I would like to get my hands on the bast#%& who designed smoke detectors and subject them to fifteen hours of non-stop beeping like we just experienced. It’s a form of torture right up there with waterboarding. First of all, why do these devices always decide to crap out and send out intermittent warning beeps immediately after we’ve gone to bed for the night? Was it an inside joke that made them purposely design this night-time-only feature into these gadgets?

As senior boomers, we’re ill-qualified and frankly, too old to be climbing ladders and trying to solve the problem ourselves—but we did try. Neighbours don’t appreciate calls for help late on a rainy night. Around 10:30 p.m., the beepbeep, beepbeep started. Figuring the problem was a dead battery, we got out our utility ladder and removed the 9-V battery from the beeping monster and replaced it with a brand new one. Chirping continued.

Next, we disconnected all three of the electrical wire connections inside the contraption—completely eviscerated it—then we stopped to pray. Chirping continued. Let’s try another new battery, I suggested. Chirping continued. Next, we removed the battery from the disconnected unit in my hand on the off-chance it was communicating with the ceiling wires through some strange code known only to smoke detector designers. Chirping continued.

Miraculously, our friend and neighbour heard our distress call, or the incessant beeping, and showed up in his pyjamas, messy hair, and umbrella and offered to help. Hubby and neighbour inspected the main fuse panel in the basement (the livingroom ceiling fan also mysteriously died) in case it was a tripped breaker. There were no labels indicating which switch was the smoke detector, and after surveying the mess we’d made with the offending detector, he pleaded defeat and went home. Who can blame him?

We’re now into the dark wee hours of the night, and I remembered we have a maintenance contract with Enbridge for electrical and plumbing issues that might arise beyond our normal HVAC equipment. I called their 1-800 number and, as expected, I got someone who spoke English with an accent so soft and unintelligible that I might as well have been talking to the wind. I managed to extract enough information from her to indicate that our plan did not cover smoke detector issues. Of course! Anything that is essential to saving lives would be excluded. A gadget designed to prevent us from letting the house burn down, became a gadget that made us want to burn the house down to stop the incessant chirping.

I not-very-politely asked her to get someone out here, regardless of whether I had to pay or not, before I went completely insane. We got an appointment for the next day. Then, hubby and I went to bed, unable to sleep because of the constant chirping that seemed to send amplified echoes through our entire ventilation system throughout the night. Even our old, deaf dog, who sleeps 23 hours a day, objected to the noise and kept fussing.

The Fix Is In – Along With A Surprise!

Later the next morning, our knight in shining armour—aka the electrician—arrived. We were tempted to throw a street party to welcome him. He calmly reinstalled the smoke alarm on the second floor that we had previously disembowelled, then checked that all our other alarms were in good working order. It was determined that the cause of the problem (I’m not making this up) . . . was not the smoke detector, but the carbon monoxide detector plugged into the wall outlet six feet below, next to the cold air return!! Oops! Not too embarrassing! As soon as he unplugged the carbon monoxide detector, the beeping miraculously stopped.

After gently explaining the features and operation of both smoke and carbon monoxide detectors (we are seniors, after all), the technician instructed us to go to Home Depot and buy a new carbon monoxide detector. The fifteen-hour marathon beeping session was the detector telling us it was time to buy a new one. Apparently, they have a fixed lifespan. He further suggested we look into getting one with a sealed lithium battery that never needs replacing. . . which I did that same afternoon. Seniors’ insurance against future disasters.

The technician was incredibly understanding. Apparently, his parents had a similar experience late at night about a year ago. Rather than disturb their electrician son, they chose to contact the fire department and before they knew it, their house was besieged by a crew of helmeted firefighters in full battle gear with a big flashing red fire truck and hoses outside. Not a recommended solution.

My apologies for my unkind words to the designers of smoke detectors. Well, a partial apology; they’re still more complicated than they should be. No instruction manual? No problem—Google it. It would help if instructions were printed on the casing. And, bless the holy mother of boomers, we were not charged for the technician’s visit, which would have cost us $248.00. Major kudos to the lovely Enbridge maintenance plan.

Wait! There’s More To This Story

Twenty-four hours later, the beeping started again. I propped a ladder up under each of our smoke detectors for easy, ongoing access so I could poke the button with a yardstick to stop the noise—only to have it resume a minute later. Again, I replaced all the 9-volt batteries. After a couple of days of this, I decided to play my last, desperate hand—call the Mississauga Fire Department for help. I was careful to Google the number for a local fire hall, rather than calling 911, in an effort to avoid a scene like our electrician’s mother.

After explaining the problem to the call centre lady, who was very kind and understanding, and requesting a minimum of fuss, they assured me they could help. Three minutes later, three gorgeous, handsome firefighters arrived at our door after discreetly parking their big red fire truck down the street. They examined all our smoke detectors, and once again, the beeping continued. Because it was a rookie attending to our basement detector, everyone congregated down there to try and pinpoint the problem.

I am deeply embarrassed and thoroughly mortified to admit that after listening carefully, we traced the source of the beeping to (can you guess?) my basement carbon monoxide detector. Our second unit in the basement had conveniently also reached the end of its lifespan and was sending out the warning signals. Disengaging it immediately solved the beeping problem. Should I be jailed, or merely committed?

I am sharing this story today in the hope that all my readers can learn a valuable lesson from this experience—know your detectors, and ensure they have lithium batteries. Be a safe senior boomer. That is the end of my story, and we hope to live happily ever after, or at least as long as those lithium batteries last. Houston? Crisis over. Maybe I really should be in “the home”.

Footnote: This adventure reminds me of the time I called in The Geek Squad (I was informed in advance there would be a minimum $99.00 charge) because nothing I was doing would get my television to respond to the remote control. I changed the batteries—twice—and still no response, and, surprisingly, I was using the correct remote control. The lovely young man from The Geek Squad (after a good laugh) determined that the reason my TV wasn’t responding to the remote was that I had placed the cable receiver box in front of the remote sensor on the front of the TV. Another, oops! Another no-charge visit by kind people who took pity on me. Playing the old lady card gets me out of a lot of embarrassing, albeit questionable, life-threatening situations.