A letter to my daughter…

A Letter to My Daughter;

The time has come.

I must admit, knowing for years that this moment would be upon me, I was still caught off guard. I had no idea the multitude of emotions I was going to feel, seeing you sit among your classmates, in your cap and gown, as the speaker announced the Class of 2019. As your hand reached up to move the tassel from the right side over to the left, signifying the completion of your high school career, the tears began pouring from my eyes.

I suppose it may seem silly to some, but I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready for my job as your mother to be over. I have no idea how to move forward as a mother to a young woman. So please forgive me, as I am sure I will stumble along the way. I have had you all to myself for eighteen years. And I want more time. I am not ready for this to be over.

I will never forget the moment those two pink lines appeared, signaling the changes that would soon begin in my body. I will never forget the first time I felt the little flutter of kicks as you began making your presence known. As the months went by, and I was more than ready to have the heaviness of carrying you inside of me over, I would learn so much about your personality, and you weren’t even born yet!

You were ten days overdue. Even then, you were stubborn as hell. I should have learned in that moment, the extent of your stubbornness. There was nothing anyone could do to make you do anything you didn’t want to. It wasn’t until we were both exhausted, and our heartbeats and blood pressure were dropping, the risk too great to both of us, that the doctors in the room decided to take action. After 18 hours of intense labor, you had to be dragged, kicking and screaming into this world.

As the months went by, you taught me how to be a mother. I must admit, I was probably more nervous with you than I was with your sister and brother. I read every book on what to expect, through each month or stage along the way and which milestones you should be hitting and when. You were a great napper but would only sleep through the night if you were walked and sung to. I was sleep deprived for years, but I loved every minute of it!

And true to your personality, you did things when you were good and ready. You were independent from the beginning. Never fearing the strangers around you, or being out of my line of sight, you were off on your own adventures. You waved goodbye on your first day of daycare, with no tears or drama. I doubt you knew I went to my car and cried like a baby, seeing your two-year old self walk into that room of strangers, with out a care in the world.

I remember your first days of preschool, and kindergarten. Your first temper tantrum. WOW! Over and over again, you showed me your fierceness and independence. You never wanted to fit in, nor try to morph into those around you. And you have always excelled at voicing your displeasure at things that do not go your way.

Maybe that is why it comes as no surprise that you were anxiously wanting to grow up and get on with your life. School was never your thing, nor were clubs or sports, or group activities. You preferred beating a drum all your own.

I was the hardest on you. I am sorry about that. I suppose because you remind me so much of myself. I want you to be so much more than I ever was, and I definitely pushed you. You, of course, pushed back.

I watched you walk down that aisle yesterday, that beautiful smile across your face, as you looked at me and said, “I did it, Mama!” and my heart ached once again. Another symbol that my job is over. This is it. I don’t get a do-over, or more time. You are off to begin your new life.

I probably embarrassed you after the ceremony when I grabbed you and began sobbing, my head tucked into the crook of your neck. You are now as tall as I am, and more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

I will feel this heartache for a while, I suppose. It seems incredible that these years have flown by so quickly, and my role is now changed. I wasn’t ready. I am not sure if I ever will be. My heart is breaking into a million pieces, but I expect this is the same feeling the countless mothers experience throughout their lives.

You taught me how to be a mother. I can never thank you enough for that. It has been the most difficult journey of my life, and the most beautiful and rewarding. I am immensely proud of the woman you are growing into, and I hope that throughout the years, you will hold that independence and strength inside of you. As you struggle, and experience roadblocks and failures along the way, I hope you know you can always lean on me for strength. I will always be here, cheering you on.

