In which it is revealed that I am useless in an emergency
Do I have to have fire-related trauma every May? Is it a tradition now?
Last year I posted about how my own stupidity filled our apartment with smoke, endangered our cats, and brought out the fire department. Yesterday's incident wasn't my fault, but I did act like an idiot.
Got home from work last night at about 7:45, tired and headachy and just wanting to chill. Almost as soon as I walked in the door, before I could change out of my work clothes, the fire alarm went off.
I don't mean our apartment's smoke detector. I mean the building-wide fire alarm.
As soon as I realized what was happening, I ran to the shelf where we keep the cat carriers. LC was crouched on the floor, frozen with fear.
thedeepquiet and I stuffed him into his carrier and I zipped it up. Then we looked around for Benny. Who was nowhere to be found.
The ear-splitting fire alarm is still going off, and now we can hear the sirens as the fire engines approach. I'm running through the apartment like a maniac, calling for Benny who, unlike LC, never comes when he is called.
I find him in our bedroom, under the bed. He's obviously terrified of the noise, and my yelling for him is not helping. I try to reach him and he retreats further under the bed.
thedeepquietgets the jar of treats and I shake it. This usually brings both cats running. He does not respond.
I should mention that we use the space under our bed for storage. It is crammed with plastic storage boxes containing sweaters, extra yarn, and stuff. The bed is also raised up on cinder blocks, which create more room for storage and also provide nooks for cats to hide in. So I'm flat on my stomach trying to reach the cat, who is hiding amid all these boxes. And who moves very fast.
Now I can smell smoke. The fire alarm is still ringing, and we can still hear the fire engine sirens. I'm completely panicked at this point, screaming for Benny to please, please come out so I can get both cats outside and tell the firefighters that
thedeepquiet can't get downstairs without help. Have I mentioned that we live on the third floor? Our room is really small; there's not much room to maneuver around the bed.
thedeepquietcan't maneuver around it at all, so she is waiting by her side of the bed, with the carrier, ready for when Benny comes out. I'm climbing back and forth over the mattress, trying to reach the cat. I'm knocking stuff over -- books, pictures, clothes, medical equipment. I'm tripping over boxes. Sweat is pouring down my face. Benny crawls under my nightstand, so I pick it up to flush him out. I pull the mattress half off the bed, trying to reach him. I pull the (extremely heavy) dresser away from the wall when he goes back there. Several times, I get a hand on part of his body, but he's fast and strong and he gets away from me. I'm crying and screaming the whole time.
thedeepquiet is trying to get me to calm down, but the room is so cramped there isn't a lot she can do to help.
I finally nail him in the space between the dresser and the bed, which is only about 18 inches wide. I hold him down while
thedeepquiet brings the carrier as close as she can reach. By this point he seems to be ready to give up. He doesn't struggle much as we stuff him in the carrier and zip it closed.
We're still smelling smoke, still hearing the alarm and sirens. I sling both carriers over my shoulder. I have to get the cats outside, I have to get help for my girlfriend. The elevator shuts off when the fire alarm sounds, and she can't climb downstairs alone. I don't want to leave her, I am terrified of leaving her, but that's the only way I can help.
I'm so scared I can't even figure out how to get downstairs. I start running toward the back stairs, then decide the front is better and run that way instead. I make it to the front vestibule, where five or six firefighters are standing, one holding a crowbar.
"My partner," I gasp, "Is upstairs, in apartment 307. She's in a wheelchair. She can't get downstairs alone."
"It's okay," one of Baltimore's Bravest replies. "It was a pot on the stove, on the second floor. Everything is fine."
I put my hand to my heart. "Thank God."
"You're a little late," the firefighter says.
"I was trying to catch these cats."
Now I want to get back upstairs as quickly as I can to reassure
thedeepquiet. The elevator is stil turned off. The alarm is still ringing, and I can still smell smoke. I run upstairs and through the open door of our apartment. "It's okay! Everything's fine! Someone left a pot on the stove!"
I put the cat carriers on the floor and put my arms around my girlfriend. I say, "Can we move to the first floor? Please, God?" Then I really start crying. It takes me a long, long time to stop.
