Like this:

A few things have shaken me up recently, and my mind is full of so many thoughts; it’s hard to sort through them all, and figure out what it all means, and what I should be doing about it, or thinking about it; what I need to dwell on, and what I need to let go.

We have a big, beautiful maple tree in our front yard. It’s a vine maple, with huge, leaves. Every Autumn, we rake the leaves, make huge piles, and dive into their crispy depths. We love the tree.

When Bryan’s brother comes to visit, part of the tradition is that he takes a family picture in front of this tree. He has been doing it since his son Matthew, now 18, was an infant. And we laugh about it because he always does it on the last day, minutes before he leaves, so it’s always a rush, and people are always a little crabby about it (mostly me) and Bruce gets really flustered and funny. It has become a lovely family tradition, and we have eighteen years of beautiful photos depicting the growth of the tree, and our families.

Sadly, our tree has been gradually dying. This summer didn’t produce very many leaves, and we decided that it was time to have someone look at it. Bryan called in someone who knows about trees, and he confirmed our fears: the tree was sick, and needed to be cut down. Enormous limbs were dry and brittle, and he feared that if we didn’t remove the tree, that it would pose a danger in the winter months when around here, the wind blows six days out of seven. Really blows.

So, we talked to some people, and made some more calls, and booked someone to come and remove the tree. Remove it. From top to bottom. And then drill out the trunk. Until the only thing left would be piles of sawdust.

And we looked around, and decided that since they were taking out that tree, they may as well take out some other trees that had grown too big, and were now looming over the house, dropping cones, and needles, and branches on our roof; the roof that we are replacing in a couple of weeks.

It made sense to us.

But then we made a really big mistake.

We discussed our plans with every one who came over. That’s just what Bryan does; he is an oral learner, and it helps him process information if he can discuss it. Plus he is naturally very chatty, and he likes to get other people’s input.

We didn’t notice that at each retelling of the photos tradition, Anna became more and more intrigued with the tree. She asked if there were pictures of her near the tree. She remembered that it was one of the first trees she had ever climbed, and she noticed that the Robinsons were also cutting down some of her climbing trees. She has always been uber-interested in sickness and disease, and she obsessed about the tree.

“Daddy, what is wrong with the tree?”
“It’s sick, Anna.”
“But what KIND of sickness does it have, Daddy?”
“I don’t know, Anna – just a sickness that trees get. YOU can’t get sick from the tree.” (Lots of reassurance on this, because she always thinks that she will be infected by someone else.)
“I know that, Daddy.” (very scornfully.) “But why can’t the tree get better? People get better when they’re sick, right?”

**Yes. We should have had red flags flying high by now. Yes. We should have realized that this wasn’t really about the tree any more. Yes. We should have reined in our own talk about the tree, and how sad we were about cutting it down.

But we didn’t.

I had just had a treatment.
It was the first summertime treatment, when the kids couldn’t escape to school, and leave the sickness behind.
It was the first treatment without Elvera who makes them laugh.
It was the first treatment where Bryan was alone in the house, with a sick wife, and two frightened children. (albeit, children who for the most part, manage these fears very well.)
Our defences were down.

So, the day came for the tree cutters to begin. They were going to do the maple tree first, and then move on to the fir trees.
It was day three after treatment, and I was in bed, with a very foggy head, and no energy. In fact, I hardly noticed the noise, and I certainly couldn’t muster up any emotion. Disengaged – one of the worst side-effects of chemo; especially when you have an emotionally needy seven year old.

The saw began to cut, and Anna began to weep. And wail. And dissolve into a heap of hysterical seven-year-old on the floor.

Bryan came into my room, white faced. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.” he gasped. “I think we should make them stop.”

I gazed at him blankly; unable to process his words. Finally I grasped the meaning. “No! We’ve done all the discussion, and we need to cut down the tree. I don’t want to have to go through all this again. Why are you trying to make me think today? I can’t think today? I can’t make any decisions today? Go away!”

Nice.

