Nightmare on Milledge Street

Over the summer I had been hearing mysterious noises in the walls of the second story of my house. My husband convinced me it was birds for a while, but I had this foreboding feeling that it was something else.

Last month I hired Handyman Dave to do some much needed repairs to my office and house. While he was replacing a light fixture on the second story landing near my office, I heard his ladder shudder in a way that wasn’t very safe. Then, I heard him say in a murky tone, “Mrs. Blount, You have rats.”

I peered around the corner at him, “Rats?”

“Yup, one just ran across the vent here.”

“Ok. Well, I’ve got rat poison. Will you put it up there for me?”

I got it for him and he found the access door to the attic just outside my son’s bedroom, poked his head up there to place the box of rat poison as I supervised from several feet away. Then, I heard his muffled voice say, “Mrs. Blount. You have bats.”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about!?”

“I can smell the guano and … hear that sound?” He pulled his head from the access and replaced the door. Sure enough, I heard the sound I'd been hearing all summer long - scratching, fluttering and muffled screeching sounds.

I stood there in disbelief as I pondered what to do next. Action. Yes, I needed to call somebody. Luckily, my sister gave me the name of a pest control company to contact.

I made the call and within a few days a pest control truck arrived in front of my house. When the man got out of his truck, he stood there a moment and said, “Yes 'mam, I smell ‘em. They’re all over the neighborhood.”

I said, "Are you the bat man?"

He responded, "No 'mam, I'm the Bat Specialist!" Then, he whirled around and I noticed he was wearing a cape with the letters “BS” emblazoned on it! Those particular letters didn't impress me much, but I had to hope that Bat Specialist is what they meant.

The Bat Specialist walked around the house and immediately discovered the bat access on the roof. A plan was made for his return to insert some kind of contraption that would allow the bats to leave the house but not be able to return. Then, once they are gone, he would return to plug the bat hole completely to prevent the bats from coming back to roost in my house.

The day finally arrived when the Bat Specialist (cape billowing) installed the bat pipe to my roof. He encouraged me to go out at dusk and watch the bats leave for the last time that night. I was so intrigued by this idea and at dusk I did exactly that. I ran out to my backyard to watch the bats' mass exodus. I waited and waited. Finally, I heard some scratching and screeching at the roof line, but nothing was exiting through the pipe contraption. I was worried. Why weren’t they leaving yet? More scratching and louder screeching. Horrors! They were trapped! Not one bat managed to get out that night. I went back inside and bit my nails and worried about what was going to happen next. My husband wasn’t home and my son’s bedroom is upstairs.

I made my son sleep downstairs that night – just in case. I slept with one eye open and listened as the bats continued to screech for most of the night. It was a horrible sound.

The next morning, I crept up the stairs to see if any had gotten inside. Sure enough, there was one fuzzy, black bat clutching the edge of the attic access exactly where Handyman Dave had been last week. I ran back downstairs and called the Bat Specialist. He was asleep! And, at 9:00am, he seemed rather unconcerned at my plight and said to call him back if MORE got in! More!!! I was a wreck.

Thank goodness my accountant was coming that day so I wouldn’t be all alone with the bats. In fact, the accountant proved to be a hero by removing the bat for me before he left for the day. Imagine that?! An accountant as a hero!

That evening I attended my son’s football game, so we weren’t home at dusk. We were excited and carefree after a big team win upon arriving home. I had forgotten all about the bat problem and had begun to settle down with my computer to continue working in the living room and my son had gone upstairs to his room. In my peripheral vision I thought I caught some movement in the hallway. I looked up just in time to see a large winged thing swooping past the doorway.

“Bat!” I screamed. I tossed my computer on the couch and crept toward the hallway. I called out, “Stay where you are, Jeb, there’s a bat down here!”

He yelled back, “I see it! I’m on the stairs. I’ll get the rackets!” Teens and weapons! Good gravy.

