Knock-knock

The knock at our bedroom door at 12:03 AM did not wake me. My husband did. He said our son was at the door and I stumbled from bed and out into the hallway. (The last time one of my sons knocked at my bedroom door at midnight was August 5. That time that son had fainted and fallen backwards into the tub. He knocked because when he felt the back of his head, he pulled away a bloody hand. I ended up taking him to the ER–there’s a first time for everything–where the doctor stapled his 3 cm gash closed WITHOUT ANESTHESIA.)

But this was different.

My oldest son (who lives in the basement) was frantic because he came upstairs and smelled gas. I could smell it, too. I went over to the stove but it was turned off but the stench of gas was strong. My son had already Googled what to do and he said we needed to call 911 and leave the house. He was pacing and frantic.

I opened a window and the door and my husband appeared and we wandered in circles for a minute, trying to decide. My husband jiggled a knob and thought it had been loose and the gas smell dissipated some but my son appeared again with his socks and shoes on and can I just point out how unusual it is that he can even locate his shoes? He was prepared to evacuate. He could not believe we were not.

My husband and I went to the bedroom and decided that I ought to call 911, so I did and felt somewhat silly but better safe than sorry, right? The dispatcher transferred me to the fire department and they told me to get out of the house and that an engine was on the way.

We barely got everyone out of the house–my 82-year old mom was still navigating the front steps–and a firetruck with flashing lights pulled up in front of our house and three firemen walked up, weighed down with gear. The main guy asked me a few questions and they went into the house. After awhile–and after checking out the basement and the gas meter–they agreed that the stove knob had probably been on and my husband’s jiggling had turned it off. It was safe to go back in.

And the fireman told me we did the right thing.

We all went back inside and that’s when my other son–the one who lives on the main floor–told me that an hour earlier he’d come into the kitchen and noticed a burner on and turned it off. That was most likely the cause of the odor–or maybe it wasn’t completely turned off? At any rate, we all kind of wondered who exactly turned the knob–accidentally, of course–and we all denied that it was us. And we all promised that we would check the knobs on the stove before we go to bed. (My husband followed up with our landlord who said she’d also had trouble with the persnickety knobs on the stove.)

Anyway, after all the excitement, it was about 1:00 AM and we went back to bed. Only this time I did not gently drift to sleep. I tossed and turned until 3:30 AM. Once even the tiniest amount of adrenaline wakes me up, sleep eludes me.

I’ve reached the age when babies are long gone and so are teenagers. There’s absolutely no one who needs me at night, no interruptions to my sleep, no reason I can’t sleep.

And yet, despite my body pillow and the two down pillows to cradle my head, despite a warm bath most nights and despite a half hour of reading on my Kindle after a nightly episode of Frasier, despite no caffeine after noon–despite all my efforts to get a good night of sleep, I may or may not sleep. I might not fall asleep or maybe I won’t stay asleep. It’s a dirty trick and I don’t like it.

Last night, I was in bed, routine complete, ready to read at 11:00 PM. I am reading (for the first time) The Grapes of Wrath and I didn’t reach the end of the chapter for about an hour at which point a leg cramp struck, causing me to hobble out of bed to gobble a banana and drink some water. Then I went back to bed where I did NOT sleep for . . . an hour?

But maybe I’ll sleep tonight. One can always hope.

In the meantime, I’m going to go check the knobs on the stove.