Depressed at Disney World

I was at Disney World, and I was depressed. I wasn’t depressed because I was at Disney; the two phenomena just happened to dovetail unexpectedly, like a pair of unusual weather systems colliding by chance, creating the conditions for a possible worst-case scenario, a perfect storm. I don’t need to do into detail as to the reasons for my depression here, but suffice it to say that, in a nutshell, working on a book about someone I loved who died 16 years ago has put into play the grieving process that I never quite allowed myself the first time around.

When, a couple of months ago, I originally made plans to come here, to this Small World, and to stay at the most luxurious of its resorts–the Swan and Dolphin–I had no idea that any of this would happen. I looked at the mini-trip (no pun intended) as something of a lark–three nights without my husband or children, as a grown-up on her own in the Land of Mickey. But, as the dates for the trip grew nearer, and I found myself immersed so deeply in grief that I didn’t know how I’d get out of it, the lark turned into a looming nightmare. In my state, I was afraid, a single encounter with a Character, or just a few bars of “It’s a Small World”, could send me right over the edge. The thought of it was almost as terrifying as the prospect of a ride through the vertiginous blackness of Space Mountain.

To make matters more surreal, I would be in Orlando less than three weeks before Christmas, ordinarily a holiday for which I wait every year almost as eagerly as I did when I was a child, but whose sparkling magic this year had not even begun to insinuate itself into my psyche. Time was quickly running out on my prospects for Christmas spirit, and I had serious doubts that the makers of magic at Disney would be able to help, no matter how hard they tried. In fact, it seemed, the more vigorous the attempts to inject me with holiday cheer, the smaller the chances of success would be.

(Just to be clear–I’m not usually such an enormous bummer; I’m often cheerful to the point of obnoxiousness, particularly around Christmas, theme parks, and luxury hotels. This just wasn’t my year.)

There was, however, one thing that I was looking forward to with the maniacal single-mindedness of a child: the Space Shuttle was set for a night launch on the night of my arrival. I am something of a Space Freak, and seeing the launch from such a close distance, against the backdrop of a dark, clear Florida sky, would be my idea of witnessing magic. I did, however, know that NASA could not be trusted not to let pesky little things like low-lying clouds, rain, or strong winds get in the way of my launch. Given my emotional state, though, I figured that they might be somewhat more flexible than usual. They’d have to be; the forecast for that night called for low-lying clouds, rain, and strong winds.

My last trip to Disney World had been about five years ago, when my son was three. We were staying at one of Disney’s less-expensive, less-fabulous hotels. I remember very little about that trip, but I have a clear image in my head of sailing past the Swan and Dolphin in one of the water taxis, the three of us looking wistfully at its whimsical but elegant Michael Graves architecture like immigrants on the deck of a ship, gazing at the promised land of Ellis Island. I promised myself that, if we ever returned to Disney, we’d stay there.

Pulling up to the Dolphin’s front door on the day I arrived, I did whatever last-minute girding-myself-against-the-onslaught-of-Disney-ness that I was about to encounter. Inside, I walked toward the lobby under a ceiling painted sky-blue and sparkling with little stars of light. Nice touch for the heavens-obsessed. Just ahead was the biggest, most festive-looking Christmas tree (not real, but none the worse for it) I’d ever seen; I was nonplussed, but appreciative in a detached sort of a way. I also became cautiously aware that there was not a Character to be seen, and that the Christmas music played quietly in the lobby did not even remotely resemble the dreaded “It’s a Small World.” The place, with the exception of the tree, was downright understated, and just plain pretty. So far, so good.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my Heavenly Bed, checking the weather forecast every so often, glad to have the time alone to work on processing whatever it was I was trying to process. The odds for a shuttle launch were about 40% for most of the day, but the weather outside looked pretty good to me, so I saw no reason for NASA to see things differently.

NASA saw things differently. After dinner, still hopeful, I boarded the FantaSea (a very much-more-upscale version of the African Queen, with a fully stocked bar and a delightful and mercifully laid-back crew) with a few other people, at a little landing just outside the Swan and Dolphin. Eating chocolates and drinking wine, we sailed slowly east toward my destiny with space history, and came to rest under a low bridge. A crowd was gathering on the bridge, and on the pathways along it; if nothing else, the nightly Disney fireworks display would be happening shortly. But the time for the launch came and went.