I know that I was not perfect, but I hope you know how much you are loved, and I tried to show you how much I loved you as often as I could. I never cared whether you were the smartest or the most athletic, nor the most popular or the most beautiful. I have always been in awe of your ability to walk away from anything that does not serve you, including the need to please others. Your character traits will take you far in life, so hold on to them.
I am still on the journey of discovering who I am, and more than anything, I wish you happiness. I hope you take the time to learn about who you are and the things that bring you joy. I hope you reach for the things in life that are important to you, no matter what the world whispers in your ear, look for what you are passionate about. I hope you choose kindness over judgement, and forgiveness over anger. There will be many times when that will be real struggle. Learn to let go of the things you cannot change and as I always say, “You have no control over others, you can only control how you respond.”

And above all, know that you are loved unconditionally and will always have a mother who will support you and love you, for exactly who you are.

It has been an honor being your mother, and I am excited to see what life has in store for you. You are and always will be, my baby girl.
Love Always,
Your Mama

❤️ Richelle Duffield
Matthew Wild

Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, hat and closeup
Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, standing and hat
Image may contain: 2 people, including Theresa Whitlock-Wild, people smiling, grass, child, shoes, tree, outdoor and nature
Image may contain: 3 people, including Theresa Whitlock-Wild and Matthew Wild, people smiling, people standing and outdoor

When angels have to leave…

Image result for faith hope and love
“Mama passed away”
 
It’s six am, and I am eight hours away from home. This is the text message I wake up to. I set down my phone and lay there.
The hotel room is modern, with sharp edges and a cold surface. It seems colder now.
I turn my head. Laying next to me is my baby boy. He is not so little anymore, but when he sleeps, he still reminds me of the baby I held all those years ago. His little upturned nose, long dark lashes laying across his sweet face. His mouth is open slightly, and his hand is near mine. I reach over and gently touch his cheek.
 
She is gone.
 
The thought seems foreign to me for a moment.
 
I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.
I had seen her the month before, but it was a whirlwind of people and activity, so visiting with her was short. Matthew said she was having difficulty breathing, but I still refused to accept that she could be close to the end.
 
I quietly rolled over to glance at Matthew.
He is laying in his wheelchair, pillows tucked around him. Blankets piled on top of him. Not much is seen except his head poking through. His mask moving in and out with each breath the machine pumps into him.
 
How will he take this news? A tear slides down my cheek, and I flash through the memories of when I had first met her and her family. So many smiles, so much laughter, even in the painful moments.
 
Anticipatory grief is knowing what is coming, being helpless to stop it, yet still feeling the heart break, even after you have prepared for it.
 
This time is no different.
 
I knew she was in Hospice. I knew she was tired of fighting. She was in pain. She was hurting. And selfishly, I wish she would have held on.
 
She was so loved by so many. A mother to many, and a woman who was known for her friendship as much as for hard work ethic, her love of family, and her laugh. Her sweet and caring nature was easy to love.
 
I doubt I will ever be immune to the sting of hearing when someone has passed. I have seen it almost daily on Facebook for years now, another angel has gotten their wings from this disease called ALS. This may be why I don’t visit the support groups anymore. I meet them, grow to love them, only to lose them.
 
This family is another one I have come to know and love, and it makes the loss that much harder.
 
I had the honor and the privilege of watching a family come together during chaos and sadness and hold each other up.
To say I was jealous would be an understatement.
The strength this family possesses, and the love they have for one another has been inspiring to watch.
I witnessed a man, weary and worn down, still get up every day. Even at times where he probably felt he couldn’t muster up the strength to continue, they circled around him, supporting him, so that he could care for her in her last years. Eyes that hold pain, but shoulders that continued to carry the burden and grief of it all.
 
Her daughters cared for her with comforting hands, helping with showering and dressing. But more than, they were pillars during times when the disease became too emotional for her to hold in. They allowed her her tears and her grief, so that she could show a courageous face outside the walls of their home. Grandchildren that wanted to be with her all the time, no matter that towards the end, there was a constant reminder of her illness wrapped across her face to help her breath.
 