“No! Stay away from it! I’ll call your uncle and cousins to help! Run, run away, keep running!” (Monty Python’s, The Holy Grail) Jeb armed himself with two tennis rackets and was ready for battle. He knew this might be the one time he had license to break things in the house if in pursuit of the bats from Hell and to save his mama. I can’t say he was wrong.

Meanwhile, I was still in the living room armed with a cell phone in the right hand and snarling, mini dachshund in the left, desperately trying to call my brother in law. He is the only one close enough who has had plenty of experience battling bats along with my teenage nephews, and I needed them all to come rescue us.

As I was talking on the phone, the bat in the hallway apparently heard me. It suddenly flew into the room heading straight for my forehead! His beady, blood red eyes locked with my surprised, chocolate colored eyes. He zoomed toward me and I flung my head back Matrix-style, narrowly avoiding collision. Unfortunately, my arms also flung out dropping my cell phone and tossing my surprised dog to the floor as my feet flew up simultaneously. I landed on my backside staring up at a rather triumphant bat.

I quickly scrambled to my phone yelling, “Can you hear me? Hello!?” only to discover I had somehow placed my brother-in-law on hold. I tried to push the button to unhold the call as I commando crawled toward the dining room door, ducking my head each time the beastly bat dive-bombed me. After reaching the other room, I slammed the door shut against the screeching bat and noticed my dog, Peanut, staring indignantly at me from across the room. I could see that she was considering which shoe she would poop in later to punish me for daring to drop her on the floor.

I ran to the kitchen to find my son snickering and brandishing his tennis rackets. I ignored his mirth as he coughed that he was going in after the bat in the living room. I’m glad he thinks this is so funny. “I’ll get a wet towel to throw on it!” I said. Suddenly, I heard my phone ringing somewhere.

“Hello.” I said.

“We’re coming. What happened? I heard a scream and then a thud! I thought an intruder had gotten in and attacked you!” yelled my brother-in-law.

“No! It was the bat, you fool! The bat dive-bombed me and I fell down!” I said.
Silence. I’m sure I heard a bit of snickering on the other end just before he said, “OK. We’re on our way. Lock yourselves in a room.”

I guess I’m the only one who realizes these aren’t butterflies hanging out in my house?

I got the wet towel and Jeb and I headed toward the living room. He eased the door open. Swoop, swoop, swoop. There is nothing so creepy as a big, freakin’ bat swoopin’ in circles around your living room light fixture. Jeb moved into the room with his rackets and I stood at the door with the towel. The bat immediately swooped at him and Jeb swung, but missed. I screamed – that was my contribution.

I said, “Do you want to use the towel to knock him down?” He tried it and missed again. That thing was fast!

We left that room and headed upstairs to get more rackets. We heard a scratching sound in my office. Jeb moved in, rackets outstretched. Again, I hung by the door. The sound seemed to be coming from the closet. He slid it open and - HORRORS! - another bat flies out and straight through the other door to Jeb’s bedroom! Jeb opened the attic walk-in access door and two more swoop out of there and start dive-bombing him.

I screamed, “Get out, get out!”

Jeb yelled, “I can’t, they’ve got me trapped!”

As I considered how I was going to rescue my son, I saw him swing both rackets several times until he finally made contact and knocked one bat flat against a futon. The other bat had flown into Jeb’s bedroom to join the first one. We both ran toward the stunned bat and Jeb trapped it between the two rackets before it could get its’ bearings. I ran ahead down the stairs and opened the front door with Jeb close behind me. He goes to toss the bat outside only to discover the bat isn’t there. We have no idea where it went! Either it fell out in the house or we missed it flying off outside as soon as we got to the door. We have no idea but it was very disheartening after all that work.