The fireworks, however, were absolutely dazzling. I remember occasionally turning away to look at their reflections on the surface of the water beneath us, and feeling the increasingly familiar heaviness in my chest as I thought of my friend, but I wasn’t so lost that the beauty of the lights in the sky didn’t affect me, as fireworks always had since I was a child.

I did have a secondary goal for my trip to Disney World–to go on the Mission: Space ride at Epcot. Doing it alone, as a sad, 45-year-old woman without the excuse of having children to entertain, would, at least, amuse my fellow standers-in-line. Fortunately, my frame of mind did not incline me to worry too much about what others thought, so on my second Disney day I boarded a water taxi to Epcot. The boat wasn’t crowded, so I had the opportunity to focus my attention on a young man dressed completely in black sprawled across one of the benches, scribbling something into a notebook, and occasionally glancing at me. He wore the type of black sunglasses favored by the most punk of punk rockers in the 1980's, and he was carrying a very large black bag that did not seem to be suited to carrying stuffed Mickeys, or any other type of Disney paraphernalia. I’m really not the type of person to be perturbed by strange-looking people dressed in black and carrying bulky bags for no apparent reason, but he just seemed so utterly out of place among the families with their strollers and mouse ears that I must admit to being relieved to see that everyone was subject to a bag search that put the TSA’s methods to shame before entering the park.

The other thing that caught my attention, and made me thoughtful for the first time in a while about anything other than my friend, was that so many families were there with their obviously very sick children; I tried to keep from thinking about the likelihood that these were people fulfilling a last wish—a childlike, and seemingly so simple, wish to come to Disney World and allow the magic to happen, and not let it be diluted by cynicism or thoughts of the future or the past. And I noticed that these people looked happier than anyone else in the whole place, wheeling or being wheeled in their wheelchairs, laughing with excitement, simply happy to fulfill a wish. I couldn’t miss the obvious fact that, in their company, my own resistance to magic (except, so far, for that of the fireworks the night before) seemed churlish. Even if I couldn’t feel it in my present state, I sincerely hoped that the magic worked miracles on all of them.

I had no idea where to find Mission: Space, but I knew that it was my destiny, and that I would get to it one way or another. Passing through country after country in the World Showcase area, I had to smile at bits of conversation I heard as I passed my fellow world-travelers–things like, “We’ll try to meet you in England, but we might end up in China or Norway.”

It was Christmas in England, Ireland, France, Canada, and the other countries I passed through. There was Christmas music, poinsettias blooming red and green, a story-telling Santa who looked as if his off-season occupation might be woodcutting in the Yukon Territory, and, of course, a lot of gifts available for purchase. I still wasn’t feeling Christmas, but it wasn’t as if they weren’t giving it their best shot.

By cleverly keeping that geodesic dome thing in my sights—making it my own personal Star of Bethlehem for the time being—I eventually found myself at the entrance to Mission: Space. Before going in, you’re asked to choose between the More Intense and Less Intense versions of the ride. Well, if I was going to come all this way, having been let down by NASA the night before, and make a damn fool of myself in front of all these people around me, then I certainly wasn’t going to wimp out now. I told them I’d take it straight up.

It was a mercifully slow day at Disney; the lines weren’t bad at all, and I was pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t the only adult in line riding solo. There were mechanical voices (with British accents, of course) mingling with the real ones in the dark halls where we all waited for our orders, pleading with the hardcores in the More Intense line to be sure that we could take it, or change lines before it was too late. I started to feel a little uneasy, until the face of Gary Sinise appeared on a monitor above me. Gary, it turned out, would be guiding me and my assigned team through our space mission. Aside from the friend about whom I was grieving, Gary was only second in line to George Clooney as my perfect Mission Control fantasy guide.

Standing on little circles drawn on the floor with my three other crewmates, I waited at attention until Gary was ready to give us our assignments. I was, of course, appointed Commander; even in my sadness, it must have been obvious to Gary right off the bat that I was Right Stuff material. My engineer was another lone adult woman, who looked even more depressed than I felt; I wasn’t so sure that she could be trusted to perform her assigned duties of putting us into hypersleep, or extending the wings, at the critical moments. My other two crew members were an emaciated, tall guy with very long hair, and his wife. I looked at them and tried to catch their eyes, just to remind them who was in charge, but they seemed oblivious to me and my superior rank.

I won’t give away the details of the actual mission, except to say that my engineer put us all in danger by not, as I’d predicted, obeying the orders that had come down from the top (Gary), and that (unlike my remarkably dour crew, who were in all likelihood not even mourning anyone) I giggled helplessly throughout the ride, pushing the necessary buttons at the proper times, so as to ensure the success of our mission. Clearly, Gary will see to it that I’m on NASA’s short list for upcoming flights.

