This oak tree is special to me, as I eluded to in a Show and Tell post last month. Special enough, to want to share with you as I take time to remember my childhood and the tree that was my safe place.

Growing up as a triplet, was very hard at times. My brother, Scotty, was born with severe brain damage. Doctors were never able to pin a diagnosis on him, but autism, downs, and the lack of many metal faculties that placed a 2 year old in a mans body is a good introduction. Eventually, my parents simply couldn’t provide him the 24/hour care he needed and they made the heart breaking decision to move him out of our family home, and into a place that could provide him the care he needed.

For many years, Scotty lived 20 minutes away, in a group home and was cared for 24 hours a day. We saw him 3 times a week. My parents would pick him up, bring him home and spend the day with him. Eventually, his need for this type  of care, outgrew what this facility could offer, and changes had to take place. Puberty was a difficult time for all of us, especially Scotty. He had no understanding of the changes that were taking place, and even less of an ability to cope with them. He acted out and badly. He became self-destructive and the facility simply didn’t have the means to care for him. My parents had no choice but to find him alternative care. It was a no win situation, and the only care available was 6 hours away and a sterile, institutional setting.

For years, we’d drive down to the LA area, at least once a month. Many trips were so heart breaking and Scotty’s behavior problems were so severe, that there were times we’d see him for 30 minutes or an hour if we were lucky, only to turn around and drive right back home. It was simply to hard to stay the night and repeat the visit the next day. I’ll never forget my parents tears as we’d leave the facility. My mom would play “Smile” by Natalie Cole as my Dad would drive us home, fighting tears in his eyes, trying to be strong for the family. I hear this song occasionally, and it still makes me shiver.

(Now, Scotty is in a much better place, both physically and mentally. He is 45 minutes away, lives walking distance from the beach, and has 24/hour care and is doing fantastic.)

My other brother, Will, is the complete opposite of me and as children we were like oil and water. We never got along and fought all the time. We didn’t share friends, and although we shared the same school, and my parents always made sure we had separate teachers. Will was a popular kid in school, and I was teased mercilessly, often instigated by him. This drove a huge divide between us, that has only recently been repaired. During our elementary school years, I spent many days walking home, alone, crying the hole way. I was a very sensitive, usually overly so and my feelings were easily hurt. I never really learned how to deal with it, so I’d cry.

So, as you can imagine, Scotty combined with relentless teasing at school made for a difficult childhood. (Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all tears, there were many wonderful times, vacations, and happy memories. I remember my childhood fondly, and have wonderful parents, it’s just that hurt feelings are easy to remember.) Scotty had the uncanny ability to pick up on people’s moods, and react to them. No matter what you were feeling, no matter what was happening, when Scotty was visiting, everything was put on hold. Emotions, anger, sadness; I learned how to bury them. To hide them and put on a happy face for Scotty. So did my parents. There was no choice.

There were times, where it was just too hard. Arriving home from school after being teased, or being around Scotty when he was self-abusive was too much at times and I found one place that provided me solace. The oak tree in the picture above. After a short climb up the hill, I was always welcomed by cool shade and a place to gather myself. I’d spend hours under it’s protection. I’d cry, read a book, draw (horribly), or even take a nap. It was my place to escape and to just be myself. In a lot of ways, this majestic oak tree was my best friend. The only fight we ever got in was when the horde of bees that were nesting in it’s branches became unhappy about my presence. Man, I ran at break neck speeds down the hill. I hate bees.

As years went by, the Oak tree and I saw less of each other and the pain of childhood faded. On every visit to my parents, I’d always spend a few seconds gazing at the tree that taught me so much and silently thanked it. I don’t think I even shared how important this tree was to me, with Shelby.

I wondered how old this tree is, and how much change it has lived though. If it could speak, I wonder what it would have said. Were there others that sought it’s protection? Now that we are pregnant, I’d fantasize about bringing my child up to this tree and introducing them to my safe place. I’d share with them what I learned; No matter how hard things get, people love you and everything is going to be OK; That you have the right to be alone, to scream or cry and no one will judge you; That There are still safe places in this world, and the shade of this tree is one of them.

I wanted to pass down everything I learned from this Oak.

On Monday, I received an email that hit me like a ton of bricks. The weight of the oak was simply too much for it’s trunk, and has fallen over, splintered into a million pieces. My heart sank reading this, and I willed myself not to get teary-eyed. I know it’s just a tree, but I feel like part of my childhood has died. I feel like I lost a life-long friend. I feel so silly for being so upset over a tree, but my heart is so heavy over remembrance. Even as I write this, I have to swallow the lump in my throat. Seeing a picture of my friend, laying in pieces chilled me to the bone.

I feel cheated; robbed of the chance to share this experience with my child. I’m sad that this tree is gone. I feel silly to admit this, but I’m ANGRY that it is gone.

Tuesday, we met with our OBGYN for the first time, and I feared that the loss of my “childhood friend” was a bad omen. However, we received the exiting news that we’re having a BOY!!! My heart is sad that I cannot share this mighty oak with our SON, but there is one lesson I can teach him from the love and loss of this tree;

Son, my child, one day I’ll be gone, but for every second I breathe on earth, I’ll protect you, give you a safe place to cry, laugh, or simply, just be.