It occurred to me about that time that the attic door was still open and that’s where the bats had migrated to after being trapped on the other side of the house the night before. That air draft was leading them to that door to get out! I had to go back up and close it. Jeb refused to go back up anymore and I didn’t blame him. I took the rackets from him and told him to go to the kitchen. I marched steadfastly back up the stairs and saw that three bats were busy swooping in circles around the light in Jeb’s room. I slammed his doors shut and then crept into my office and quickly slammed the attic door shut too. I went back downstairs to wait in the kitchen for help.

My family did come, but were only able to find one bat and remove it. They were very disappointed and so was I. The rest of the bats had hidden themselves well to await another opportune time to attack me. I packed up myself and my son and slept at my mother in law’s house that night. Then, I went to the beach for the weekend for much needed R&R.

Meanwhile, the so called “Bat Specialist” came back and fixed his rather imperfect bat removal contraption and assured me the bats would be able to leave THIS time. I was afraid to believe him and was not holding my breath. But I was holding my back which was a little stove up after my Matrix moves.

It took several days, but eventually they did leave. We had a few more nights of battling with the leftover bats, but by then my son became very apt at slapping those suckers down (only stunning them) and putting them outside to go on their merry way.

I am completely traumatized, but my back has recovered from my fall at least. I still sleep with one eye open and listen for the telltale screeching and scratching that accompanies the bats' presence during the day. I fear I will hear that sound even when it is no longer there. Halloween approaches, bats still swoop around the street lights in the neighborhood and, our house is the Nightmare on Milledge Street.

Don’t close your eyes, My Pretties! We’re watching you!! Screech, Screech, Screech!

Last hours

When my mother died last year, it was a tragic experience for me even though she was elderly and had been sick in recent months. I lived 10 hours away and didn't realize how quickly her illness had progressed. She was good at keeping secrets about herself right up to the end.

I got the call that she was in the hospital on a Sunday afternoon. She'd been in the hospital several times in the past couple of years, but usually released fairly quickly. This time seemed different. I didn't take any chances and threw essentials into the car and headed north. I felt frantic that I wouldn't make it in time. No one had said she was dying, but I think I felt it sort of like a distant ache. The thought of not being able to see her made me feel completely desperate. So I drove as fast as I thought I could get away with on I-75 and prayed hard through my tears. I hoped that she knew I was coming.

I made it to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. One sister was there and one was still on her way. There was no way to prepare for what awaited me in my mother's room. She looked like a child. She had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis only six months earlier and now could barely breathe. I tried not to appear shocked, but I was. It was all I could do not to sob for her right there.

Instead, I walked over and took her hand and said, "I'm here now, Mom. I'm here to stay with you." I spent the next several hours making sure her oxygen mask stayed put, helping her brush her teeth, wash and brush her hair, take small sips of water and small bites of food.

I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my brain just couldn't believe this was real. I kept thinking that the doctors are going to tell me I can take her home soon. I was trying to figure out which room in my house to put her in that she'd be comfortable. I vascillated between knowing she was close to death and thinking she's gonna be fine just like always. I didn't want to see the signs that this was it. I also wondered if she knew how bad her condition was. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything I wanted to say. If I'd known these were truly her last hours on this earth, I would have. There were so many things I wanted to ask her about.

My mother, in a last burst of energy, had sent me on an errand to get some things for her from her house as if she believed she'd be fine, too. I was coming back to spend the night with her again. When I returned to her room, the nurses were all quiet just outside her room and they said they were sorry. It didn't register for me. I just smiled politely and moved toward her room. I found my sister holding my mother's hand, but the oxygen machine was silent. A priest was in the room. Mom was gone.

That scene still haunts me. I never thought it would be so hard when my parent died. We think to ourselves all along that when our parents die it will be natural because they will be old and will have led a good, long life. We think it'll be sad, but death is a part of life, right? No. It's much more impactful than that. It's hard to reconcile that my mom isn't here at all anymore. I missed my chance to say what I needed to. She'll never know.

While my sisters and I were cleaning out my mother's house, I found a picture of my mother as a cheerleader for her high school. It is the best picture of her posing with her fellow cheerleaders with their arms thrown up in the air and they have big smiles on their faces. I realized I hardly know anything about that young girl in the photo. I wish I'd asked.