But then I got outside again, and walked back through most of Europe to the dock for the water taxi, and the heaviness came back again, as if my heart itself had taken on water and started to sink.

The Disney people had their work cut out for them. I returned to the Swan and Dolphin and the refuge of my Heavenly Bed until it was time to go to dinner at the hotel’s Japanese restaurant, Kimonos, where I tried to imagine myself doing one of the moodier numbers on the karaoke menu (which consisted almost entirely of songs much better left to the professionals, or Bill Murray, than to moody writers) later on. The image wasn’t pretty, and my being sad was no reason to ruin my fellow guests’ evenings by trying to sing, say, a Joni Mitchell song. It was back to the Heavenly Bed for me; I was quite content to have a glass of wine and watch the heavenly fireworks from my window.

Even at my best, I’m not much of a spa person; I’m just not very good at relaxing, and allowing a stranger to attempt to relax me further, particularly when I have no clothes on. On the other hand, I have had one or two spa experiences in my life that temporarily put me into an orbit closer to heaven. Besides, any astronaut who had completed a tricky mission as well as I had deserved at least a chance to wind down, be pampered, and, ideally, experience bliss. I had an appointment at the Swan and Dolphin’s Mandara Spa for a massage and something called a Lime and Ginger Salt Glow (appealing because it sounded a little like an exotic cocktail) the day after the mission, and I kept it, although I knew full well that there was a chance that I would start to cry with my face down in the face hole on the massage table. At least no one would see.

As it happened, every one of my allotted 80 minutes took me a little closer to being the glowy, wobbly, and damn-near-happy thing I was when it was time to sail into the spa’s Meditation Room, where other glowy, wobbly beings sat quiet and limp in their robes and slippers, sipping tea. I got myself a cup of green tea, sat down on a lounge chair in the sun, pulled a throw over my legs, and seriously reconsidered my bad attitude toward the whole spa thing. But it didn’t take long for my thoughts to settle back around the space in my head in which I keep my memories of my friend. Thinking about him there, watching the sunlight shifting on my soft throw and sparkle on the water of the lake just outside, my body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in quite a while (since I started writing my book, anyway), I had a few minutes to remember him in a different way, without the heaviness in my chest and stomach, without the grief. I’m not saying that I recommend that anyone in mourning go running off to a spa; I was just lucky enough to have been put skillfully into that state of mind, in that pretty, peaceful place in the sun, for those few minutes. It was hard to get myself to leave.

Once I did, I still had the sadness in me, but it seemed lighter. It wouldn’t stay that way; I knew that I still had some serious grieving ahead of me, but the sun was out, and the shuttle launch had been rescheduled for that night, and it was finally warm enough outside to have my lunch at the hotel’s Cabana Bar and Grill, in the sun.

It was, it seemed, my lucky day at Disney World. My veggie wrap and glass of Chardonnay were served to me by Oscar, who was probably the sweetest, most upbeat (in a sincere way) waiter I’d ever encountered. At first I thought that he was in his early 20’s, but I was shocked to learn that he was close to 40. He told me about how a relationship he’d been in had ended, and how he lost 30 pounds because he’d been too depressed to eat—“like somebody died,” he said. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have wanted to hear about a stranger’s personal problems while I ate, but Oscar told his story in such an endearing, un-self-pitying way, and with such candor, like a good friend whose troubles you don’t mind hearing about because he’s a nice person, that I was truly touched, and enjoyed my meal in the sun even more. I suppose that the Disney people would frown on their “cast members” relating personal stories to guests, but, as far as I’m concerned, Oscar should be presented with an award, at the very least. He, and some of the other people I’d seen, and some of the experiences I’d had over the past two days made me think that the world is, actually, kind of small. And I didn’t have to hear the song, even once.

That night the stars were aligned in their proper places—proper enough for NASA’s purposes, anyway--and the Shuttle went up. Standing outside the Swan and Dolphin, with the tiny white lights of the Boardwalk glittering across the lake and a bright pregnant moon watching slackjawed as the Shuttle drew a long, fiery line across the sky, heading toward wherever Heaven might be, I considered that there are certain kinds of magic that, although no one at Disney could have possibly dreamed them up, can be stumbled across anywhere—even when you feel that you might never find magic again.

(c) Nancy Bevilaqua 2008