I was so happy to be back in my own bed. I snuggled beneath my fuzzy blanket, glanced at my teetering pile of books on my night stand, plugged my phone into my super-secret drawer outlet, and stared at the ceiling, the faint smell of chlorine from my evening swim still on my skin. I kicked my legs like a toddler with the thrill of being home.

Home did not return the favor.

At 1am, I was yanked out of blissful slumber by an automaton voice amplified by a chorus of beeps: “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Before I fully regained consciousness, I was standing upright, pajama pants swooshing around my legs from my super speed. Was the sound coming from the smoke detector above my bed? The one in the hall? Downstairs? All of them?

I slid open the pocket door to my bedroom, sniffing for smoke. Nothing. I flipped on every single light in the entire house as I scoured for the source. Thirty seconds felt like three hours, and then the voice and its greek chorus finally ceased.

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I have an issue with smoke detectors. I’m glad they’re there to (potentially) save my life, but it’s a devil’s bargain: traumatize you while keeping you safe. Set fire to your soul with false alarms.

For years I’ve traced my hate/hate relationship with these plastic demonic hockey pucks to, of course, the big line in the sand: Mike’s death. They obviously evolved from being necessary evil to enemy for life when I was the solo parent trying to protect the kids, aka give them a sense of normalcy when our entire life was a dumpster fire. The inevitable unexpected beeps — due to low batteries, power outages, ghosts — set me over the edge at a time when I had no reserves. No middle of the night help. No Mike.

But while walking the neighborhood waiting for revisions to this post to pop into my head — a key part of the process — I realized that narrative isn’t quite right.

I’ve been conveniently blaming the loss of Mike because that’s what I do. His death is the magnet to which the spiky metal shards of life are drawn. Bad day? Must be the grief. Can’t sleep? Widow stuff. Levitate out of bed at 1am over a false alarm? Obviously because I lost my husband.

Hmmm. Not this time.

I’ve blocked out the exact year (2010? 2013?) but I can picture our old house on Stones Throw Drive, and the night the carbon monoxide detector put on an avant garde performance. I did the same sort of levitating move before Mike even had the chance to react, and raced for the source of the sound: our daughter’s room. My running turned to flying when the carpeted bedroom floor met the hardwood hallway, and I did my best Jimmy ‘Superfly’ Snuka impression — followed by a face plant that knocked one of my (fake) front teeth right out.

You can guess what came next: split lip, chin bruises, banged elbows, a 2am rendezvous with the local firemen. All for a false alarm.

An hour later, everyone was piled into the big bed, the kids’ breath evening out as they drifted off, Mike’s arm sprawled protectively across me. But I couldn’t sleep. I was working too hard to not let my shaking shoulders bounce the bed. To not let anyone hear the sobs that heaved through my chest.

The healing process started and stalled and restarted. The bruises and the split lip began as a good story for work, but left a lingering green that no makeup could quite cover. The giant purple-yellow contusion on my hip ensured that for a few weeks I had to plan my approach into each new seat. And then there were the hours spent in the dentist’s chair, reinserting that wayward tooth. I asked the guys at the office, “Explain to me why you’d ever get in a fist fight? I think I know what it feels like now to get punched in the face. How could this be worth it? I totally don’t get it.”

But even after the physical injuries had healed, I stayed more fearful, more gun-shy, than I had been before. A month later, after biting into a taco and coming out with one less front tooth, the temporary having lost its gluey oomph, I finally had to fess up to Mike, “I’m having a really hard time getting over this.”

He nodded and took me into his arms.

I can’t remember how I dug myself out of that. Good care from him? A change of seasons? Space? An end to the ongoing dentist visits? Dunno. Time passed. I functioned again.

But those high-pitched beeps embedded themselves in my psyche… or perhaps somewhere deeper. In whatever part of the brain skips the thinking and goes straight to FULL BODY PANIC. I’m afraid of plenty of things: spiders, airplane turbulence, driving on windy roads, dentists. But there is something claw-like about smoke detector beeps and their hold on me. The talons are ten inches deep.

So there I was in the Treehouse, in that eerie quiet after the spectral voice ceased its FIRE! soliloquy, heart galloping in my ears.

After one more lap around the house, I climbed back into bed and opened up a book, since there was no way in God’s green earth I was getting back to sleep any time soon. So I might as well read… While, of course, intermittently wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

The next day, I made an executive decision. I could not do this two nights in a row. So I climbed up on my ladder and decapitated each and every hard-wired smoke detector from the ceilings, put them in ziplocs, then placed them in time-out in the garage.

That night I slept like a baby.

The next day Richie came over, and together we followed the YouTube video’s advice: blow air into the detectors and see if bugs come out. Two of the four produced a shower of gnats over the mudroom’s pristine white counter.

“Damn, Gina!” we said simultaneously.

Then we tag-teamed the re-installation, him up on the ladder, me handing the gnat-free units up for placement.

I’ve slept soundly (fingers crossed) ever since.

So, what do I do with this?

The only thing I can do: learn to accept that I’m gonna take on water every time a smoke detector beeps. Period.

Not because Mike died, though that didn’t help. Not because I’m broken or dramatic or need to try harder. But because one night I flew down a hallway to protect my kid and my face hit the floor, and then my brain filed that under NEVER AGAIN in a drawer I don’t have the key to.

Some fears don’t resolve. They don’t become an opportunity for growth. They don’t transform into wisdom. They just... stay. They get filed.

When this whole scenario happens again, which it undeniably will, my brain will do its encore performance: Mike is dead. My teeth are broken. My babies are unsafe. Curtain up, curtain down. I’ll watch it, score it like a bad talent show — zeros for everyone! — and move on.

I don’t have to love my triggers. But I do have to love, and accept, me.

Sleeping soundly until next time,

Sue

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