I know you've heard it before, just like I'd heard it before. But, here's hoping that this time you'll really hear it. Tell your loved ones again that you love them. Listen to your parents' stories about their lives before you came along. Don't wait to say what you need to say. What if those last hours come before you're ready and then they pass you by?

Oh, that photo of my mother is sitting prominently on a table in my living room. That young girl has a smile like mine. I see her every day. I think she knows.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

I, personally, am hoping for a better year myself. 2009 was a tough one. I know I haven't posted in a long time, but I was rather busy. My mother passed away last July and it's taken this long for me to come out of the fog of grief. Following my mother's death, I left my wonderful job in Florida as a Licensed Mental Health Counselor and moved back to my hometown in Georgia. I miss my job, but I really needed the break.

Florida and Georgia don't reciprocate licenses, so I can't practice here until I take the GA state test. I'm feeling unmotivated to do that right now, so I'm doing something different and am enjoying it. I get to stay home like I've been dreaming of for the past couple of years and I get to spend more time with my family.

Speaking of family, I have two sisters who live relatively close by and we have begun to relate on a deeper level in the past year due to my mother's illness and subsequent death. Sibling relationships can be so complicated, but as time goes by we begin to realize how important we are to each other. We are the only ones who can really understand and appreciate where and what we've come from - and, overcome. I feel lucky to have them now more than ever.

This past year has given me a lot of material that I'd like to expand upon in future posts. Topics like grief, sibling relationships, parent/child relationships, loss of parent, and so on.

I look forward to sharing with you and hope you will eventually feel comfortable commenting on my topics or asking questions. Until then, may common sense be your guide and peace of mind follow close behind.

Center Stage

Last month my family experienced a bit of medical drama. My son was playing second base during a very intense baseball game. The score was 3-2 in our favor in the 4th inning and all of us in the stands were cheering for our boys to hold their opponents back.

The other team has a great player who stepped up to bat and we were all nervous about him hitting a homerun. Instead, he hit a high pop fly between the second baseman (my son) and right field. My son backed up intending to catch it, but didn't call it out. The right fielder rushed forward with the same intention and didn't call it out. The inevitable occurred and my son fell backward and hit his head on the right fielder's knee. He got up a bit dazed but seemed to be okay. In an extaordinary feat, the right fielder actually came up with the ball and the play was saved! We groaned and then cheered in unison. The coaches ran out and asked all the right questions and my son gave all the right answers and the game resumed.

Another batter came up and popped another fly ball to my son who caught it for the third out - like a pro! The crowd was ecstatic! Then, suddenly my boy began to cry and appeared to be in distress. The coaches all ran out and talked to him but couldn't make sense of why he kept talking about what he'd forgotten.

The parents around me were all expressing concern, so I went to the dugout to see what the hullabulloo was about. I admit to thinking that my boy was over-reacting as he usually does as an 11 year old. I was ready to tell him to "man-up"! But, I quickly assessed that he didn't know what he was talking about and his brain circuits seemed to be on standby. His team mates could see I had suddenly gotten serious. They packed up his gear for him as I questioned my son and then I stood up straight and announced quickly that we were leaving for the hospital.

I couldn't walk fast enough as my mind replayed the recent tragedy about that actress, Natasha Richardson, dying of what seemed like a minor head injury on the ski slopes. I can't explain the way all my motherly instincts kicked up a notch when I realized my child may really be in danger. I had horrible visions of a tiny blood vessel in his brain leaking slowly as we raced toward my car. Everything seemed to move in slow motion although I was told later that I had moved myself and my son out of there with lightening speed. My heart was in my throat as my baseball friends helped me get our stuff in the car and wished us God Speed as I spun out of the parking lot.