I am not naïve to think they did this perfectly. There is no perfect. And there is no right or wrong way to deal with a diagnosis like this. But if I could look to a family who handled this with grace, support and love…this family came together during the most difficult of times and I am in awe of their strength and determination to walk this journey together, side by side. I wonder if they know how truly lucky they are to have each other. So many other families are torn apart, but this family seemed to huddle even tighter together.
 
I can’t help but hurt for her family now. This woman was giving and kind. She wanted to support others as they traveled the same road she was on. She wanted to lend comfort and wisdom and she wasn’t shy in schooling those about the ins and outs of ALS.
I have no doubt that those who walked away, or lost touch with her after those three letters consumed her life will have guilt. Somehow, I just know she wouldn’t want that though. She has found peace. She is no longer trapped inside a body that refuses to move, and the pain is gone.
 
I lay there for a while longer, staring at Matthew. Do I tell him? Or do I wait?
He must feel me staring at him because he turns his head and opens his eyes. I begin the process of hitting buttons to move wheelchair plates down, and seat positions up, and more buttons for machines that I still hate, the beeping always so loud in my ear.
 
I sit next to him on the bed.
 
“Kathy passed away last night.”
 
Matthew winces. We are both silent. What more can be said? Our eyes fill with tears, but no words are spoken.
 
Our drive home that day was filled with quiet solitude. There is nothing else that can be done. And that is the hardest part of all.
 
And our hearts are broken once again…

sharing is caring…

Image may contain: text
Tonight, I want to share an article that was sent to me recently. It has some good thoughts about the stresses that many of us deal with on a daily basis.
For example…Guilt!
 
Oh my! I could write a book about just that emotion!
 
So. Much.Guilt!
 
I do not understand why there is guilt, but it is there in bucket loads. I am never doing enough, trying hard enough, or just the fact that I feel I am “never enough” is all it comes down to.
 
I live with guilt that my children are growing up and will remember their stepfather as someone who was dying during their formative years. Worse yet, I feel guilty that they had no choice in this part of their lives, I simply made the decision for them.
 
I feel guilty if I feel I am neglecting Matthew. I know he is a grown man and can and will tell me when he needs something, but damn if I don’t carry the weight of each decision on my shoulders.
 
While being a caregiver can never truly be understood until you are actually in those shoes, I feel it is always good to try to find empathy and compassion for those who are in a role that we may find ourselves in one day or simply to offer someone a place to fall apart if necessary.
 
Really, the world just needs more people to take the time to learn about the plights of others, to hear their stories without judgement and to, at the very least, offer a bit of kindness. At the most, really try to step up for those they can, and offer empathy.
 
And if you are a caregiver…allow yourself some grace, damnit! It is hard to be selfless and giving and even harder if you are doing it all by yourself. Remember, you are only human, and you are doing the best you can. Some days may not feel like it, but you are worthy, and you don’t need to think years down the road…just breathe, and make it through today<3
 
I am also sharing this article because I am tired, and my words just are not flowing like they normally do. I decided to let someone else do the talking instead. Yet here I am, still typing…
 
Ok..read it if you can..I’ll shut up now:)
 
 

sorry you had to see that…

Image result for memes from steel magnolias

I’m sorry you had to see me like that today.

I try to keep that side of me hidden from the rest of the world. Well, except Matthew. He has seen it a few times. If only I had known you were going to walk in, I would have pulled it together before you saw me. You seemed shocked to see me like that.

Sorry.

It doesn’t happen all the time. Well, actually, that’s not true… it seems to be happening more frequently lately. Maybe it’s the holidays? Maybe it’s my birthday that is fast approaching? Maybe it is all the what if’s, the why’s, or the somedays….Trust me, if I could figure out how to get it under control, I would. I would do anything to numb this…to make it stop…I wish I could make it go away.

I wish I could describe what it is like. It is so strange, especially in the moment. One minute, life is fine and then, before I know it, I am just so angry.  I didn’t mean to let it happen. Sometimes these emotions just seem to overpower me.

Today though…today was different.

