The Case of the Stolen Lacrosse Jacket
Initially upset about yard sale theft, our faith in humanity is now restored but we wonder about our sanity.
Readers may recall that my husband and I decided to sell stuff at this past weekend’s neighborhood yard sale. Well, about an hour into the ordeal, we noticed our son’s high school lacrosse jacket was missing from the hang up clothes. We were stunned, but had been forewarned that theft of yard sale items is common.
I immediately posted an indignant message on Facebook, mostly because I was bored. My message slung insults at the pond-scum-slime-ball who would steal a jacket being offered for a whopping $3. And I mentioned that the slug that did this wasn’t the brightest bulb in the room because the jacket was monogrammed.
A little while later, still full of self-righteousness, I posted another Facebook message urging my gal pals to be on the lookout in the future for a villain in our community wearing a blue and white jacket with my son’s name stitched boldly on the front. The culprit was probably crass enough to sport the pinched item while frequenting our very own Kroger or Hot Dog Heaven. Once spotted, he or she was to be punched in the face. My friend Judy N. quickly vowed to do this, and I knew she was true to her word because she’s a real gutsy gal. A true sparkler.
Feeling as though all was now in place for swift justice, I returned to the task of unloading junk onto yard sale enthusiasts. The event was actually a lot of fun and we made a few coins as well as some new friends from the neighborhood who stopped by to shop. You can read more about our yard sale adventure, especially the art of haggling, on my recent blog post.
Anyway, after shutting down the sale, my tired husband and I settled in for the evening. We went down to the basement to visit our son and a couple of his friends just home from college. And guess what we saw hanging from the bedroom doorknob?
A blue and white monogrammed lacrosse jacket, of course.
Looking at each other and then our son in astonishment, my husband and I asked the lad where he found the jacket. He stared back at us in disbelief. You know the look. The one that is only possible from 16-to-19-year olds due to unique facial musculature during those years. It’s the look God grants teens to really annoy their parents. The physiological ability to make this facial expression fades over time, sort of like a man’s inability to hone six-pack abs after a certain age. But I digress.
Our son’s response: “Dad told me last night to bring the jacket out of the garage because it's too nice to sell.”
Silence. Awkward glances around the room. Our son’s friends looking rather perplexed at the feeble adults standing before them.
I broke the silence with an explanation: “Chemo brain strikes again.”
Loved ones of family members with cancer know the phenomenon well. Chemo brain. Those less than lovable memory lapses and problems remembering details. Patients with chemo brain suffer short attention spans, slower thinking and disorganization. Oncologists call it “mild cognitive impairment,” which is typical understated doctor-speak. Ain’t nothing mild about anything related to chemotherapy. Or at least that’s been the experience of my husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer.
Chemo brain causes all sorts of wacky hijinks around our home these days. And now we know that chemo brain was the real thief of a certain blue and white monogrammed lacrosse jacket.
Our faith in humanity is restored, but I’m not sure about our family’s soundness. It’s sort of like we were paddling for years along a fairly smooth flowing river and were then thrust into a long stretch of Class III and IV rapids. The ride is a lot bumpier, and we don’t always paddle in coordination these days. But we’re paddling and still in the canoe.
I must go now. It’s important that I call Judy N. and other friends to cancel the all-points bulletin for face punching. Otherwise, my son may come home this week with a broken nose or black eye.
Yes, I can deal with just about anything these days, even chemo brain. Judy N. and my gal pals have my back.