Finding a Zoo

One thing the books and articles about grieving don't say is that, after the death of a loved one, you are apt to search around for the most random things in your life to to add, omit, or change--to the point of the absurd.

In the two-plus-months that we have lived without Dylan, we have almost traded in our paid-off Toyota Camry for a new Ford Explorer.  It was so close I could smell the new leather seats. (Sniff.) I've also researched poodle mixes to adopt, considered Lasix eye surgery, and hoped that I would be laid off of my job so that I could start my own venture.  I have wondered whether we'd be ready to consider adopting a child in another year. Jason has suggested we move to Seattle, and he also wants to buy a travel trailer. I still maintain that I am getting a tattoo (that one I've said for a long time, though).

The only tangible changes I made was to buy several pieces of clothing from the very overpriced White House Black Market store, which I usually consider above my spending level, and then proceed to gain five pounds back over the holidays.  Somehow, these purchases didn't quench my thirst for a wholesale change--just gave me a little sum to pay off.  And some stunningly flattering pieces that are now a bit snug. 

So, when I recorded and watched "We Bought A Zoo," starring Matt Damon, a couple of weeks ago, I cried and cried, like I hadn't cried in, well, a couple of days.  (Crying is pretty frequent lately.)

Here was this guy who lost the love of his life, his wife and the mother of his children, after what was suggested to be a long, painful illness.  He has to figure out how to comfort and parent his two children, the older one of whom was flunking school, constantly brooding and drawing numerous dark, sad, scary sketches to while away the time. They were a broken family, or at least deeply bruised, with no clear path, no real sense of what was next.

In the film, the father (Damon) comes across 18 acres of land with a house and a defunct, closed zoo, held by the state, whose remaining animals were being tended by a small group of devoted former zoo employees.  He decides to try cashing in all their money to renovate and reopen the zoo, and his family picks up and moves to the house, which is out in "the sticks" (much to the chagrin of the 14-year-old boy with the macabre sketchpad).  Not surprisingly, the zoo employees help fix everything up over a few months, they all become close, a romantic relationship develops between the father and the pretty, 28-year-old head zookeeper (played by Scarlett Johansen), and they survive funny pitfalls (including a grueling inspection by a comically terse, moody inspector) with mildly whacky hilarity.  Of course, they ultimately reopen the zoo to crowds of people and instantly experience monetary and other gratification. The older boy stops drawing scary netherworld beings and confesses his love to a 13-year-old zoo volunteer, played by one of those adorable Fanning girls.

Schmaltzy, yes.  But, it made me cry anyway, and like the dickens.  Maybe it was the debunking of the idea that if you just change your surroundings drastically and direct all your energy into a crazy new venture, you will forget, your pain will subside.  Maybe I cried because even a gorgeous zookeeper with bear shit on her boots would not allow the man to forget how much he desperately missed his wife, just as nothing can make me forget the feel of my sweet Dylan's foot pressed against my cheek, squeezing his toes to "hug" my face. Or the smell of his forehead where I kissed it every night after his last treatment, and the little breath he took as I put on his mask.  Or the helplessness I felt those last days in the hospital, when there was nothing I could do to save him.  Or the sadness I feel now that my older son struggles with inattention and daydreaming in school, to the point where his grades have plummeted at times, and how that then triggers his anxiety, and how I can't heal his pain either. 

Maybe it didn't help matters that the boy's name was Dylan, the actor who played him was named Colin, the zookeeper's name was Kelly (my late sister's name), and the zoo's reopening was on July 7-- Colin's birthday.  Even silly coincidences can trigger my tears.  Especially silly coincidences.    

I hold out hope that some changes will be healing, comforting.  I'm still looking for one. Smaller than a zoo renovation, larger than a tattoo.  Any ideas?