I was so tired this morning.

I just wanted to sleep.  Matthew wanted to sit up.  It wasn’t even 6 o’clock in the morning. Then I remembered…the house was a mess and my list of to-do’s is piling higher and higher.  I know, I know…I will always have so much to do, but today….today, it just seemed overwhelming.  My wrists and hands were already aching..and I remembered that it’s a “Shower Day.”

Matthew wants to sits up, but less than ten minutes later, he wants to go back to sleep. I am sorry. I know I shouldn’t be complaining. After all, I can still sit up. He can’t.

I know. This isn’t about me. I am not the one dying….There is no reason for me to be so irritated, right?

Sometimes, with every little need, from him…from my children…from everyone around me, I feel selfish for wanting something for myself. I want to ask what happens to me when I need something? What then?  But I shouldn’t think like that…should I?

I am the one who must get up, take his mask off…then wait till he decides if he wants to go back to sleep or not.

I am the one who has to reach for the cup to give him a drink.

I am the one picks him up and transfers him.

I am the one who helps him use the bathroom.

I am the one who feeds him.

I am the one who covers him when he is cold.

I am the one…

Today wasn’t any different than yesterday. And it won’t be any different than tomorrow.

But today, with each little need, and want or request, and with each thought of what I should get done: the shopping, the cleaning, the errands, the bills, the appointments, the kids, the animals, the cooking, the showering, rearranging the garage, finish the Christmas decorations, the homework….

It just seemed like so much.

And I snapped..

I never said a word. No outward reaction could be seen. But inside, I was seething.

I became so angry.

So angry, that if someone had said something to me in that exact moment…I could see myself going insane!

There was a big possibility that would have seen my face splashed across the newspapers, “Caregiver and wife of man with ALS has gone BESERK! Aggravated Assault and Battery Charges have been filed!”

I laid there, trying to force myself back to sleep. But soon the kids were running through the house, the doors were slamming,.the footsteps were stomping…and then with a quick kiss, they were gone.

Too quiet. Too easy to think, to remember, to analyze, to contemplate, and then over-react.

What was it my therapist told me?

“Anger is really just a mask for sadness and fear. It’s easier and more powerful to feel anger. Imagine when you finally admit what you are really feeling.”

I check with myself.

Yep, that is a whole lotta anger, ready to come pouring out of every cell in my body.

Instead of the rush of endorphins…the rage…instead, I realize…he is right.

I am not angry…I am sad

I am so unbelievably sad, and scared.

And just like that…I begin to cry.

I fall into a million pieces.

I am sorry that you walked in during the part where I was trying to put myself back together.

That probably wasn’t a pretty sight for anyone to have to witness.

It’s okay though.

I spent the day gluing all those cracks and crevices together.

I can’t say that I am back to my usual self.  There were a lot of pieces today.

And I can’t say I am going to sit in the emotion of sadness anytime soon. Apparently, that is a powerful emotion.

Instead, I turned it back into anger.

Anger I can manage.

Anger I can control.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I am sorry.  I hate when someone sees that side of me. It feels far too vulnerable, and too much to have to burden someone else with. And I just wanted to apologize for bothering you…

Let’s just pretend this never happened…what do you say?

 

❤ Matthew Wild

He waits…

 

Image result for sayings of him waiting

 

He waits…

There is not much more he can do these days, but to wait.

He knew the disease would slowly take his ability to move. A few days after his diagnosis, every website that explained the disease in gruesome detail explained to him what to expect. He would steadily become a prisoner in his own body. There would be no cure, no treatment to slow this process down, and no one with answers as to why this was happening.

He waited…

The days would pass, as they often do. Lives go on, people come in and out of his world, but still…he waits.

He is locked inside what was once a six-foot two-inch frame, of broad shoulders and the strongest of legs…legs that had easily ran up mountains, swam in oceans, and walked with confidence through any door. His fingers have curled, the tendons and bones are all that are left to show hands that had once caressed his wife’s body. His arms lay at his side. He no longer fights the urge to raise his arm to scratch an itch.

