The sound of slamming doors awakened me from a deep sleep.  I sat up, hesitant to move, remembering that my son Brett had been sleeping on the couch in the livingroom.  That was the one place in the house that did not evoke his allergies on a visit home.  "Brett," I called out somewhat fearfully as banging, slamming sounds continued. 

"Don't open the door," came his response.  "There's a bat flying around and I'm trying to get it out."  I climbed out of bed, moving as if I was about to be attacked by a creature of the night.  I hovered near my door, unsure of my role.  I was the mother, the head of the household in the three years since my husband's death.  I should go and help Brett, but in this case I chose to follow the orders of my oldest  child.

The banging stopped.  "You can come out now," he announced.  He filled me in on the battle of the bat.  Asleep, he had sensed movement near his head.  Opening his eyes he saw a bat sweeping anxiously around the perimeter of the room, as eager for escape as Brett was to be rid of the uninvited guest.  Managing to corner it in an upstairs bedroom, and waving a broom, Brett got the bat to make its way out the window into the night.

While seemingly over, the adventure was really about to begin.  "I remember reading somewhere," said Brett. "that it's possible to be bitten by a bat and not be aware of it when asleep." I moved into my mother role.  "I'll call the poison control center and see what they say."  The call wasn't helpful so the decision was made for Brett to head to the emergency room of the local hospital.  When he left, at 2:00 A.M., we both knew the sun would be rising before his return.  The emergency room rule of thumb is always a wait of at least three hours.  I realized that my daughter, Alyssa, had slept through the entire drama.  She would be well rested for the busy weekend ahead.  Her brother Jeremy, the middle of my three children, would be graduating from college in a matter of hours.  The following day, Sunday, Alyssa would receive her high school diploma. 

I had looked forward to this weekend with a mixture of joy and sadness.  The pride I felt at my childrens' accomplishments was mingled with sorrow knowing that their dad had not lived.

My mind turned to Jeremy.  Where was he?  It was 2:00 A.M.  He must still be out cruising on his motorcycle.  He was the one I'd thought I'd be worrying about, not bats in the night.  I had fought against that motorcycle, fearful that every risk would lead to disaster.  Hadn't risk, flying in a small plane, led to the most final of all disasters for his dad? 

The sound of an engine drew my mind back.  Jeremy was home.  Brett was not.  Until all my troops were safe I would continue to stand vigil.  As predicted, Brett returned at sunrise, too late for either of us to sleep.  At least he had gotten a clean bill of health.

Cap and gown in hand, Jeremy climbed on the aforementioned motorcycle and headed off for the pregraduation lineup.  The rest of us showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and drove into Boston.  My brother and sister-in-law were already seated, saving a row of chairs for us.  "How are you?" my brother Neil asked, not expecting a dramatic recitation of the night's events.  "Don't worry," he said after listening sympathetically.  "Bats are harmless.  In fact, they eat insects and many people put bat houses in trees to attract them."  The sound of Pomp and Circumstance turned our attention to the event at hand.  I strained to recognize my son in the sea of black caps and fought the tears gathering behind my eyes.  Why does there have to be pain at such a happy time?  Sitting between my other two children I try to stay strong, fearing if I let go just a little I will crack into a million pieces and, like Humpty Dumpty, I'll be unable to be put back together again. 

One graduation down, one to go.  The next day we assemble the same cast of characters, exchanging Alyssa for Jeremy on the podium.  Alyssa looks beautiful in her white cap and gown.  Again Pomp and Circumstance.  Again the tears. 

But the bat story is not over.  Monday morning the phone rings.  The doctor has called to change his recommendation.  Any sleeping humans exposed to the possibility of a bat bite should go through the series of rabies shots.

I phone Brett who by now has returned to his apartment in New York.  Following the doctor's advice, he begins the series.  Worrier that I am, I took the scenerio one step further.  Alyssa and I were also asleep and so was Andy, my dog, when the bat was exploring our home.  We, too, reported for rabies shots. 

I am happy to note that the shots did not hurt as much as I had heard they would.  The series is good for 5 years, we were told.  With all the stories of rabid skunks, fox, and coyotes in the newspaper, at least I could take rabies off my list of worries for a while.

Next step, bat prevention.  I learned that the local pest control businesses did not do bats.  A man named Mike, however, was recommended.  Mike, as it turned out, was highly sought after.  Speaking to his secretary, my voice a mix of despair and horror, I convinced her to get Mike to my house the next day.  I was about to meet the real bat man.  Fearless, he explored my roof as if he was walking on flat pavement.  No poisons are used, he informed me.  Wire will be put up around the perimeter of my home, closing up any space between the roof and the sides of the house. Every so many feet a sock-like chute would allow the bats to fly out and feed during the night.  Their wing spread would prevent a return entrance.  Hundreds of bats, I was told, had taken up residence in the eaves of my home.  He encouraged me to stand in my yard at sunset and observe the mass exodus.  That was about the last thing I would want to do. 

The next morning I stepped gingerly onto my deck, unsure of what I would find.  My fear was realized in the form of several bats spinning in disorientation on the deck, several others dangling from the wire in an attempt to get back inside.  I felt like I was living in the midst of a horror  novel I would not choose to read , an edge of the seat movie I would not choose to attend.  At that moment I would gladly have put a "For Sale" sign in my yard, but who would want a house decorated with dangling bats?

One week passed.  I thought life was settling back into a predictable pattern, forgetting that the very essence of life is its unpredictability.  Sunday had rolled around again.  Returning home from a dinner with friends, Alyssa greeted me with the warning "Don't go into my room, Mom.  There are more bats there."  My heart sank.  What were my choices?  No husband Sam to fight my battles.  I took a deep breath.  I climbed the stairs, opened the door. 

No bats flying around.  Instead 3 bats clung to the wall like a painting of winged rats. I silently closed the door, a plan forming in my head.  "Stand at the kitchen door," I commanded Alyssa.  "Be ready to open it quickly."  I found 3 old towels.  Holding them tightly I climbed the stairs as if on a death march.  I pushed the door a crack.  The scene hadn't changed.  Opening a towel I quickly laid it over the first bat and in one motion closed the towel and sprinted down the stairs.  Following orders, Alyssa opened the door, and I continued my flight through my yard.  My heart was pounding as I threw towel and bat into the woods.  I repeated this sequence 2 more times.  When I was done I felt as if I had run the marathon.

Somehow the night passed.  Alyssa slept in the den, her bedroom apparently the point of entry for any remaining creatures in the eaves.  Calling in sick to work Monday morning, I was able to reach Mike's son, Mike Junior.  He was a fireman who moonlighted as a carpenter.  More begging and pleading got results.  That morning the unfinished section of Alyssa's closet was neatly closed up, something the builder of the house had failed to do.  Her room was declared safe for human habitation.  The battle had taken its toll on me however.  While handling a crisis in theory should make one feel empowered, my reality was a feeling of vulnerability, of exhaustion from handling these challenges alone.

Three years have passed since that summer, which I now refer to as the summer of the bats.  This spring I had some new guests, mice, over 30 of them in my basement. My friends ask me how I've handled that.  I say to them, at least it's not bats.

By Diane Snyder

Diane Snyder recently retired from a long career as a pre-kindergarten teacher at the Jewish Community Center in Stoughton.  She now puts all of her energy into writing.