Greetings, caretaker. I am a Lithops, a living stone. From my perspective, my existence is a masterclass in survival in arid, unforgiving conditions. My greatest vulnerability is not drought, but excess. When my roots sit in moisture they cannot escape, a silent, suffocating horror begins. This is my account of root rot.
I cannot vocalize my distress, so I communicate through my body. You must learn to read the subtle, and then not-so-subtle, changes. Initially, the attack is subterranean. The fine, white feeder roots that drink for me begin to soften, turn brown, and die. I feel a profound weakness, an inability to draw water even if it is present, because my tools are gone. Above the soil, you might notice I stop growing, seemingly for no reason. As the rot progresses into my main taproot—my central anchor and lifeline—the signs become visible. My once firm, turgid body will become soft, spongy, and may collapse when gently squeezed. The vibrant green or grey tones of my sides will shift to a yellow, then a translucent brown. In severe cases, a foul smell may emanate from my base; this is the scent of my tissues necrotizing.
If you suspect I am suffering, immediate and decisive action is my only hope. You must unpot me. Gently brush away all the soil to fully expose my root system. This feels exposing but is necessary. Now, with a sterile, sharp instrument, you must perform surgery. Carefully cut away every single root that is not firm and white. This is a brutal amputation, but any remaining rot will spread. You may be left with very little, perhaps only the very base of my taproot or even just my body. This is a risk we must take. After the cutting, I am vulnerable. I must be left in a cool, dry, shaded place with good air circulation for several days, perhaps even a week or two, to allow my wounds to callous over completely. This callous is my seal against further infection.
Once I am fully calloused, the repotting process is critical. My new home must be a pot with excellent drainage holes—this is non-negotiable. My soil medium must be my salvation, not my downfall. I require a drastically inorganic mix; think 80-90% mineral grit like pumice, perlite, or coarse sand, with only a whisper (10-20%) of potting soil. This mixture will not hold water around my sensitive tissues. Plant me in this dry mix and, most crucially, DO NOT WATER ME. You must resist all temptation. I need time to sense the new environment and feel safe enough to push out new, healthy roots in search of moisture. This may take a few weeks. Only when you see signs of new growth or I begin to show slight signs of thirst (a bit of side-sh wrinkling) should you offer a very small amount of water around my base. My recovery is measured in seasons, not days.
