The Phone Call That Made My Daughter Stop Letting Her Kids Stay With Me

I'm 64. My daughter called me Monday crying. My granddaughter had been poisoned. In my house. Over the weekend.

I'm sharing this because Lily is 4 years old and she's not the same little girl she was three months ago.

I want every grandmother reading this to read it twice.

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I've lived in this house for 38 years.

My husband Frank and I bought it the year before our daughter Karen was born. We raised her here. She took her first steps in the living room. She learned to ride a bike in the driveway. Frank died last spring and I kept the house because Karen wanted me to. She said the grandkids needed a place where their grandma was.

I have one grandchild. Her name is Lily and she just turned 4.

She started staying over with me most Saturdays after Karen had her second baby six months ago. Karen's husband works long hours and the baby was colicky and Karen needed a day to breathe.

So every Saturday I'd pick Lily up at 10 in the morning and bring her back home Sunday afternoon.

I made her a little guest room. Painted it the soft yellow she picked out from a paint chip at the hardware store. Bought her a nightlight shaped like a moon. Gave her a drawer in my kitchen for her snacks. Goldfish crackers and the squeeze applesauce pouches Karen approved.

I wanted Lily to have what Karen had growing up.

I thought I was giving her a safe place.

I was wrong.

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It Started Small

Three weeks in a row, Lily got sleepy at lunch on Sundays. Karen and I both noticed. We chalked it up to her not napping at grandma's house the way she did at home. Different bed. Different schedule. Different food.

Karen said, "Mom, maybe she's just over-stimulated."

I said, "She's having fun. Let her be tired."

That's what grandmas say.

The next weekend Lily came home with a headache. She told Karen "head hurt" at bath time and Karen gave her children's Tylenol. Karen texted me to ask if anything had been different at my house that weekend.

I told her no. Everything had been the same.

Because it had been.

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The Saturday Before The Phone Call

Lily threw up in my kitchen.

She'd had her grilled cheese and her applesauce pouch and she was watching her show on the iPad and then she just got up and walked to the corner and threw up on the tile.

I called Karen immediately. Karen said it was probably the daycare bug that was going around. She said three other moms in their playgroup had it.

I cleaned Lily up. I put her in my bed because she said she didn't want to be alone. She slept curled up next to me for two hours and she felt so warm and she snored a little bit the way she always does and I lay there next to my granddaughter and thought about how lucky I was.

She was breathing it the whole time.

So was I.

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The Phone Call

Monday afternoon Karen took Lily to the pediatrician.

I was making dinner. Stew. Frank's recipe. I'd been making it on Mondays for 41 years.

The phone rang at 5:47. I remember the time because I had just looked at the clock to check on the carrots.

Karen was crying.

She said, "Mom. Lily's carboxyhemoglobin is at 23 percent. The doctor wants to know everywhere she's been the last week."

I didn't know what carboxyhemoglobin meant.

I said, "I don't understand."

She said, "Mom, it's carbon monoxide. Her blood is full of carbon monoxide. The doctor needs to know where it came from."

I dropped the wooden spoon.

I said, "She's been at my house since Saturday morning, Karen."

Karen was quiet for what felt like a very long time.

Then she said, "Mom. Where in your house does she sleep?"

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The Fire Department At My Front Door

Karen called the fire department from the pediatrician's office.

She told them her mother lived alone in an older house and her 4-year-old daughter had been sleeping there every weekend for six months and had just tested positive for severe carbon monoxide poisoning.

The fire department was at my front door in 14 minutes.

I was standing on my porch in my apron. The stew was still on the stove. I didn't think to turn it off.

Two firefighters. One was probably in his 30s. The other one looked closer to my age. The older one introduced himself as Captain Walker. He took off his cap when I opened the door and called me ma'am the way Frank used to call other women ma'am, with respect in it.

He said, "Mrs. Smith, we're going to need you to wait outside while we test the air."

I said okay.

They were inside for about 25 minutes.

The younger one came out first. He was holding a yellow meter that looked like a walkie-talkie. He wouldn't quite look at me.

The captain came out behind him.

He said, "Mrs. Smith, the reading in the guest room your granddaughter sleeps in is 230 parts per million. The hallway outside is 180. Your bedroom is 140."

I asked what those numbers meant.

He said, "Ma'am, your granddaughter shouldn't have been able to sleep in that room. Anyone in that room for more than a few hours would have been getting sick. Headaches. Nausea. Confusion. Drowsiness."

I thought about Lily on the couch on Sundays. Sleepy at lunch. Her head hurting. Throwing up in my kitchen.

I thought about every Saturday for six months.

I sat down on my porch steps and I couldn't get back up.

What The HVAC Tech Found In My Basement

The HVAC tech came that night.

He went down to my basement and was gone for almost an hour. When he came up, he had a flashlight in his hand and a look on his face that I will see when I close my eyes for the rest of my life.

He said, "Mrs. Smith, your heat exchanger has a crack in it. About four inches long. Carbon monoxide has been pumping into your ductwork every time the furnace ran. Through every vent in this house. Including the one in your granddaughter's bedroom."

I asked him how long.

