Self-care and smarts

 I’m working steadily on my memoir of my experiences with manic depression (bipolar to those of you under age 40. Have I told you how much I hate the term bipolar?)

Swimming in the memories, processing them in new ways, listening to interviews of Jim, my kids and siblings and in-laws, I’m struck with many things.

One is my ‘recovery’ after my third manic episode in 2003. After seven years of faithful, consistent lithium-taking, I stopped, without benefit of medical advice. No, that’s not accurate: after leaving a voice message at the clinic declaring my decision, I received a reply voicemail, telling me, begging me, to take the medication. I blew off the communication with predictable (though not to me) and disastrous results: a psychotic break and a slow and painful return to the land of the sane.

While in the hospital, I listened carefully in the group therapy sessions and took active part, motivated to glean any wisdom the psychiatric profession had to offer. The sunroom where we met had a miniature greenhouse. I asked permission to take cuttings and brought home three: a variety of Saintpauli (African violet) I’d never seen, with small pointed leaves and delicate lavender flowers, a tradescantia zebrina with dusky purple-and-silver striped leaves, and a purple passion plant. (Note the color theme.)

I brought the plants home as a reminder to take care of myself.

Over the years, as the plants got woody, overgrown, and unmanageable, I would pinch off ends with my fingers, place them in a glass of water on the windowsill, wait for roots, and plant the new slips.

Now, 19 years later (the psychotic break was in January 2003), one variety remains: I have three clay pots of purple passion plants.

But when did my striving for self-care supersede my ambition to remain mentally sharp and smart?

My four surviving siblings graciously agreed to be interviewed for my memoir. There were three things they all mentioned as notable: how big an influence for good our brother Michael was on our family culture and on each of us individually, what a big deal my epic cross-country trip was, and how smart I was as a kid.

I was driven to succeed in academics. I desperately wanted to please my research-chemist father. I took Advanced Placement classes in high school and earned a semester’s worth of college credits at Bryn Mawr College, one of the selective Seven Sisters.

But for years I have struggled to remember things I read when I have the bandwidth to read at all. I’ve taken to listening to audiobooks, which helps, but retention is poor. After a few months I don’t remember what I’ve heard.

No one would call me smart now, not at the level, the caliber, of my early, promising years.

I’m not whining (I hope), just trying to get the facts down. Fact: as attested to by each of my surviving siblings, I was the smart one in the family. Fact, I did very well at an academically competitive college. Fact, I’m nowhere near at that level now. When I started taking psychiatric medications, I noticed a dulling, a dimming of my intellect.

When did self-care overtake smart? When smart was no longer an option. I made no conscious decision to give up, but as the years have passed, so has my intellectual sharpness and edge. So it is. 

Pruning Christmas cacti

 Perhaps in response to the virus restrictions and more time at home, last summer I tackled my Christmas cactus collection. My mother gave me Christmas cactus clippings over the years: they are easy to grow: a single stem in potting soil will soon root, grow, and eventually bloom. I had one beautiful specimen that cascaded pink blossoms every December in a place of honor on our piano. But when we converted the front room to a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelving, the piano, which was hopelessly out of tune, was removed. I recognized that the cascade had become an awkward, overgrown tenant.

The library is five years old now, so it was high time to take all my cacti in hand. One by one I placed them on an overturned wire-mesh wastebasket on the kitchen island so I could objectively consider their cascading stems (cacti don’t have leaves). To produce a balanced and agreeable effect, I had to prune severely.

The cacti sat on our kitchen porch all summer, shaded from the hot summer sun. With winter approaching, I brought them into my office and David’s room, my adjunct conservatory.

The pruning had its effect: a flower on every last stem.

The Longest Day of the Year

"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

Matt’s email three days ago quoting The Great Gatsby, informed me that I again missed the longest day, because I was too busy living it. For several Junes since we read Gatsby for our family book group in 2013 Matt has emailed Daisy’s question.

Saturday, the longest day of my year, was spent with two adorable grandchildren, Andrew and Victoria. It was sunny and hot and we played in our wading pool. I had bought two spray nozzles and attached them to garden hoses so they could have water fights while I watered my rhubarb with a third hose.

As Xiomara and I sat in the sun-warmed pool late in the afternoon, she reminisced about her childhood in Honduras. They received just one pair of shoes a year, so they went barefoot most of the time, including to school and on their daily mile-long walk to the river to fetch water. Being the youngest, Xiomara only carried two one-gallon containers home: the older children carried five gallons on their heads. Her resourceful father bought an acre of land outside of town and planted mangoes, bananas, pineapples, and coconuts as well as beans and vegetables. As poor as they were, tropical fruit was cheap and plentiful. It's a stark contrast to the prices in New York.

My dad grew up in a ‘ranch house’ among the wheat fields of Montana with no running water. I remember using the outhouse the summer of 1965 when we flew to Montana for a reunion.

A few days ago, I planted several zinnia seeds in small pots and by Saturday they had sprouted cotyledons. (The embryonic ‘leaves’ that nourish the plant until true leaves can grow and start photosynthesis.) I gave one to Victoria to take home and today, by video, she proudly showed me her thriving plant.

Another botanical project is my Christmas cacti. My mom grew beautiful Christmas cacti (which aren’t technically cacti at all) and enjoyed collecting varieties. She had pink and white and even an orange one. They bloomed at Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter.

My oldest cactus sat for years on our old piano; the brilliant pink blossoms cascaded down one side of the pot. This year I decided to take the old, lopsided plant in hand. I perched it on top of an overturned wastebasket in the kitchen and studied it for several days. I came to see that I could restore balance by pruning it severely. Two younger but also unruly plants needed a deep trimming as well. I filled several small pots and a large, shallow pot with soil and planted about 20 slips. I’d never thought to prune a Christmas cactus. A week after the pruning, all three plants are sending out fresh new leaves. I hope they enjoy their new state.

I got a haircut too, the first in twenty weeks. My hairdresser, Pauline, has rearranged her salon to allow for safe distancing. She's always been meticulous about cleanliness: the main change is the box of disposable face masks on her counter. I left about four inches of grey and white hair on the floor, just in time for the hot weather.

Purple Passion Plant

A few months ago, I moved my purple passion plants to the sunniest window in our house. Peeking over my laptop screen, they make me happy.

Purple has always been my favorite color (In grade school I was known as the Purple Phantom.). I kept a purple passion plant in my dorm room in college. I love the deep purple fur on the dark green leaves. The deep purple intensifies in strong sunlight.

In 2003, I ended up in a locked psychiatric unit. When I returned to sanity, I attended group therapy sessions in a dayroom with a small greenhouse. I came home with cuttings from a purple passion plant and a saintpaulia, a type of African violet, with small downy leaves and lavender flowers.

As I put these little purple houseplants in a sunny window, and watered and pruned them, they reminded me to nurture myself. Keeping them alive symbolized my pledge to do the hard work of healing my mind.

Somewhere along the way, the saintpaulia died. I neglected it a little too long one too many times. The purple passion plant is hardier. Even when the main plant is neglected, I’ve been able to preserve a few tender tips and grow a new plant. Some mistakes in life come with a second chance.

A few months ago, Jim received a bonsai tree. We kept it near a window in our kitchen, but the new leaves came in progressively bigger and paler. I learned that large leaves are a symptom of light starvation. I moved the tiny tree to a sunny window. As it recovered, I gradually trimmed off the larger leaves. New leaves came in, tiny, shiny, and dark green.

My plants and I can survive neglect, but to be vibrant, intense, and truly alive takes care.