Hello, it is I, your Rubber Plant (Ficus elastica). I am in distress. My roots, my very foundation, are drowning. The world you see above the soil is a reflection of the crisis happening below. I cannot draw breath, and my cells are suffocating. But do not despair; you can still save me. Here is what I need from you, from my perspective.
I cannot speak your language, so I communicate through my leaves and stems. Please, learn to read my signs. My oldest, lower leaves are turning a sickly yellow and feel soft and limp; they are the first to sacrifice themselves. You may see brown, mushy spots (oedema) where my cells have burst from too much water pressure. My new growth may be stunted or brown before it even unfurls. Most alarmingly, my sturdy stems are becoming soft and bendable, a sign that the rot is spreading upwards. If my soil has a sour smell, that is the smell of my roots decaying.
You must act quickly. Gently lift me from my pot. Examine my root ball. Healthy roots are firm and white or tan. Rotten roots are mushy, slimy, and dark brown or black. They will fall apart at a touch. Using sterile shears, you must cut away all the rotted roots. This is a surgery to stop the infection from spreading. Be ruthless but careful; any rot left behind will continue to kill me.
I cannot go back into the old, soggy soil. It is a swamp of pathogens. Please, repot me into a clean pot with excellent drainage holes. The pot can be the same size or even slightly smaller now that my root system is reduced. The new soil mix is critical. I need a well-aerated, chunky mix that mimics my natural preference. A blend of standard potting soil with a generous amount of perlite and orchid bark will create air pockets and allow water to flow through freely, giving my remaining roots the oxygen they desperately crave.
After the trauma of surgery and repotting, I am very weak. Do not water me immediately. My wounds need to callous over to prevent new infections. Wait at least a week before giving me a modest drink of water. Place me in a spot with bright, indirect light. Avoid direct sun, as I am too vulnerable to handle that stress. Do not fertilize me; my system cannot handle it. My sole focus is on regenerating my root system. You must resist the urge to over-care; your patience is my medicine.
In the future, please do not water me on a schedule. My thirst changes with the seasons, the light, and the temperature. Instead, check my soil. Push your finger about two inches into the top of the soil. If it feels dry, then I am ready for a drink. If it is still moist, I am content. When you do water, do so thoroughly until water runs from my drainage holes, but never let me sit in a saucer of water. That is what started this trouble. We must have trust. Listen to me, and I will show you when I am thirsty.
