Passport Panic Attack

“Hey Love…. where’s your passport?” asks David while I’m finishing up on the treadmill.

“It’s up in our bedroom.  In the thing…”  I say patiently.  Boys.  They don’t know where stuff is…

“Ummm… I looked in the thing…  Your passport isn’t there.”

Sighing, I turn off the treadmill.  If I get up those stairs and that passport is there…  I open the thing where all our passports are kept.  Only two passports.  Rissa’s passport.  David’s passport.  My passport is not there.

The “H” of HYSTERIA is born in the pit of my stomach.  When did I last use my passport?  When I went down to NY in September.  Okay good.  I know when it was out of the house last.

It’s been stolen.

Shut up.  It is now January.  I remember that I’d had it with me when I came back, I know I did because they let me out of NY and back into Canada.  Where was it??  I had put it in my purse so that I didn’t have to open my suitcase for it.  It was in my purse and I moved it someplace safe.  Unless I didn’t actually move it someplace safe and it was stolen when my friend Jon met me at the airport and we went for coffee…

“Look, I’m sorry,” says David.  “I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.  I
shouldn’t have.  It’ll turn up.  It’s around here somewhere.”

It was stolen.

Shut up. Did it fall out while I was getting my stupid pumpkin spice soy latte? (I look in the box on the piano.)  I ordered that ridiculous latte, feeling all autumny and now I’m fucked.  I am fucked because I wanted something sweet and ridiculous and some sketchy fucking hipster probably took it and hid it in his beard.  And why did I even have a latte?  That September day had been more like June, not September,  it was perfect – really I should have gotten a fucking iced latte – what was I thinking?  I remember aaaaaaaaaaaall that, but I don’t remember where the passport is.

Because someone stole it while you were enjoying your ridiculous latte Heather.

Shut up.  It’s not stolen, it’s just missing.  (I look in the suitcase I took to NY.)  In this house somewhere.

It’s been stolen.  Someone has now stolen your identity and you won’t be able to get that car you thought you were going to get because another woman, probably in some eastern European mob, is out there pretending she’s you. 

Shut up.   (I look in all the suitcases that I didn’t take to NY.)  

“Really, love,” says David.  “It’ll be fine.”

“No it’s not!!  What if Endzela has now taken over my identity and she is ruining our credit rating right now?!?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says in his calmest animal whisperer voice.  “Nothing has happened to our credit.  We’re fine, we’re good.”

“WE DON’T KNOW THAT!!!”

 “Why don’t you go up and have a shower.  It’s okay.  We can look again when we get back from the movie.”  He is now patting me.  PATTING me.

“WE CAN’T GO TO A MOVIE!!”  I take a breath.  “Okay.  Okay.  I’ll go upstairs…”  It’ll all be fine.  It’s all good.  A shower will help this…

I run down the stairs naked and look in my old purse that I didn’t take to NY.  Fuck.  FUUUUUUCK!!  The stress-induced angina begins now.  I head back up into the shower.  I bang my head against the shower wall, sobbing.  Where did I put it??  I put it someplace safe.  I PUT IT SOMEPLACE SAFE!!!  Nope. Nope, I am not doing this.  I am stopping this panic attack now.

Naked and wet, I run back downstairs.  I go over to the butler’s pantry and grab the Scotch.  I claw  ice from the adjacent freezer.  I take a deep swig, letting it warm my chest.  I square my shoulders.  I breathe deeply.

Then I walk over to the box on the piano, reach in and take out my passport which had been placed in the first section, next to the spare change bowl, with its back to the bowl, hiding its gold emblazoned front, all camouflaged-like.  I tilt back the rest of my Scotch and head back upstairs to finish my shower.

It just might be possible that I have disproportionate responses to stress.