was something I clung to while crying over missing out on this special thing we’d planned to do with our son for years, and then feeling sick to my stomach over the stupid loss of so much money.

Contrast that with a more recent loss of going to America for a New York theater trip, where once again I’d booked show tickets far in advance, well before we knew cancer would derail our life. I thought it would feel the same, but this time it was much easier to let go of the sold-out show tickets to my dream theater experience I’d worked so hard to book. All I could think about was how exhausting it is to travel, how uncomfortable to sit in a crowded theater while trying to stay healthy, and how much money we were saving by not going. Sad to miss it, but not even remotely devastating.

But then there’s my collection of houseplants.

Following Michael’s transplant, he’ll experience six months to a year of being severely immunocompromised as his body adjusts to the new bone marrow with the help of immunosuppressant drugs. Our family has been extremely cautious this year, taking every step to remain as healthy as possible to protect Michael during his treatment. It’s been good practice for the intensity of what comes next.

During each meeting with the transplant team at Queen Mary Hospital, they’ve prepared us with lists of what we’ll need to do before Michael can return home following the transplant. Some are easy and obvious that we already do, like regularly cleaning our air conditioners and filters, keeping the humidity indoors low so mold doesn’t grow, and practicing food safety and hygiene, to make sure things are well cooked and silverware is sanitized before use. We’ve been told to clean all the soft goods, like curtains and rugs and cushions on the sofa, to replace our pillows regularly and wash the sheets in hot water, every other day instead of weekly — time consuming but not necessarily challenging. But some of the precautions we’ve been instructed to take for the next year to rid our home of things which harbor risky pathogens are more difficult to put into practice.

Houseplants carry all sorts of little organisms, particularly the soil. We were blasted with so much information the week following Michael’s diagnosis, but two things stood out: no visits to construction sites (which as the project manager of a new Hong Kong theater complex currently under construction is difficult to avoid) and no handling of plants, flowers, or soil. The less exposure, the better. I remember mentioning that we had a ton of houseplants and being told to keep them away from Michael for now, but post-transplant we should probably get rid of them. In my notes I wrote “No plants???”

I say this unreservedly: there is nothing I won’t do to extend Michael’s life. We have pivoted hard in huge ways since Christmas. We’ve gone from having people over for dinner several times a week to only the rarest pre-transplant extremely healthy visitor stopping by for a brief hello while everyone is masked and our air purifiers are turned to the highest setting. Having people over is one of our highest values. We moved into our current flat with its open kitchen and space for our giant (by Hong Kong standards) dining room table so we could have a constant stream of guests over to share a meal in a comfortable space that gently whispers welcome home to everyone who walks through the door. Shifting away from that was like changing our identities… who are we if we aren’t welcoming friends, friends-of-friends, and even strangers into our home on a regular basis? And yet change we did, because none of us want to explore an identity which doesn’t have Michael in it, and this is a tangible thing we can do to mitigate the risk of losing him.

So back to the plants. The smallest, silliest thing. But a stunningly emotional thing all the same. Since the first time Michael came home from the hospital after Round One of chemotherapy, I’ve kept all of them in a single window, far away from where Michael usually sits. But over the last few months I’ve found it increasingly difficult to care for them on a regular basis, to make sure they aren’t over- or under-watered, to regularly inspect them for good drainage, mold or rotting. I’m quite proud of my green thumb, something learned through lots of trial and error over the last fifteen years of living in high rise buildings without an outdoor garden.

It was a surprise to me, becoming a “plant mom.” I’m usually a sprinter, not a long distance runner, and helping plants to thrive takes a small amount of dedicated effort over a long amount of time, instead of hours of work just one time. Most of these plants I’ve grown from tiny clippings over the past eight years of living in Hong Kong. I’ve kept them thriving, repotting into larger containers as they’ve grown strong and healthy. I’m used to moving house and country often, adopting other people’s houseplants when they repatriate and sending my own plants off to new homes when we leave ourselves. But this is new because we aren’t going anywhere, we just can’t have them in our home for the next year.