My son continued to sound like a broken record all the way to the hospital. He kept repeating, "Did I get hit by the ball?", "Where are we going?", and "Are we going to the game, now?" til I thought I'd scream in frustration. I started off answering his questions truthfully, but when I realized he wasn't retaining my answers, I just started saying "yes" to all of them instead of wasting my breath. It turned out, after spending four hours in the emergency room with some strange people and $1700 later, that he had a mild concussion with amnesia and was going to be just fine. He has never remembered the actual incident, but since it's not necessary for college, I figure that's alright.

The lesson here: In baseball, always call, "I've got it!" when going for the pop fly. And, try to avoid the ER on Friday nights if at all possible.

Most of our friends expressed appropriate concern by calling or texting the next day to make sure our son was alright. However, there's always those one or two people who get all caught up in other people's drama and insist on making it there own. The coach, for a short time, blamed himself for letting my son continue to play after the collision. Guilt, Guilt, Guilt! I was able to convince him finally that he needn't lose any more sleep about it.

Another parent (I'll call her Patty) apparently was crying at the field after we left it - as if my son had died. She made up a story that my son had hugged her in his delirium and lamented to her about how he couldn't remember anything. (He was never anywhere near her during the whole incident.) Patty also told several people (not present at the game) that my son had been violently ill on the field after his fall. (Not true and ewwww!)

I began to feel like our experience had be intruded upon and made a spectacle of by someone else's unwarranted needs and behaviors. Granted, it was a disconcerting situation, but it was not tragic and I resented anyone trying to make it so. For the next two weeks, every time we ran into someone from our baseball field, I found myself subjected to the most bizarre rumors.

Most of us appreciate a little sympathy or empathy, but stealing another person's drama to gain center stage...oh, please! If you find that you are one of these people, try noticing the reaction you truly get from those who have known you a while - averting or rolling eyes, stepping away, mumbled "oh, really's"- to your seemingly amazing stories. Is that really what you are shooting for?

The lesson here: Being on center stage when you haven't been called there can have the effect of making you an outcast.

Redneck Whisperer

There's the Horse Whisperer, the Dog Whisperer, the Sales Whisperer, and now...the Redneck Whisperer!

My husband and I practice a rather disconcerting method of communication. Disconcerting to others, at least. For us, it is just our way. We have been together for most of our lives and have always bantered with teasing and incessant sarcasm. I imagine, to others, that it must sound like we are always on the verge of a major argument, but a major argument between us is rare. We know where the lines are drawn and are usually careful not to cross over. When it does happen we are quick to address it and all is well.

One day, we were bantering about the traditional roles of men vs. women regarding the household chores - an age old argument. I was trying to help him understand that I am tired of working outside the home and doing everything inside the home on top of it. A woman can only do so much before cracking up and I was feeling fairly close to going on a major shopping spree for therapy! So, we were discussing the benefits of his helping out and it went something like this.

Me: "I am feeling overwhelmed lately with the housework and would really appreciate some help from you."

Beloved Spouse: "Uh, huh." As he stares at his computer screen.

Me: "Hello! Did you hear me?" Looking a bit peeved.

Beloved Spouse: Looking up at me finally, "Sure, Honey, what was that again?"

Me: "I said I would really appreciate it if you could start doing your own laundry seeing as how you work from home and all. It would be easier for each of us to do our own laundry and that way you can't complain about the moldy smell when a load gets left in the washer too long. You'll be here to get it done yourself."

Beloved Spouse: "Um, yeah, I guess so. I'm just so busy, though. But, I see what you're saying." He smiles wryly at me then and adds, "Maybe I could get my girlfriend to help me out..."

Me: "Uh, huh. Tell her while she's at it she can do mine, too." Not the least bit phased, "And, maybe I should get out the old iron skillet and knock it upside your cheatin' head." (Imagine what you will.)

Beloved Spouse: "That's my little Redneck Whisperer!"

I have to admit that I like the title! It made me smile and, as I said, all is well. He's doing his own laundry, sort of, and I'm happy with his effort.