Instead, he calls out for someone to come wipe his eyes, to reposition certain body parts, to adjust and to maneuver.

And he waits…

His legs spasm, not in pain, but in the normal progression of the disease.  He glances down at his feet.

There is nothing normal about this.

His toes are beginning to resemble his fingers as they too, curl inward. The disease has ravaged his feet.  He stares at his toes, willing them to wiggle, to move, anything to prove that he hasn’t lost that small little ability.

He waits…

Nothing. No movement.

He glances up.

Rolling his head from side to side, he feels the heaviness that is slowly taking hold.  He knows what is coming.

Soon, the weight of his head will be too much.

He stares out the window.

There is a bustle of noise coming from the kitchen. Pots and pans clanking, the scraping of spoons as they are stirred by someone else. Someone else who can move easily from one task to another.

The familiar pang of sadness at his loss begins to creep into his consciousness.  He closes his eyes.

He has been waiting.  Waiting and wondering when the time comes that the smells that come from the kitchen become intolerable.  He wonders how long he will have to wait before he can no longer chew the food that someone else places into his mouth. His jaw is already sore.  It is getting harder to speak, and to chew.

Someone calls out his name.

The footsteps grow louder.  The door opens.

He has been waiting.

Waiting for someone to come and wheel the metal arm closer to the bed. To hook each loop into the bar, and effortlessly pick him up.

He glances at the reflection in the mirror.

Legs dangling, a large sling wrapped around his body, as he hangs helplessly from the air. He looks away.  He knows what he looks like.  He is naked, in the most vulnerable way a man can be.  There is no covering him.  He is long past embarrassment, but the vision of seeing his reflection staring back at him and being incapable of covering his most private of areas, is difficult to see, even for him.

Someone pushes and grunts and pulls to maneuver his body back into his wheelchair.

He waits…

He waits patiently for the metal arm to slowly place him into a sitting position in his wheelchair.  A blanket has been laid gently on his lap, his teeth are brushed, and his pills have been swallowed.  One of the pills catches on the way down, causing him to cough and choke.

Quickly, someone grabs the small machine and hose that is never far from reach. The machine is meant to simulate a person coughing.

He waits…

He waits and tries not to feel claustrophobic as the mask is tightly pressed against his mouth and nose. He couldn’t protest if he wanted to. The machine forces air so hard into his mouth and lungs, his cheeks swell against the mask. A click of the machine, and the reverse happens, as the air is pulled, almost violently from his body. It is the only way his body can cough. Over and over again, this procedure is done, the machine straining, as it forces air in and back out again.

He waits…

His airway clear again, he can breathe.

The momentary adrenaline rush at the lack of air moving fluidly through his body slows as his heartbeat returns to normal once more.

He is wheeled out into the kitchen. Someone has prepared dinner.  His meal looks less than palatable. Soft foods so as not to choke again. He sighs…He waits while someone sits down next to him, grabbing a fork and begin to gracefully place the food onto the prongs and then lift it to his mouth.  He opens his mouth…chews the food, moving it around his mouth, a bit of anxiety and hope that he can swallow this bite without choking again.  Small bites. Slowly….he swallows.

He waits.

He needs a drink. Watching, he leans forward with his head, lips outstretched towards the glass.

The effort is exhausting. He shakes his head. His jaw is tired.   The water dribbles down his chin.

He waits…

He waits for someone to grab a napkin and wipe up the droplets hanging, threatening to spill beside the bits of food he had been unable to hold in his mouth, that are now laying in his lap. He waits for everyone around the table to finish their meal.

He waits…

He maneuvers back into the bedroom to watch television.  Someone else needs to get ready for the day. The children are all running, a cluster of excitement as they get ready to leave and go about their busy lives. He positions himself in front of the screen.

