Lessons in loss--and love

Zach cried his eyes out Saturday night. Not with baby tears, either, but with deep, body-wracking sobs brought on by real emotion. It was the type of crying you can’t just turn off by trying—which is why it went on for almost an hour.

It started slowly, just some red eyes and sniffles. As it increased, Kelly and I suggested he take a shower, hoping it would help him relax. But it didn’t. Even with the water cascading down, the bathroom fan running and the door closed, we could still hear the poor guy all the way out in the living room. And the saddest part was, there wasn’t much we could to cure the heartache he was feeling. He’d suffered a loss, and he was just going to have to struggle through it.

That day, the Toys R Us in town had closed its doors for good. Worse, it had closed them early.

It’s not that Zach hadn’t known this was coming. We’d learned in January that, along with 74 other TRU stores in the country, ours would be closing as part of the company’s massive restructuring plan. But it wasn’t supposed to happen until Sunday. Here it was only Saturday, and—as if the dark TRU sign and dimmed lights weren’t enough—the sad, handwritten note scribbled on a piece of scratch paper and taped to what had been the entrance door said it all: “Store Closed.”

We’d driven by the store out of curiosity after grabbing a bite to eat. For weeks, bright, picket-style signs held by hard-to-employ types at every major intersection within a mile of the store had served as depressing omens that the end was indeed near. First, they proclaimed that everything in the store was 30 to 40 percent off. Then it was 40 to 50. Then 50 to 60. And so forth, until the day before, when they’d read “80 to 80” percent off. Yikes. Granted, there wasn’t much left in the store—just a bunch of things no one had wanted last Christmas, really. But for the kids in town, that didn’t matter a whole lot.

So, not having seen the sign-holders all day and knowing that the banner in the store’s window, which had been updated daily, would read “Only (hand-written sign reading ‘1’) Days Left,” we headed over to let Zach walk through one more time, just so he could offer a proper good-bye. But he never got the chance. They’d stopped the bleeding by closing a day early. And the minute Zach realized what had happened, the funk hit him instantly, like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

We tried happy-talking him on the way home, but our words fell on deaf ears. No, he wasn’t the only kid who’d lament the closing. But for Zach, it was a BIG deal. Here’s a kid who, when he was only four years old, announced that when he grew up, he wanted to be a toy designer for Toys R Us. And he was serious. Mind you, he envisioned himself sitting in some back room of the store with an army of toy builders ready to construct his creations—a far cry from the reality of overseas factories manufacturing the stuff. But we encouraged him anyway, knowing that with his Love—with a capital “L”—of toys, he’d be the greatest toy designer ever if he set his mind on it.

When he’d started getting an allowance a year or so later, a whole new chapter in Zach’s love affair with TRU began. Every chance he got—which would have been every time we drove by, if he’d has his way—Zach would scour the aisles until he'd targeted his next conquest. Typically, it was an ambitious one. And then he’d save. And save. And save. I’ll never forget the first time when, with great pride, he paid for something at TRU himself, with money he’d saved for months. He could hardly contain himself, boasting to the cashier about what he’d accomplished. And then, as now, he asked for the receipt. Tucked into his wallet, it served as a memento of his triumph.

In November, when we announced to the kids that we’d be moving to Redding, Kelly and I expected a struggle. But to our surprise, when we told Zach, he had only three questions.

“Is there a Toys R Us in Redding?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is there a Target in Redding?” he asked. (Target is his fallback when TRU is either out of stock or doesn’t carry something, and having both in his arsenal has taught him to comparison shop, too.)

“Yes,” I replied again.

“Is there a Red Robin in Redding?”

“Yes,” I replied a final time, adding that they were all within a mile of each other, too.

“Then I can live in Redding,” he said, matter-of-factly, and that was that. No struggle at all.

So, it was harsh news that we shared with Zach when just two short weeks after Christmas we learned of the store's fate. Apparently, the closures had been in the news for months. But we had no idea until the story was splashed across the front page of the Redding Searchlight. Zach didn’t seem too upset initially, as the markdowns allowed him to stretch his Christmas and birthday dollars and gift cards. He even complained about the reduced selection in the store and, for a time, seemed to be favoring Target for his shopping outings, perhaps as a defense mechanism to fend off reality. But as weeks passed and the closing date approached, and even I ventured over to TRU to scoop up some bargains, he again became curious about his beloved store.

When we ventured inside last week, Zach was more noticeably shaken. Most of the shelves and fixtures were gone, and the shopping space had been reduced to a small taped-off area near the checkstands cluttered with a mishmash of things no one really wanted. The last of the bargain hunters mulled about, but few bought anything. Even Zach, who can find a reason to like just about any toy, admitted there was nothing worthwhile left. He walked out looking rather sullen, and in hindsight, I think it was then that the emotional turmoil that was to hit him full bore on Saturday took hold.

A week later, as we listened to his agonizing sobs, Kelly finally ventured into the bathroom to offer some support and TLC. When she and Zach emerged a few minutes later, Zoë first tried to latch on to the situation as an attention-getting device (“I’m sad, too!”), then used it as an opportunity to take a sibling-rivalry dig (“I’m sad, but I’m not crying!”), and finally came around to comfort her sibling, as both kids are wont to do. That’s one of the things I love most about them: Though they’ll fight like a cat and dog over nothing, in the end, they hate to see one another upset, and they’re both quick to offer comfort. So, it tickled my heart when, after whispering in my ear that she wished she could do something to make Zach feel better, Zoë darted from the room and then reappeared carrying Zach’s favorite stuffed animal, a teddy bear named TJ, and nestled it into his arms as she hugged him. "It's OK, buddy," she said, patting his shoulder. It was classic.

And, it may have been just what Zach needed, because about that time, his tears began to dry up. A few minutes later, he even started to become somewhat philosophical about TRU’s closure, offering high-minded reasons about why it was OK and how there were positive aspects to the situation. Inside, I questioned his sincerity, but I admired his effort. And I made careful mental notes about what we’d just been through. Because much as I hate to see the kids cry, I knew that if this was Zach’s introductory lesson in life about loss, it was a fairly benign one. And I knew it was something that, in the end, would strengthen his character and help him understand what was really important in life—the people around him—and what was less so.

I tucked that one away as a reminder to myself, too. Ah, the things you can learn from your kids...