I've been contemplating vegecide. Planticide? I'm not sure what to call it. My Latin is poor. Maybe what I really mean is green euthanasia - the "good death" of a living houseplant.
The target/victim is a monstera deliciosa, commonly known as a split-leaf philodendron, although it's only related to the philodendron family. It has lived in my kitchen for the past 25 years. And in my Toronto apartment for 10 months before that. And before that, two years in Ottawa. The plant is far older than my oldest child. I've had it longer than my husband.
There are many reasons to get rid of it: It's scraggly, pot bound and it takes up the same amount of space as a small upright refrigerator - prime real estate in a typically space-challenged downtown Toronto home.
The problem is that a houseplant can take root in more than a pot. It can become part of a family.
My philodendron was once a cutting from my mother's philodendron. Several days before I started graduate school, my mother unloaded in front of my bachelor apartment a bed, a desk, a bookcase and a plastic planter. The planter contained a small stalk and a single leaf that she had rooted in the weeks before I left home for good. My parents then moved west. Way west. Little Phil was my only living connection to home.
I took care of it. It grew. Two leaves, then four. Air roots emerged, thin, brown tendrils growing down from the stem. I could still manage to lift it single-handedly when I moved to Toronto. Repotted and heavier, a couple of friends were able to haul it up the stairs when I moved again. It was one of only a few items I brought into my marriage.
It survived home renovation. Coated in drywall dust, it looked like the ghost of a plant. For months, I tenderly wiped each leaf clean on a weekly basis, more concerned about the plant's health than contractor delays and budget over-runs.
The plant thrived in the south-facing kitchen. Leaves emerged whole and then split into the characteristic Swiss cheese appearance. Several stems grew to ceiling height and had to be braced with eight-foot sticks. Yards of neutral-tone stockings ruined by runs were sliced and stretched and used to tie the lengthy tendrils upright.
My husband and I thought of our plant fondly, even when far from home. We admired it in a natural setting in Hawaii. In Bali, Indonesia, we bought a string of four carved wooden monkeys, each progressively smaller, that we thought would look exotic hanging amid the leaves. We decorated the planter at Christmas with Santas on sticks poked into the soil.
Then children arrived. I shared a nanny and took on responsibility for the safety of a friend's child in my home, in addition to my own. What to do? Monstera deliciosa leaves are poisonous to humans and house pets, ironic given the plant's name.
My father's suggestion was to get rid of it. My mother, bless her, is the queen of out-of-the-box thinking. She suggested if the kids can't always be in a playpen, the plant can.
The result: For the next seven years, Phil was corralled in a used playpen. Around the third year the bottom of the pen collapsed from the weight, but the functionality of the system remained intact until all the children learned not to touch - or eat - the greenery.
The plant has survived long-term neglect and whole seasons when I forgot to water it regularly. It has weathered the cats' attacks, its lower leaves now gnawed and ragged - notably with no negative effects on the animals. Its air roots have been sucked into the vacuum cleaner and broken. It has wound its way from the ceiling to the floor and back up again in the pursuit of light.
Fortunately, it hasn't fallen from the kitchen into the basement below, although the weight of it must be staggering. It's tied to the ceiling and I'm not sure it could be lifted. Not that there's anyone in the house brave enough to risk their back trying.
In my ruthless moments I've said it's time to let this plant go. Reclaim the space. Declutter a bit.
My husband, knowing the plant's provenance and history, has merely raised his eyebrows.
Recently I proclaimed I'm getting rid of it. We could put it outside. It's nearly wintertime.
My resolution was quickly undermined by my husband, who suggested we take a cutting first and start from scratch. And by a friend, who suggested rooting a few more pieces. After all, she said, the kids will be heading to university before you know it. Maybe they'll want a piece.
I am clearly not the only one who can get sentimental about a plant.
So instead I watered it. Next I may even give it fertilizer.
Jann Everard lives in Toronto.
Illustration by Sylvia Nickerson.