He waits…

He waits for everyone to say “goodbye” as they run out the door. A quick kiss to the forehead, and the door slams behind them. He listens to the stillness of the house.

He waits…

The caregiver walks in. She swiftly picks up the remote, points it towards the wall, and clicks on the tiny buttons to the channels he prefers. The television has become his only outlet and escape from this disease. It is all he can do to pass his time now.  He can lose himself in make believe for just a while. For just a moment, he doesn’t have to think about what he needs, what others do for him.  He wants to go out. He feels trapped…trapped inside the house, and inside his body.

He waits…

He watches the hours pass.  Eight more hours before someone else comes to tell him about their day at work or running errands. Nine more hours before the kids arrive.  Ten more hours and everyone will gather for another meal around the table.  Twelve more hours and he can go back to bed.

He waits…

He waits for a text message, an email, a phone call. Anything that shows that he is still participating in his life.  He seldom hears from those who had once been so close to him. He wonders if they think about him.  He understands that the world kept turning, he just isn’t turning with it.

He waits…

He waits for visitors that never come. He wants to ask them to stop by, to sit and tell him about all the new experiences they are having. He supposes they feel guilty. He knows he makes them uncomfortable now.  If, and when an old friend pops in for a visit, it is always the same.  Big smiles to hide the awkwardness as they lean in for a hug. They complement him on his inspirational strength, but the smile falters. They fumble for words, for stories, and things to talk about. They feel guilty for still living, as they sit across someone who has so little time left.  They glance at their watch. They need to go soon, but they promise to come again soon…But they won’t, and they both know it.

He waits…

He waits for conversation…but the caregiver is busy taking care of him.  The caregiver is not there for companionship. They sit out in the living room, staring at their phone. Too busy counting the hours before their shift is over so they can leave. He understands…he is counting down for their shift to be over as well.

He waits…

He has to use the restroom again. He calls out for help. He waits until someone is finished doing their chores before they stomp in to help…again. He tries to hold it and tries desperately not to lose his patience. He hates asking for help, but there is no choice. He wonders what is taking so long this time.

He waits

He waits for hands to touch him, but the only caress comes in their efforts to be efficient.  He misses reaching his arms around a loved one for a hug. He misses breathing in their scent.

He waits…

He doesn’t want to ask for help again.  It feels as if it is constant.  The need for something, the constant requests for drinks, food, adjustments.  He feels like a burden.  Time is ticking by, and his requests grow more frequent with every passing day.

He wonders how his life came to this moment.  The limbo of wanting to live but waiting to die.

He looks out the window…

And waits…

Beep Beep!

Image result for sayings of the finding the humor in life

1:45 am

Beep beep!

“What was that?”

I lay there for a second, not really knowing what he is talking about. Matthew hasn’t slept all night, and I can’t figure out if he is just mumbling or needs something.

Beep beep!

I hear it too…

I sigh…the familiar sound of the dead battery in a smoke alarm. I wait, secretly hoping it might stop, but thirty seconds later…

Beep beep!

I decide I better take care of it before it wakes everyone in the house.

I groan…I am perfectly comfortable and all snuggled in. I don’t want to get up. For a moment, I just want someone else to take care of this. Matthew has already woken me at least 4 times in the last 3 hours. I didn’t want to get up. But as is the case in every situation in my life, there really isn’t anyone who is going to take care of this for me. I swing my legs over the bed and make my way up the stairs to where that offense noise is coming from.

There is no choice, I turn on the light in my daughter’s room to see what I am doing. She groans, and glares at me. I look around her room and moan. It is absolutely disgusting! Clothes, shoes, and makeup are strewn around the room. And old coffee cups, and mass quantities of old wrappers, and containers of junk food that had been snuck upstairs and kept hidden in a teenager’s room. I tell her she seriously needs to clean her room, even though I am sure this probably isn’t the time to be having this discussion.

I am fumbling with the smoke detector, trying to find where the battery is hidden. I rip the face off.

