Are you also a victim of the 2020 plantdemic?
I never thought I’d succumb. I was never one to fall for trends. Oh, no! My mind was too independent. I couldn’t be swayed to follow suit just because everyone’s in it already. Just keep on with your plant-buying frenzy. I’d be watching from afar, judging you loonies from the safety of my lofty pedestal.
And then brat started bringing home plants. She went nuts over Alocasia plants first (my biased nurse’s brain called them alopecia).
Before long, the doorbell would ring, and it was another delivery of a plant which she “mined” during a live selling on Facebook the night before. I paid for them, grumbled a bit about the cost, then promptly forgot, until the doorbell rang again.
I remained impervious to those costly, fragile little things all throughout 2020.
Maybe it was because I’ve come to the conclusion that I was the botanical grim reaper incarnate from years of trying to grow a garden, only to end up with a plant graveyard.
Then came March 2021. My husband caught the virus in Manila. I headed there so he’d have somebody to take care of him should his symptoms worsen (and they did, but that’s another story).
I was holed up for three weeks in Manila that was on lockdown that time. I had nothing else to do except worry and send cooked food to husband in the hospital through Grab riders. Yes, he eventually landed in the hospital. (To those who still shush this thing as a worldwide conspiracy, I have a secret for you: pneumonia, myocarditis, hepatomegaly…yes, the virus is real).
If only to put a stop to brat’s incessant begging, I found myself searching for a Monstera Deliciosa back then, because it was supposed to be cheaper in Manila. She swore that she couldn’t be considered a full-fledged plantita if she didn’t have an MD.
So, I disinterestedly went searching in the online market. Then Dr. Nini Cabrera also asked me to look for Thai Cons, Orange Marmalade, and Paraiso Verde for her. I went scrolling through my phone for those as well.
It didn’t take long for those plants with red leaves to catch my eyes…red baby leaves that turn yellow before turning green as they mature. 
Suddenly, I was in love. Then I discovered their name: Philodendrons. Even the name sounded magical.
To cut this story short, I came home to Dumaguete loaded with “Philos”. There was no turning back.
Unless you’re a plantita yourself, you won’t understand the special brand of joy and satisfaction that comes from watching a tiny green thing thrive and grow under your care. “She’s mine and she’s beautiful because I took care of her really well”…that kind of pride.
I wasn’t a plant grim reaper after all. All I needed was passion fueled by real love and interest, and the desire to learn more about them, and to tailor their care according to their specific needs for water, sunlight, and food.
It’s funny how growing up, I thought that watering your plants morning and afternoon were all it took to have a lush garden.
I know better now. It is a whole new science that requires dedication and a considerable amount of your time and effort. Needless to say, gardening can be back-breaking too. The rewards? Seeing them turn into beautiful swans.
What comes next? Propagation. And then selling your propas to either recoup your expenses, or to fund the next plant in your list of must-haves. Like the Spiritus Sancti. And it’s going to be really easy.
A fetus SS costs only about P215,000, while a fully-mature one sells for only a few millions. I’d probably have to sell a kidney and part of my lung, on top of my propas, to afford a fetus Spiritus Sancti that’s not even two inches tall.
Don’t mind my ramblings. It’s probably just cabin fever. I’m being cooped up in a room right now, self-isolating because I woke up feeling generally unwell.
One couldn’t be too careful nowadays (maybe “paranoid” is a more accurate word-choice). We still have one unvaccinated and two partially-vaccinated members in the household.
But this forced seclusion is causing this plant mama some anxiety. Long before my eyes opened, when I was still caught in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness, my thoughts would already race towards my green babies. “Are they okay?” “Are they safe?” “Could those treacherous snails and caterpillars be doing mukbang on their precious leaves already?” “Could there be one baby who’s waiting for mama’s rescue after the rains and strong winds toppled her pot?”
Everyone downstairs is probably tossing coins on who would come to gag me up. I’ve been calling on whoever I could spot to check this or that. Isolated Olga is quite a pain in the behind.
But what can I do? My babies need me. Deep inside, I probably entertain delusions that they’d refuse to push out new leaves if they don’t see me for a day.
In the meantime though, I can but stand at the balcony and crane my neck, trying to see if the 9:30 am sun is hitting my Pink Princess because that’s a big no-no. Their leaves burn too easily! Okay, they’re safe, but my Monsteras aren’t! Panic time. Time to call somebody again!
So, did you notice to use of “my” before the word “Monstera”? That wasn’t a mistake. They’ve all become mine. Not Abby’s anymore, but Mama’s. Yes, that’s how things have evolved down here.
The original plantita has been edged out of the throne. The queen has arrived.
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Author’s email: [email protected]
