There are always flowers for those who want to see them.
~Henri Matisse

Green thumbs run in my family, on my mother’s side. It shouldn’t be a surprise, I guess. Her father used to operate a greenhouse.

We kids grew up playing on lush green Ohio grass, lined with long, colorful rose and iris beds that separated the back yards in our neighborhood. When Mom planted something, it usually grew.

The acorns didn’t fall far from that oak, and we children turned out to love the earth and growing things in it, too. As adults, we appreciate all our mom’s labor-intensive gardening work, applaud each other’s gardening successes, and commiserate about the frustrations of chipmunks that eat our strawberries or deer that strip our lilies.

All four of Mom’s children are also remarkably healthy, just as she was. I have a theory that gardening is good for people. Working outside and putting our hands in the dirt to help plants thrive is therapeutic. Nurturing others (things and people) is symbiotic and, in turn, nurtures us. A vase of fresh daisies on the kitchen table, raised and picked right outside our door, is good for the soul.

I have always been the healthiest person I know, along with my mother. And grateful for it. While others come down with pneumonia or need knee surgery, I just get a light cold once every four or five years. I had perfect attendance at school and work most years.

That was until last year, when my good fortune hit a wall. A biopsy confirmed a small stage-1 lump. It was caught early and, luckily, removed in a lumpectomy (although it took two surgeries). But, to prevent it from coming back, the doctors recommended both chemotherapy and radiation. These kept me in treatments and drugs for six months and left me devoid of hair, white blood cells, and strength. But there was nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other, take one day at a time, and pray that it would all go away. I was well aware that millions of women have had to deal with the shock and trauma of breast cancer. You have to try to stay positive, even when it seems impossible, I decided.

But between the surgeries and the first chemo treatment, a sudden shocking diagnosis of type 2 diabetes landed me in the emergency room. I hadn’t known much about diabetes but soon learned that I would need medicine the rest of my life. And that I could no longer eat most foods I like — or just two bites of them — or my blood sugar would soar.

That new development was exacerbated by the chemo treatments nearly shutting down my taste buds, so that even foods I have always loved didn’t taste good and the mere smell of others — like fish cooking — set my stomach rolling. Queasiness from the chemo made eating tentative at best. And add to this the daily pricking of my fingers, bleeding myself to monitor my blood glucose.

With this double whammy of diabetes and chemotherapy, I quickly lost twenty-five pounds. I had no hair, and my bones were easily visible under my skin.

The doctors had predicted that I would come through it all fine, since I was such a healthy, active person to begin with. But they also warned me about fatigue. I hadn’t worried about that too much, though, because of my normal energy and stamina. It was sick people who suffered from fatigue, I figured.

But the doctors were right. Even though my husband had taken over nearly every chore — grocery shopping, cooking dinner, cleaning up, laundry — I was exhausted by dinnertime and in bed by 8:00 P.M. wearing a soft, fleece sleep cap to keep my bald head warm. The diabetes kept me needing something to eat at least five times a day, so I was either hungry or queasy most of the time. Or both.

And depressed. How much I had lost astounded me, even though the surgery had been successful. My active life was gone. I had to leave volunteer activities and a part-time job and still didn’t have enough energy to walk around a short block. I felt out of the loop and spent way too much time on the couch. And the doctor appointments! I typically saw the doctor once a year at my annual checkup. Like most healthy people, I suspect, I begrudged that time and hassle because I was always fine. In the eight months following the biopsy, though, I had surgery, a treatment, or a doctor’s appointment fifty-five times. This was enough to keep a normally super-healthy person despondent nearly 24/7.

But one pleasure of my previous normal life did not disappear. Every morning, especially in the spring and summer, I like to walk around our yard and see how my flowers and crops are faring. Watching things grow is a tonic and helps reassure me that life goes on, no matter what.

When the daily radiation treatments were nearly finished, what was left of me was still standing, and I hoped that I had survived the worst of it. One Saturday on my morning perambulation, something new caught my eye. It was standing at the front corner of the garage where I couldn’t miss it. An iris! One beautiful, blue-and-yellow iris was smiling at me. I had meant to plant irises for years because my mother had blue-and-yellow irises that I loved growing along our driveway when we were kids, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.

This wondrous iris — that I had not planted — immediately brought my mom to me at this lowest point in my life, both physically and mentally. I knew she was there, and with tears rolling down my cheeks and a catch in my throat, I said, “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be all right.”

How to explain this sentimental, unplanted blossom appearing in my garden as if by magic? I like to think it was a message of blooming hope and strength from my mom up in heaven, watching over me with an “attagirl” smile. I could hear her voice saying, “You’ve survived. Many people don’t. Think how lucky you are! No matter how hard things get, always be grateful for your blessings.” And I am, especially for the one that’s easy to take for granted: good health.

— Becky S. Tompkins —