Nope!

That wasn’t it. I finally flip it over and see the small slot that needs a screw driver to pry it open. I settle for a dirty fork from the teenager’s bedroom.

I pull the battery out.

Satisfied that it will shut up and everyone can go back to sleep, I go to step off the chair.

Beep beep!

I quickly glance up.

Seriously?

I step back up on the chair. The mutilated smoke alarm is mocking me.

I understand just enough electrical to think I am proficient. I am proven drastically wrong in this moment. I pull out the small attachment of black and red wires still providing electricity to the dreaded alarm.

BIG MISTAKE!

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

The entire alarm system throughout the house is suddenly screaming at me.
I am reaching above my head, my shoulders burning from trying to hold my arms up for so long, as I am trying to jam the wires back into the alarm.

Finally…quiet…

Beep beep!

Damnit!

I hear Matthew trying to yell downstairs.

“What’s going on?”

I run downstairs.

“I don’t know how to make it stop!” I tell him, as I walk towards him. He is stuck lying there, his mask on his face, mumbling.
I get my head closer to his.

“What?”
“I have to pee!”

I groaned again…

“You scared the pee right outta me!” He is giggleing, but I don’t find the humor in this situation.

Beep Beep!

I grab the urinal and roll him over towards me.

I am feeling a sense of urgency, but am trying to be understanding to his needs..but I really just want him to hurry up and pee!

Beep Beep!

“Go find batteries”

Sure! Simple enough. I roll him back on his back, sit his bed up and remove his mask. If I have to be awake, then so does he!

Beep beep!

I walk out to the kitchen. The dishes from the night before are stacked in the sink. Food bits are still stuck to the plates. The pots and pans are still on the stove.
The teenager had put the food away but didn’t help with the dishes. Nor did the other two. Oh well! The teenager had gone to school all day, worked and gotten home late. My mood is bad enough that I don’t feel like nit picking, and I was just as capable of cleaning the kitchen last night after all my running around adventures, and tuck ins and such.

Beep beep!

I open the junk drawer. It is referred to as the junk drawer for a reason. Screw drivers, bit and pieces of miscellaneous things that will never actually be put back together are lying in there, awaiting the day I realize they belong in the garbage. There are more batteries than any one family needs in there. But do you think I can find the one size I need? Nope!

Beep beep!
Beep beep!

I look up towards the stairs…
Matthew is trying to yell from the bedroom.
“You need a D volt!”
I know this. I know he knows I know this. At this point, I am sure my children are all awake, so I yell from the kitchen.
“I know!!! And we don’t have any!”
“Look in something that has one, and take it out”

Beep beep!
Beep beep!

I go back upstairs, confused why the beeping is multiplying.
Teenager’s smoke alarm is beeping….and now another one is beeping!
I run downstairs, grab my shoes and tell Matthew I will be right back.
There is no choice, I have to go to the store and get batteries.
I jump in my car, in an over-sized mickey mouse t-shirt, yoga pants and my hair piled on top of my head. I assume there won’t be a soul around.

I assumed wrong.

2:30 am

There are at least 6 cars at the gas station
At this point, I really just want to get in and out!
I duck my head, run inside and grab four D volt batteries! Just in case!
Did you know those damn things are six dollars a-piece!!?
Why I am grumbling about the cost is beyond me, but at this point I am seriously irritated and just want the beeping to stop!
I drive like a maniac home and run inside.

Beep beep!
Beep beep!
Beep beep!

What the…?

I glance in the bedroom to find Matthew is falling over. I have to go and pull him to an upright position.
There are now three smoke alarms going off upstairs. I run upstairs and start replacing the batteries. I am patting myself on the back for being smart enough to grab several packages of batteries.

One smoke alarm, done!

Beep beep!

Hmmm…

Maybe I need to replace all of them before they stop?
Then I hear another one beeping downstairs.
Matthew is yelling downstairs…

“There’s another one down here going off!”

