On a Search Mission

Losing stuff is not fun. Not being able to find it is even less fun.  Having years pass since you last saw some items causes even more frustration. 

Facing the age of 65 compounds the stress of searching for lost items. 

I encountered that very drama when we were in Seattle several days ago. In this case, only 24 hours had passed since I'd seen the item.

I had gone to the bank the day before we left and had drawn out a substantial sum of cold, hard cash--destined for my daughter for her birthday money and to pay for the Mariners' baseball tickets.

After leaving the bank, I sat in my car and put the envelope of bills in my purse, inside a compartment with a flap over the top. 

"Now remember this," I silently instructed myself, knowing that my short-term memory can be fleeting.

When it came time to go to the game Friday night, we had but a minute to run up to our hotel room, gather our stuff and meet Annie out front.  She wanted to get downtown as early as possible for better parking possibilities.

I did not plan to take my purse but did want to give her the cash.  When I opened the flapped-over compartment, I could not find the money envelope. I reached inside and dug through it two or three times.

No sign of any envelope, just a lot of other stuff, which soon was scattered all over the bed as I searched furiously.  I opened other compartments in the purse, thinking but not believing that maybe I put the envelope in them.

Bill came to the room just as I had decided, for sure, that my money had disappeared.  I immediately announced to him, "I've got a problem . . . ."

By that time, my body had begun the sensation of feeling paralyzed, helpless, stunned, brainless---all in one.

Bill interrogated, nicely, trying to jog my memory.

"It's no use; it's gone," I said. "We need to get down to meet Annie."

Not a good way to head off to a much anticipated night of baseball in Seattle.

By the time I reached the car and announced my problem to Annie, I had progressed into a near catatonic state---staring straight ahead, unable to talk, tuning out my family members, reaching deep within the caverns of my ancient brain, trying to remember the moves I'd made the day before with the money, the purse and the compartments.

I remained in that state all during the drive through downtown Seattle.  Annie's continuing words of encouragement to just forget it and "have a good time tonight" were falling on hearing ears but a paralyzed mind.

Once,  I even started whimpering to my daughter and husband, explaining that the money had been delegated for gifts for both of them.  The baseball tickets would be a retirement gift for Bill and part of Annie's birthday present.

Annie continued to lecture me, reminding me it's only money and reminding me that just a couple of weeks before,  when her expensive telephoto lens fell into the waterfall in Switzerland, she had made the most of the day in spite of her loss.

It's not that easy to convince a hypersensitive, temporarily manic soul to just drop it.

My state of desperate, deep thinking, deep probing continued as we walked to a sports-apparel shop where Annie picked out a Sounders jacket.  We then moved on to Safeco Field.

As we walked toward the entrance, I could suddenly feel the load lighten and an involuntary smile forming on my face.

"I'm okay!" I shouted to Bill and Annie in front of me. "I think I know where it is."

The smile grew.  My body began to relax, almost as if I'd been injected with a a feel-good sedative.

"There's a zipper compartment inside that flapped-over compartment.  I discovered it yesterday and hadn't used it for ages," I explained.  "So, I stuffed the envelope inside."

The rest of my evening was Heaven---almost anyway.  I still needed to verify that the money was, indeed, there. 

When we returned to the hotel, I asked Annie to wait while I went to our room, opened the purse, unzipped the compartment and happily pulled out the envelope. 

It went directly to her hands.  The evening ended happily, and even though I hadn't called on St. Anthony, I thanked him and God anyway.

Well, now,  I'm looking for a Social Security card---one with my name and number on it. I don't need it for a while yet, but Social Security, which I've been hearing about since I first received my card and number back in my early teens, is coming up.

The card will be handy when I go to apply for the benefits.

I know exactly where the card is.  It's in a compartment, inside a wallet.  The wallet is inside a Samsonite carry-on bag.  I haven't used that bag since we moved to the Lovestead.

I don't have any idea where the bag is residing. 

It's been five years since I've seen it. 

So, I've begun the methodical search through rooms in this house, through boxes, inside cupboards. 

I've got a year or two before I need that card, but the sheer knowledge that I can't find it makes the task all the more urgent. 

And, when you're approaching Social Security age, your deteriorating brain plays funny tricks on your memory.

So, there's a challenge involved, and St. Anthony may get a call to help out.

Now, there's an idea for out-of-work people:  lots of folks are turning old like me and lots of folks are forgetting where they put things.

Maybe some creative entrepreneur could start a business called St. Anthony's Army.  Their specialty would involve helping people find things they've lost in their purses or their houses or right under their noses.

Of course, if other people's hiding places for lost items are anything like mine, these folks could probably partner up with a clutter-control agency.

For now, I know that the search for this carry-on bag with the wallet inside it and the Social Security card inside the wallet will mean a few trips to the Colburn mall as I search through piles and piles and piles of stuff that continue to grow and hide other stuff here at the Lovestead.

I'll be sure to shout out "Hallelujah" and "Thank you, St. Anthony" when I find my card. 

Then, I'll try to figure out a good place to keep it and still find it until the time comes to present it to someone important.