My wife, Hannah, and I don't usually keep houseplants. Anything in pots gets either overwatered or underwatered, but after my diagnosis(诊断) with brain cancer, I loved the idea of having something green around.
A friend gave me what he said was a lucky bamboo plant in a deep-green bowl. We placed the plant in the living room and I told Hannah I wanted to care for it myself. When it didn't immediately turn yellow or lose leaves, I was pleasantly surprised. Tending to the plant gave me a sense of accomplishment when I sometimes felt useless. As a family physician, I was used to offering care, not receiving it.
Since my diagnosis, I had to rely on help from other people. Watering the plant, small act as it was, connected me to a core part of my old identity.
After I recovered from the operation and returned to work. I continued to care for the plant. Soon, it had nearly doubled in height. Both the tree and I were thriving(茁壮成长). Then, without any reason, it began to show signs of stress. Its leaves kept browning and dropping to the floor. Hannah reminded me that we'd seen houseplants die before, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the plant had become a symbol of my health. I grew increasingly depressed and fearful.
Looking back, I realized I had wrongly connected my caring of the plant—something I could manage—with my own survival—something I couldn't. Knowing I couldn't control my fate(命运), my anxiety actually lessened. I began to search online to figure out how to care for my plant. Following the instructions, I transplanted the plant to a larger pot, giving it room to grow. When it was back in the sunny window, we both began to thrive again. Whenever I look at the plant in its new pot, I make a point to think of those who have cared for and supported me.