I switch two more batteries…
Still no change.
I run outside, and to the breaker box
I start flipping the circuits, trying to find which one is responsible for bringing electricity to the smoke alarms. No label…nothing…

I try the foyer, the bedrooms and bathrooms.

Beep beep!
Beep beep!
Beep beep!
Beep beep!

The beeping won’t stop!

I am Youtubing videos trying to figure out why. They are less than helpful. I am seriously at my wits end! I am texting some friends, apologizing for waking them, but at a complete loss of what to do. Poor Matthew is trying to give me advice, but he can’t look and see what I am doing, so he just tells me to do what I have already tried doing. Google! I attempt googling the brand. I am looking up the brand of smoke alarm. It says cut off the power supply. I can’t find the power supply!
If the batteries are replaced and they keep beeping, it means the smoke alarm is at “END-OF-LIFE”

Are you freaking kidding me?

Four smoke detectors are at the end of their life?
I didn’t even know they could die!
If I unplug them, the entire house starts screaming at me:
FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!
At this point, the kids just went back to sleep with a pillow over their head.
I am completely at my wits end…

3:00 am

I call 911…

I think this may be one of the most embarrassing moments of my life..

“911- what is your emergence?”

“Hello, this isn’t an emergency. But I can’t get my smoke detectors to stop beeping and I have tried everything”
I am pretty sure I am hanging my head in shame. The dispatcher makes me tell the entire story from the beginning. Yep, I feel like an idiot!

“I will send out a man to help now”
I hang up, feeling sheepish. Matthew tries to assure me that they see situations like this all the time.

Then I remember!

OH MY GOD! The dishes are piled all over, and I made salmon last night!

I don’t have a sense of smell. Yes, you read that right. I somehow lost my sense of smell in the last couple of years, but I am pretty sure the house probably wreaks like fish!
I scramble to start cleaning when I hear the knock at the door.

Damn!

I go to open the front door, and there are two huge guys at my front door, and a massive fire truck parked right in front of my house.

I am literally groaning inside!

The beeping hasn’t stopped but to add even more chaos to the situation, I closed the door, but of course there is another fireman walking in! I now have three huge firemen in my entry way, and my two dogs are going crazy! My old dog, who would let a burglar come in and never make a move, is now vehemently snarling and barking at these men, as the other dog is yelping and barking as well!

I am trying to calm them, but they are going crazy!
Two firemen walk upstairs…while the other one is trying to calm the dogs. Then, one of the dogs decides to pee all over the fireman!
Between the constant beeping, and the dogs barking, and Matthew asking what’s going on, I am literally just turning in circles.
The younger fireman of course walks into my kitchen.
He wants to help clean up the dog mess with paper towels.
I don’t have paper towels!
I am pretty sure I can’t be more embarrassed than I am right now…
Then I look up and realize that two of the firemen have just seen my teenager’s bedroom…
I.AM.Mortified!

At this point, I am pretty sure that if it is going to go wrong, tonight is the night for it to happen.

Suddenly, the beeping stops…

THANK YOU!

3:45 am – firemen leave…

4:00 am – I finally fall back asleep…

6:00 am – middle daughter wakes me up to talk
UGH! It is going to be a long day!

****
Long story, I know, but there is a lesson to be learned here!
Smoke alarms can actually die!
Three out of the four were seven years past their expiration date! My house is only 7 years old. That means the contractor put in old smoke alarms. Here is another helpful tip… put a carbon monoxide detector down low at an outlet. Carbon Monoxide stays low, and if the alarm goes off, it may be too late, as they are often installed too high to make a difference!
Another lesson learned…
Just do the damn dishes…especially if you cooked fish the night before. Those poor firemen. They were above and beyond polite, but inside, they had to be gagging!
I will be hanging my head in shame until the trauma of last night fades from my memory…but if it made you chuckle just a little…well, I guess there is that!

 Matthew Wild