The Story of Dennis Jo (And Why You Might Need Your Own Dennis Jo!)

I want to tell you a story about grief, loss, and a plant. Not a plant with hallucinogenic properties, not one you can smoke, just a house plant that gave me comfort in a time of need. Before I tell you about Dennis Jo (the plant, named after two co-workers that were there for its humble beginnings), let me give you some personal history.

A couple of years ago, my mom called to tell me my brother had Stage 3 cancer. My head spun, "Not again." So many of my family members have had cancer. Three of my aunts, my dad's sisters, died from cancer. One of my cousins, also on my dad's side of the family, had cancer not just once or twice but three times in her life. The first when she was a young mother of two. She beat the odds every single time. If emotional pain is hard to see, the scarring left on her body after a surgery that cut her open from chest to navel is not. I don't see the scars often, but when I do, it reminds me how arduous and horrifying it must have been for her. Even my mom had cancer once before, although she didn't tell me about it until years later. I was living in Spain at the time, and she didn't want to worry me. I don't think I ever would have found out if I hadn't seen her pelvic scar. My brother is in his mid 30's, and is not from my dad's side of the family; him having cancer didn't make sense. I know anyone can get cancer given various genetic and environmental factors mixed with bad luck, but my stubborn, hard-ass of a brother never seemed a likely candidate.

Around that time, I was experiencing other kinds of grief. First, Puerto Rico, my ancestral homeland, was ripped apart by Hurricane Maria. I felt helpless and scared as the death count continued to rise. I was shocked by the footage of destruction that made its way through my social media.

Then there was Rascal, my childhood dog, my baby boy. He was too old and sickly to have a meaningful life anymore. My dad and I agreed it was time to put him down. Since I was living in Seattle, and my dog was in Florida with my parents, I decided I would take a last-minute flight to Florida and be there for his vet appointment. In the past, I've had several goodbyes with him. Since he was old, whenever I visited him and my parents, I was never sure if that would be the last time I would see him again. Despite saying goodbye to him the last time I was in Florida, I had to be with him during his last moments. We were forcing his life to end prematurely so that he wouldn't suffer. I wanted him to have comfort in my presence.

An hour after I called an airline to ask about last-minute flights, I was at home vomiting, sick. I caught a stomach virus from my niece while babysitting her a couple of days earlier. There was no way I was getting on a plane. The virus evacuated all hope from me. My body felt cold, my muscles shaking and aching. For most of that night, I was on the toilet with my head in the bathtub. My plan to be by Pooka Bear's side for the vet visit crumbled. My dad took him to the vet alone. I waited in bed for him to call and give me the news. I'd never heard my dad cry as he did during that phone call. Watching our Rascal die was hard for him. He was glad I wasn't there — the sound of my dad's sobs sunk me even deeper in despair.

I was in a sad, depressed emotional state during the fall of that year. Wherever I went was an appropriate place to cry. I was devastated. Even as I write about it, I can feel the tension in my cheeks as my tears swell just under the surface.

Looking back on that time of my life, I'm just relieved that I got through it. My brother is okay now. Puerto Rico is doing its best to recover through adversity. Death can come for us at any moment, facing a life-threatening illness, or knowing someone who is, is a quick way to remember that our lives are fleeting. We don't have as much control over when it ends as we think we do. I am thinking about all this now as another family member faces a life-threatening illness. My cousin, John John, is in the hospital. It's not cancer, but he's fighting for his life. The news brought our family back to thoughts of life and death after a long period of reprieve. Thinking about how horrible it must be for him and his family reminded me of my experiences with grief-- Which brings us to the plant.

While living in Seattle, working as a Case Manager, I shared an office on the second floor of an old, shabby, run-down house. The building was full of character, history, and healing for the clients we served there. Inside my dusty, dirty office was a vining plant that was over 15 years old. By the time I arrived, probably the 30th or so employee to call that office space my work home, its vines wrapped around the office in so many directions that the room seemed overtaken by it. It was a fantastic sight, but you could also tell the plant needed a little TLC. Living but not thriving; it was symbolic of the kinds of lives many of our clients had. Leaves had fallen off in places leaving bare vines wrapping around the room. The plant's roots sat in a cracked-in-half plastic pot inside a foil pan. The years weighed too heavy for it. The soil it sat in was probably the same it was bought in, and the leaves that still clung were withering. In some places, the vine was snapped or broken, allowing only the finest thread of life energy to flow.

A little over a year after working in that old building, we had to move out. Feeling that the plant deserved its place in our agency, it would be moving as well. It had more history with the Emerald House than most employees. So I went about moving the plant, half-dead vines and all. I couldn't fathom trimming it. In my mind, part of its greatness was how long and endless it seemed. Despite how unhealthy most of the plant was, every inch of it represented a time before me. It wore its age and life experience for all to see. Who was I to take that away? A new pot and soil gave it a new lease on life. I recruited some help, and we coiled the vines like ropes and bound them with string to keep the individual lengths from tangling. The total length of the plant had to be 150 feet. Moving it was no small task; I was determined.

In my new office, the vines lived on the floor for about a week. They sat idle, wrapped around and around like cable cords. My friend and co-worker, Danielle Rosa, suggested I cut off the old vines. "It needs a haircut. It'll grow again." How simple and obvious that is. Still, I liked the idea of keeping it as it was. Then Rascal died. Something about his death and my swift unraveling shifted the way I understood the process of letting go. I finally accepted I needed to get rid of the dead, unhealthy parts of the plant. Keeping the old, sick vines was not doing the plant any good. It needed a chance to start anew; it needed to heal. I also needed to give myself a chance to do the same. The plant was still the same plant it had always been. It wasn't starting from square one either. It still held memories of past co-workers, clients, and the relationships they shared.

Cutting off years of unhealthiness from the plant helped it to feel lighter and better. I know this because I felt lighter and better, too. Call it personification, over-identifying, or sharing a spiritual connection, but truly, my mental health and healing were parallel to the plant. Sure enough, with time and proper tending, the plant was bursting with new growth. It was exciting and reassuring to watch the transformation.

The months after my dog died and my brother got cancer, tending to Dennis Jo was my therapeutic self-care. For anyone experiencing sadness, grief, or a sense of helplessness, I suggest finding a place for those emotions. Whether it's art, making things with your hands, or taking care of someone, putting love and energy into a healthy outlet is beneficial. It won't solve all your problems, of course, but it's a way to move through them.