MENTAL HEALTH | NOISE
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, Agitated by the Noisy Sheep
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
In one minute, a mere sixty seconds, I must accomplish the unthinkable, or mayhem will disrupt the coveted calmness of the evening.
I tip-toed toward my target.
A few Hail Marys from this non-Catholic may do the trick. It can’t hurt to chant the only lines I know from movies and friends.
Presbyterians lack rosary beads so that’s not an option. At least I’ve never been given any.
This thought distracts me as many do these days.
Are rosary beads specific to a denomination? Am I supposed to have them? More so, can I have them without converting, or is that a sin?
I am jolted back to reality by the excruciating alert.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
Sixty seconds; it’s all I’m afforded.
At this point, I am knee-deep into a full month of this routine.
Maybe it has become easier, maybe it has not.
The hell I am subjected to has dulled enough, though, that I forget to warn visitors. First-timers tense up, their eyes widen, and some emit an audible gasp.
“What IS that?!”
My cheeks flush.
Stupidity and shame rise to the surface at warp speed. None of that slow blood creeping up from the neck with grace — full-force reddening occurs as quickly as flipping a switch.
“How do you live like that?!”
Let the over-explaining begin.
It’s who I am.
Last month, I searched out which smoke detector randomly decided to plead for assistance.
The culprit was identified as the unit directly above my grandson Ian’s bedroom door.
Naturally.
After foraging through my mom’s garage, overturning and relocating a vast quantity of treasures saved for the day she might need them, I spied a step ladder.
The process should be quick, no?
I replaced the battery in the offending detector.
Pleased, I returned the ladder to its newly designated proper place and smiled.
Ian and I cheered for my superior skills.
There’s a price to be paid for smugness.
As I reentered the house, I was greeted with a bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
We’ve all been tortured by a chirp indicating a low battery.
This is not a chirp. The alert is 6 longer screeches in succession with a minute delay before it restarts.
After 842 viewings of YouTube videos for First Alert hard-wired smoke detectors, I feel qualified to build one from scratch with a Yoyo, bobby pins, duct tape, and a red M&M.
Hours ticked by, and my eyes glazed over, as I continued my research and delved into the monotone troubleshooting YouTube tutorials.
Not one video showcased more than a chirping annoyance. Where are the bleats?
( Side Note: To the man who figured out that his TV remote control was setting off his smoke detector in the other room, kudos to you!)
Anyway.
Battery changing is for children; give me the advanced stuff.
All the while… bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat, bleat … every minute like clockwork.
I learned some helpful things, and I tried them all.
- I changed every battery in every detector throughout my mom’s home.
- I individually reset them per instructions.
- I ran tests.
- I pulled out some hair.
- I attempted to disengage the hardwiring.
- I threw the breaker.
- I drank wine.
With each noble attempt, I held my breath for the entire minute, begging for success and silence.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
Quiet was now a thing of the past.
Have I mentioned I have a bit of a stubborn side?
Defeat is not an option.
I retired the ladder and turned a blind eye to the hammer taunting me from the toolbox. It’s not my home, so the hammer will not come into play.
Over the course of this past month, we have adjusted.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
I do wonder if my grandson believes every home does this. For a boy with sensory issues, he has done exceedingly well with acclimating to the bleats.
And so, in the dark of night, long after Ian is in a deep sleep, my nightly mission has become my new normal.
One minute, just 60 seconds is all I get.
I assume my position as the sentry.
Frozen under the detector, I wait for the start of the bleating series with my hand on Ian’s bedroom door handle.
As the sixth bleat echoes away, I swing open his door to avoid creaking and race barefooted to the galaxy light fixture he insists he needs at bedtime.
A stealth olympian.
I leap over the areas of the rug where the padding underneath is tired and makes a crunchy sound.
Bounding to the light, quickly turning it off, and escaping undetected is vital.
Nobody in their right mind wants to wake an over-active 5-year-old.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
I am humbled by this feat each time I reclose his door without making a clicking sound and before the alert begins its next cycle.
Do you know how fast 60 seconds can go by?
There is no skipping this most important mission.
Ian’s light fixture has to be turned off nightly to preserve the life of the batteries.
After all, the smoke detectors have them all.
I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy, I will not go crazy.
I don’t have luck with home appliances, I guess:
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