The First Small Bloom of a Sunflower

Months before our daughter’s wedding, my wife and I plant seeds — asters, zinnias, dahlias, gladiolas, black-eyed susans, sweet peas, cosmos, African daisies, cana lilies, yarrow, sweet annie, and, most importantly, sunflowers.

We carefully calculate germination times, mist tender seedlings, transplant shoots into seed pods, and water them faithfully in a garden space tilled by my son. We nurture their growth with prayers for them to bloom and color in time for Annalyse’s special day.

Since an early age, her favorite flower has been the sunflower, so we give them special attention. At about the same time of their planting, my doctor suggests I seed my brain with serotonin. For nearly 10 years, I suffer from a mild depression, which, over the past year, grows worse in the weeds of career setbacks, a bulging disc, personal betrayals, and the shit life throws us all.

Despite a disdain for Big Pharma and a 60 Minutes report on the overwhelming ineffectiveness of antidepressants, I reluctantly accept my doctor’s prescription. I do not want to be a downer during a season designed for the bloom of my daughter’s joy.

Because of Melanie’s growing to-do list, she puts me in charge of caring for the sunflowers. I hoe, fertilize, observe, water, stake, and shelter.

Three weeks from the wedding, I lose a fair share of plants, but delight in the buds of many flowers. But there are no signs of blooms.

I do my best not to despair at the same time my depression refuses to lift. With my nausea growing worse, I decide the drugs are not working, and I decide to go off them cold turkey. No one tells me this is a bad idea — imagine Dr. Jekyll taking a double dose of the Nutty Professor’s potion.

For a week, I sink into the the darkest days of my life.

The sinking feels like sand and, feeling hopeless, I exercise a cutting cruelty, disparaging my wife, hiding from my daughter, finding new ways to transform myself into an asshole.

When my counselor hears of my cold turkey strategy, he assures me the extreme feelings are inevitable, and will pass. He makes me promise to call him if I begin to have suicidal thoughts.

A couple of mornings later, in the garden, coming out of a fog, I see the first small bloom of a sunflower. A glimmer of hope returns. I walk into my home, apologize to my wife and daughter, and refocus on the great day of joy ahead of us.