My head knows washing and changing the sheets every other day on our giant king size bed in our tiny Hong Kong washer and dryer is going to be much more labor intensive than simply getting rid of a couple dozen houseplants one time. But my heart still recognizes that in a season of loss and rapid change, this one feels painful, and uniquely personal. And yet, my prayer for God to show me I am loved is still being answered…

The day I let go of the first plant, I met the new owners in our building’s lobby because they didn’t want to come up. I was slightly annoyed, but placated when the young wife squealed with enthusiasm upon seeing the plant I was handing her was much larger than she’d imagined. I said goodbye and hit the button for the lift back up to my flat and watched them leave, wistful. A resident of my building watched the whole exchange and asked me why I was getting rid of such a healthy plant. Me being me, a storyteller unable to resist talking about how much I adore my husband, shared about Michael’s recent transplant and how the soil is dangerous to keep in our small, enclosed flat. The man rode up in the lift with me and then stepped out on my floor to continue the conversation, which went deep in a way I did not expect at all.

The man told me of his close friend who, at Michael’s age, had also gone through a bone marrow transplant, also at Queen Mary Hospital, who had been forced into dramatic lifestyle changes but is today, nearly a decade later, absolutely thriving. He asked about Michael’s donor, just heaping praise on our generous sons and Michael’s sister Heidi for being willing to give a second chance at life to my husband. He then held sustained eye contact with me, telling me a string of things I really needed to hear right in that exact moment — that I am strong, that this is worth it, that I am surrounded by people who love and support me, and that every sacrifice is not only seen, but celebrated, even when it comes to houseplants. It was so random but so specific! I tried not to cry as I walked back into my flat to tell Heidi about what had just happened.

Later, over FaceTime with Michael, I opened a card which came in the mail from a complete stranger. The person who sent it knows the pastor of the church in Manassas, Virginia my parents attended when my Mama died over five years ago. Pastor David has been asking members of his church to send us cards filled with encouragement. It has been humbling to receive a card on most days, some from people who share how they have never left America or have never mailed something internationally. I’ve been overwhelmed in the best possible way… who are we that people who have never even met us care about this awful, epic struggle we are engaged in?

The card I opened, which took two weeks to arrive but got here just in time, further illustrated the words of the man who rode the elevator with me. This person stood in a Hallmark store on the other side of the planet, looked at all their options, and thought, yes, this one, bought it, drove it to a post office for an international stamp, and sent it off, not knowing how badly I’d need to see and hear this exact message the day it arrived!

Thank you to Pastor David and the members of his Wednesday study who continue to sprinkle us with hope and encouragement in the form of these tangible cards coming from so far away. What a gift!

The last of my plants went out the door yesterday. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy, knowing one more huge task on the list of things that need to be completed before Michael can come home is crossed off. Plants were a hobby, one I worked really hard to get good at, studying soils and fertilizers and how much sun and water each one needed. I take comfort in a couple things my gorgeous, healthy plants say about me. First, I nurture living things well. And second, if I’ve done something once, I can do it again.

I’m looking forward to a day when Michael is once again strong and healthy, when casual indoor gardening is something I have the time and energy for. I’m even allowing a smidge of hope for the possibility of future theater trips and international travel to take root, that what we did before will be something we can do once again. But my focus remains on today, on nurturing Michael and his health, on taking care of myself and our sons with everything that entails. That is enough. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

*We are a huge theater family, clearly. One favorite is Little Shop of Horrors, the dark comedic story of an alien plant named Audrey Two which feeds on human blood. It feels appropriate for this season we’re in, worrying about plants and health and blood cancer… Not to spoil anything, but Audrey Two’s namesake, Audrey is singing about “somewhere that’s green” which, depending on whether you’re watching the film or the stage production, ultimately leads to her demise. We don’t want a similar fate for Michael, so the plants gotta go! For now. ☘️