When my grandmother, Suzanne, was 93, her home in northern Indiana was engulfed in flames. The baby blue carpets, floral print couches where we’d gathered to watch Jeopardy and Cardinals baseball, Lincoln Log sets, and coloring books were all lost. Her piano, with hymns worn into the keys, and her sweaters adorned with meticulously embroidered birds and snowscapes, were reduced to ashes. This was not just the loss of a house but the erasure of her life’s work and comfort over the past twenty-four years.
The devastation didn’t start with the fire. Suzanne’s world had been shrinking long before. She had been diagnosed with macular degeneration, an age-related eye disease that stole her central vision and, with it, her independence. The crossword puzzles she once delighted in solving, the sheet music she used to play on her piano—all became impossible. Her loss of sight barred her from driving, cooking, even taking a walk to see her neighbors. The vibrant colors of her life faded into the dull shadows of dependency, fear, and a deepening depression that had always lurked in the background.
Before the loss of her sight, Suzanne had lost my family. We lived just ten minutes away from her in Indiana for eleven years, but in 2012, we relocated to Dallas, Texas. Though we made frequent visits, the move marked a painful departure, leaving my grandmother with a caretaker and her burgeoning loneliness. As we scattered across the country—from Oregon to Idaho to Colorado to Texas—the distance from her grew, leaving her isolated.
After the fire, our family decided that moving Suzanne to an assisted living facility in central Florida near my Uncle Bruce would be the best solution. The facility promised round-the-clock care, prepared meals, and the proximity of family. It seemed like the answer to the voids in her life, the gaps that had steadily eroded her sense of self.
However, the move to Florida did not bring the relief we hoped for. Suzanne’s misery intensified. The humid climate, the unfamiliar surroundings, the absence of familiar faces—every new challenge seemed to deepen her despair. Conversations with her revealed a bleak outlook where anything good was overshadowed by the potential for something bad, and the bad seemed unending.
In her first months in Florida, her health deteriorated further. She fell repeatedly, suffered from blackouts, was hospitalized, and contracted COVID while in the hospital. Observing from a distance, I feared the worst. I felt as if she was slowly resigning herself to a fate she saw as inescapable and overwhelming. The bottomless pit of despair she described was a feeling I knew too well—one that makes everything seem pointless and unbearable and you can’t imagine feeling any other way again.
While my grandmother was hospitalized with COVID, the facility faced an alarming situation: an active shooter was reported nearby. Suzanne, already at her breaking point, voiced her wish for the shooter to find her. Her longing for an end was palpable, and our family ached knowing she felt so lost and desperate.
Despite this bleak period, something remarkable happened in December 2023. Unable to join her for the holidays due to travel constraints and commitments, our family sent Suzanne a gift: two waxed amaryllis bulbs from Gardenuity. These bulbs, coated in smooth wax, were a curious sight—one with white wax that would produce vibrant red blooms, and another with red wax and white blooms. At first glance, they resembled wax-coated onions, generating questions and intrigue. But they require no soil or water and bloom beautifully despite their unconventional care, becoming a symbol of resilience and beauty.
As the weeks passed, Suzanne’s amaryllis bulbs began to bloom. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. The bulbs, once an oddity, began to open up, and so did Suzanne. She placed them on her walker, and for the first time in months, she ventured out of her room with a newfound purpose. She began to join other residents for meals, finding new friends, and forging bonds with the staff, all centered on sharing the beauty of her amaryllis. Her spirit gained strength so that she had enough to give to others. She gifted amaryllis bulbs to her friends and staff, inspiring them to get bulbs for every single dining table.
The act of caring for and displaying the flowers reinvigorated her spirit. The monumental changes to her life and her loss of sight were no longer insurmountable. The vibrant blooms became a guiding light of hope and tenacity, a tangible sign that beauty and growth can emerge from even the most desolate of places if we allow it to.
Suzanne’s joy in sharing her blooming amaryllis with others marked a profound shift. The flowers were more than just plants—they were a reminder of her ability to experience and connect with the world around her. The simple act of nurturing these flowers brought her a sense of purpose and a bridge to her new community, as she proudly showed off the fruits of her care.
In the end, Suzanne’s story is a testament to the power of small miracles in the face of overwhelming adversity. Even as she faced profound losses and unrelenting despair, the amaryllis bulbs helped her rediscover a spark of joy and a renewed sense of connection. They symbolized a resilience that can flourish even in the most challenging of circumstances, offering a glimpse of hope and a reminder that growth and beauty can emerge from the ashes.
