I was absent from my little blog on Friday because I experienced a loss. I had planned on doing a post and I had taken some photos Thursday afternoon for it. I decided to just upload them Friday morning and finish it up then.
I woke up Friday morning and went to get my camera out of the diaper bag. It wasn't there. No worries, it was probably in the car. I poured some coffee and went out to the car. Not in the front seat. Back seat? No. Floor board? No. What!? Maybe the trunk. Sadly no.
I ran back inside and searched the entire house for my camera. I checked places that stinkin thing couldn't even fit. I retraced my steps and thought about the last place I had it.
I knew where it had to be. It was in Broken Arrow at an antique store. I was working on an upcoming project and took it with me Thursday afternoon. I called the antique store but got a message that the phone was no longer in service. What. Looks like I had to drive out there.
I put a ball cap on (my go-to accessory when not showered), loaded up my girl and headed out the door. I prayed the whole way there. I felt silly praying that my camera would still be there given the crazy tornadoes in Alabama. But I prayed anyway. I prayed for the survivors of the storm and then for my camera.
I also played the entire afternoon over and over in my head. After thinking it through, I'm pretty sure I must have put it on the roof of my car while I loaded my daughter into the seat and then the stroller into the trunk. I must have left it there and just drove off.
I pulled into the parking lot and there were no signs of my camera. I canvased the entire parking lot and street for a mile. I felt like I was a CSI on the hunt for evidence. There was none. My camera was gone. The store wasn't open yet so I had to go back home without my camera.
The first stage of grief set in: Denial. Someone would have seen it in the parking lot and turned it into the store. It wasn't gone forever. Maybe I just needed to look harder at home. Maybe it was misplaced. Maybe the police had it. It wasn't GONE.
I drove home and waited for the store to open and finally returned to the scene of the crime. I asked if anyone had turned it in. Had I found a camera, I couldn't keep it. No such luck. I even went to the police station and asked if anyone had turned it in. They looked at me like I was crazy and told me no.
The second stage set in: Anger. Anger at myself mostly. How could I be so dumb. Who does that? But there was also anger for the person that found it and kept it. I hoped they would turn it on and see the pictures of my sweet little girl and feel so guilty they would have to return it. How could you keep something like that? Someone's memories are in your hand and you are just taking them away. (Okay, so maybe I'm being a tad dramatic, but like I said, I was angry).
I pretty much skipped the third stage, bargaining, and went straight to fouth: Depression. Friday night was not so great. I don't cry often. Well, let's be honest here, I cry a lot more post-pregnancy and I cried a lot Friday night.
I already felt stupid but then I watched 20/20 with the husband and it was all about the tornadoes and destruction in Alabama. Now I really felt dumb. Here I was sitting on my couch crying over a camera when these people didn't even have a house anymore. All their belongings stripped from them in one night. Photos - gone. Beds - gone. Pets - gone. Loved ones - gone.
I am still sad about my camera but have moved on the the final stage: Acceptance. I may not have my camera anymore but it can be replaced.