At 1:32 this morning, the fire alarm in our hotel went off. It went off for a very long time. Singular, insistent beeps assailing occupants on all 19 floors. We woke, bleary-eyed and disbelieving, wondering if it was a smoke detector in our room, or elsewhere in the hotel. Eventually I found the hotel instruction book, and looked up the emergency information. It told us that if it were a false alarm, they would silence it and confirm by public announcement that they are investigating the alarm.
We heard the first announcement, stating they were investigating the alarm. We were to remain in our room and stay calm, said the announcement. It did not say to wait in our room and prepare for possible evacuation, which was what the instruction booklet said. I put on some long pants and began to scan the room for what I’d take if we had to go, wondering how much I could carry down 12 flights of stairs. I wondered if I should have my son put on shoes and socks, and I eyed my husband in his Father’s Day bathrobe; I’d be no warmer in my t-shirt and pants, as winter is a lousy time for a fire alarm. I stayed silent, deciding the only thing I had to do was model calm and patience to my son.
We heard nothing for minutes afterward. Minutes comprise enormous galleons of time at 1:30-something in the morning when you don’t know if you’re in a burning building or are completely safe. Surely it had to be a false alarm. Surely we weren’t going to end our lives in a hotel fire after an absolutely perfect day of family travel adventures. The confusing timelessness was jarring not only because you’re disorientated any time you’re awakened from a deep sleep, but because what came before was so right. We’d seen a Wooly Mammoth and the most astonishing wildlife photography to be amassed in one exhibit; we’d strolled and taken photos and told stories and reminisced; we’d dined on local cuisine and snacked vacation-style on miniature peanut-butter cups and hotel mints; we’d snuggled together to watch the end of Shrek II, a rare movie that my two guys, separated by four decades of age, enjoy to the same degree. We put my son to sleep feeling pleasantly exhausted and eager for the next day’s events. My husband and I stayed up just a touch later, as we were tired, too, but proud and happy to have crafted a day chalk full of family adventure moments we were sure our son would actually remember. The piercing, bleating, relentless alarm pierced our realm of contentment and security; danger intruded where there had been no thought of danger.
No doors opened on our floor, and our door was its regular temperature. Everyone was waiting, it seemed, and nothing was heating up, at least not on our floor. We heard the fire trucks arrive outside our window, first announced by their sirens, then the loud hum of the truck engines. As we awaited the “all clear” we decided to return to bed, and get comfortable, knowing we’d not be able to sleep, especially since we were likely to have a loud announcement come. It finally came, followed by noises that sounded more like whale song than any other type of informational sound signal. It was over.
So was my sleep. Or so I thought. Eventually I drifted off again, hearing my husband’s and son’s tossing and turning. It was not a restful sleep, but at least there was some time spent in slumber.
I’ve been exploring my response today. I’m tired, which is to be expected. If I had to guess, the entire roster of guests is exhausted; only the night-crew, who is now off-duty and sleeping, is likely to have an uninterrupted sleep cycle. I’ve been irritated at the slowness and inefficiency of the response, and the way it didn’t match what the book said they’d do. I’ve been frightened, thinking that this is how disasters happen, and no series of happy moments can prevent them if they are going to occur. I’ve been grateful that our experience only resulted in disrupted sleep, and that the grown-ups modeled well how to behave when the rules suddenly change. I’ve been a bit wistful and even mystical in my thinking – at first wondering if our Chanukah candles were the culprit, but only fear can create crazy thoughts – our candles had gone out by 7 pm, and the alarm sounded at 1:32 am. There’s no way we were responsible for the alarm, but in the absence of knowledge, the brain will supply even crazy stuff just to fill in the gap.
And then back to gratitude. It wasn’t our time. The miracle of old and the miracle of this morning are the same: that which I believe in, that which fuels me, has been sustained, even in the face of a threat to destroy it. Of course, it turns out there was no threat, just the possibility of threat. But that possibility alone, insignificant to the world at large, perhaps, was meaningful to our little family of three and all the other families – and the tour bus-load of senior citizens and all their loved ones – the fact that we are all alive, just one more day, makes life seem a bit more, well, miraculous. Our tired family ventured out this morning to have breakfast at a local diner, and later we’re heading out to tour a castle and see some holiday lights. And maybe we’ll go to bed early tonight, which doesn’t sound very exciting, but knowing that we can, that our little life is continuing, is the gift we’ve been given by the false alarm.