So, Bryan phoned Laurie, and burst into tears on the phone. He had just had enough. And neither of us had ever really done any crying over this round of cancer. We hadn’t had time. Once we returned from Spring Break, we were launched into this crazy rollercoaster ride of hideous CT results, and toxic treatment, and hospital visits, and more. Bryan hadn’t had time to do his customary talk through, and processing. So he was just done. Even more so than Anna.

So, he sobbed.

And then Laurie sobbed.

And then, in typical Laurie fashion, she found some help.

Gord showed up ten minutes later with Timmy’s coffee and doughnuts. And they walked around the yard, and talked about the projects Bryan had planned.

I’m not sure when in the timeline he called a halt to the cutting, but when I came to my senses a few days later, I realized that the maple tree was still standing in the front yard. The top was gone, but the bottom was still there: the photo part, the climbing part.

“Hey, what up with the tree?” I said.

He looked at me sheepishly, and said, “I just couldn’t do it.”

And Anna came up and wound herself around me and said, “Daddy saved our tree, Mummy. He says that trees don’t recuperate when they are sick, but I think trees can recuperate, don’t you, Mummy? Because if people can recuperate, then trees can recuperate, right?”

And in a blinding flash, I saw that this had never really been about the tree at all; it was about me. And cancer. And a little girl who needs to believe that things get better when they are sick; a little girl who needs us to hope against hope; a little girl who needs us to choose life.

I looked over at Bryan, who still looked a bit sheepish. “Wow. You made the right choice. How did you do it, when everything was falling apart at the seams?”

He said, “I couldn’t break my baby’s heart.”

So that tree is now standing topless in the sunny patch of our front yard. It is more than a testimony of family, and growth, and good times. To me, it is a symbol of a father’s love for his child. I try to imagine sometimes, in my lesser moments, the expressions on the guys’ faces when this deranged father came stumbling out of the house calling, “STOP! STOP!” And explaining that he had changed his mind. It makes me laugh a little… and cry a little. Because I know that what people thought of him would never be a consideration that Bryan would entertain.

A symbol of a father’s love for his daughter. His desire to care for her heart; to protect, and nurture, and hold her safe.

A symbol of hope. Maybe the tree, (having been refined not by fire, but by saw), might sprout some new branches next year.

Like me.

Later, we were talking as a family, and everyone was catching me up with what had happened while I was away on chemo. And for awhile, it was all about Anna, and how she had suffered over the week with her many griefs.

But finally Nathan spoke up. We had never heard what he thought about the tree. He had never said anything.
But now he said to his sister, “Anna, a tree is like a person. If one person in your family is sick, and won’t get better, you have to look around, and find another one to help take it’s place. You should have looked for another tree.”

Knife to the heart.
Twist.

I looked at this profound little man, comprehension dawning on my face. All summer long, I had noticed that Nathan had begun to be very affectionate to the women in our life. Lots of hugs and snuggles. He has never been a snuggler with any one but me – not even with Laurie. But, suddenly he was snuggling everyone: Laurie, Elvera, Shannon, his aunties. Like he was looking around to see who might be able to give him the snuggles when he needed them; to see who could take the place of a mummy who has to leave.

My heart is going to break.

On the one hand, I’m appalled that my ten year old has such thoughts in his head; and on the other hand, I’m proud and happy to think that he is so mature, so profound, so aware of reality. I’m thankful that he has clear vision, and that he is taking initiative to form relationships that are going to be crucial to him in his future.

But it is one one those things that has shaken me up. A couple of days ago, I wrote about MY dream for the summer: to forget.

But events AND people (mostly unintentionally) have conspired against me, and have forced me to remember.

And THAT has shaken me up, too.

Because there must be a reason why.

And I hate not knowing.

But now again, I’ll have to suck it up, and take it to God, and place it once again in His hands.

Along with my tree, and my husband, and my children, and my friends.

And I’ll retreat once again to my hurricane llama where we can rest secure in the palm of God’s hand.

It’s a good place to be, even in the summer.

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