Then we opened our mail and found out our rabbi is leaving.
Last year I posted about how my own stupidity filled our apartment with smoke, endangered our cats, and brought out the fire department. Yesterday's incident wasn't my fault, but I did act like an idiot.
Got home from work last night at about 7:45, tired and headachy and just wanting to chill. Almost as soon as I walked in the door, before I could change out of my work clothes, the fire alarm went off.
I don't mean our apartment's smoke detector. I mean the building-wide fire alarm.
As soon as I realized what was happening, I ran to the shelf where we keep the cat carriers. LC was crouched on the floor, frozen with fear.
thedeepquiet and I stuffed him into his carrier and I zipped it up. Then we looked around for Benny. Who was nowhere to be found.
The ear-splitting fire alarm is still going off, and now we can hear the sirens as the fire engines approach. I'm running through the apartment like a maniac, calling for Benny who, unlike LC, never comes when he is called.
I find him in our bedroom, under the bed. He's obviously terrified of the noise, and my yelling for him is not helping. I try to reach him and he retreats further under the bed.
thedeepquietgets the jar of treats and I shake it. This usually brings both cats running. He does not respond.
I should mention that we use the space under our bed for storage. It is crammed with plastic storage boxes containing sweaters, extra yarn, and stuff. The bed is also raised up on cinder blocks, which create more room for storage and also provide nooks for cats to hide in. So I'm flat on my stomach trying to reach the cat, who is hiding amid all these boxes. And who moves very fast.
Now I can smell smoke. The fire alarm is still ringing, and we can still hear the fire engine sirens. I'm completely panicked at this point, screaming for Benny to please, please come out so I can get both cats outside and tell the firefighters that
thedeepquiet can't get downstairs without help. Have I mentioned that we live on the third floor? Our room is really small; there's not much room to maneuver around the bed.
thedeepquietcan't maneuver around it at all, so she is waiting by her side of the bed, with the carrier, ready for when Benny comes out. I'm climbing back and forth over the mattress, trying to reach the cat. I'm knocking stuff over -- books, pictures, clothes, medical equipment. I'm tripping over boxes. Sweat is pouring down my face. Benny crawls under my nightstand, so I pick it up to flush him out. I pull the mattress half off the bed, trying to reach him. I pull the (extremely heavy) dresser away from the wall when he goes back there. Several times, I get a hand on part of his body, but he's fast and strong and he gets away from me. I'm crying and screaming the whole time.
thedeepquiet is trying to get me to calm down, but the room is so cramped there isn't a lot she can do to help.
I finally nail him in the space between the dresser and the bed, which is only about 18 inches wide. I hold him down while
thedeepquiet brings the carrier as close as she can reach. By this point he seems to be ready to give up. He doesn't struggle much as we stuff him in the carrier and zip it closed.
We're still smelling smoke, still hearing the alarm and sirens. I sling both carriers over my shoulder. I have to get the cats outside, I have to get help for my girlfriend. The elevator shuts off when the fire alarm sounds, and she can't climb downstairs alone. I don't want to leave her, I am terrified of leaving her, but that's the only way I can help.
I'm so scared I can't even figure out how to get downstairs. I start running toward the back stairs, then decide the front is better and run that way instead. I make it to the front vestibule, where five or six firefighters are standing, one holding a crowbar.
"My partner," I gasp, "Is upstairs, in apartment 307. She's in a wheelchair. She can't get downstairs alone."
"It's okay," one of Baltimore's Bravest replies. "It was a pot on the stove, on the second floor. Everything is fine."
I put my hand to my heart. "Thank God."
"You're a little late," the firefighter says.
"I was trying to catch these cats."
Now I want to get back upstairs as quickly as I can to reassure
thedeepquiet. The elevator is stil turned off. The alarm is still ringing, and I can still smell smoke. I run upstairs and through the open door of our apartment. "It's okay! Everything's fine! Someone left a pot on the stove!"
I put the cat carriers on the floor and put my arms around my girlfriend. I say, "Can we move to the first floor? Please, God?" Then I really start crying. It takes me a long, long time to stop.
Then we opened our mail and found out our rabbi is leaving.