He said, "Months. Maybe longer. The crack patterns are old."

The captain was still there. He was sitting on my couch with his cap in his hands.

He said something I'll never forget.

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What He Told Me About The Detector On My Wall

I asked him about the detector on my wall.

He asked me to bring it to him.

He turned it over in his hands.

He said, "Ma'am, this detector is probably as old as your daughter. The sensor inside expired sometime in the 90s. But that's not the worst part."

I asked him what was.

I asked about the test button.

He said, "That button only tests the speaker. Not the sensor. The sensor inside could be completely dead and that button would still beep. The light would still glow. You'd never know."

I looked at the green light in my hand.

The same green light that had glowed every Saturday night for six months while my granddaughter breathed poison in the bedroom I painted for her.

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What The Doctors Found

Karen brought Lily to the children's hospital that night.

They put her on hyperbaric oxygen for three days. They tested her every six hours. They tested her brain function. They asked her to point at colors. They asked her to count. They asked her to sing a song she knew.

Lily knew her colors three weeks ago. She could count to ten. She sang "Twinkle Twinkle" at bedtime every night.

The pediatric neurologist sat Karen down on the second day.

She said, "Carbon monoxide doesn't just leave when the levels come down. It can cause delayed neurological injury, especially in young children. We should prepare for some long-term effects."

Karen called me from the hospital parking lot.

She was crying so hard I almost couldn't understand her.

She said, "Mom. They don't know if she's going to be the same."

She doesn't say red anymore. She used to know red. Now she says "the color of strawberries" because she can't find the word.

She gets tired in the afternoons in a way she didn't before. Her preschool teacher pulled Karen aside and asked if everything was okay at home because Lily sometimes "checks out" in the middle of an activity and stares at the wall.

She's quieter. The neurologist says she may get most of it back. Most. Not all.

The doctors don't know yet how much will return. They say we won't know for a year or two.

She's 4 years old.

I did that to her.

In the house I painted yellow for her.

In the bed I tucked her into every Saturday night for six months.

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The Three Saturdays I Sat Alone

Karen didn't bring Lily over for three weeks after the hospital.

She didn't say it but I knew.

I sat in my kitchen those three Saturdays and I looked at the empty drawer where her snacks used to be and I thought about every time I'd kissed her forehead goodnight in that yellow room.

When Karen finally brought her back, she stood in my doorway and she said, "Mom, I need to see the screens before she goes in."

I showed her the four Dewloras I'd plugged in.

One in the hallway. One in Lily's bedroom. One in my bedroom. One in the kitchen.

Karen stood there and read each screen out loud.

"Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero."

She looked at me for a long time.

Then she let go of Lily's hand.

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What The Captain Told Me To Buy

The captain told me what to buy before he left that first night.

He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture. He said, "Mrs. Smith, this is what me and most of the guys on my crew have in our own homes. It's called a Dewlora 4 in 1. We don't put our own grandkids to sleep under anything else."

He explained why.

"It uses what's called a grade 3 sensor. The fastest alarming sensors on the market right now. Same grade we use in our professional equipment. It alarms way earlier than the cheap ones. Before brain damage starts. Before symptoms even hit."

He scrolled to another picture.

"It has a digital screen. Real numbers. You can see exactly what's in the air at any moment. Zero means safe. If it's not zero, you know. No more trusting a green light that means nothing."

Then he said the part that I think about every morning now.

"And it's not just for carbon monoxide. It's a 4 in 1. It detects carbon monoxide, natural gas, propane, and other combustible gases. All four. While you sleep. While your grandkids sleep. Your old detector was blind to three of them. The Dewlora is blind to none."

He looked at me kindly.

"Ma'am. If Lily had been sleeping over here on a night your stove leaked instead of your furnace cracking, the detector on your wall wouldn't have made a sound either. It doesn't see gas. It doesn't see propane. None of the cheap ones do."

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Why Dewlora 4 In 1 Is Different

• ✓Grade 3 sensors — same grade professionals use, detects way earlier than standard detectors
• ✓Alarms before 30 PPM — not 70 PPM when it's already too late for sleeping grandkids
• ✓Real numbers on a digital screen — zero means safe, no more trusting a green light
• ✓Detects 4 gases — carbon monoxide, natural gas, propane, and combustible gases while you sleep
• ✓Plug-in design — no tools, no ladder, ready in 200 seconds
• ✓Trusted by firefighters — what Captain Walker and his crew have in their own homes

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How Many Do You Need?

For a grandmother's home, one near each sleeping area and one near the furnace or water heater gives you real coverage. I have four. Karen checks every screen before Lily goes in.

⚡ Stock is limited — orders are shipping within 24 hours.

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Please Hear Me

I'm sharing this because I want every grandmother reading this to know what nobody told me.

If you have grandkids who sleep over. If your daughter or your son drops them off on weekends. If your house is the place where the family gathers for holidays.

Please. Look at the detector on your wall tonight.

Is it a small white circle with a green light? If it is, you have no idea what's in your air.

The test button doesn't test the sensor. The green light only means power. And if it's been on that wall for more than 5 years, the sensor is probably already dead, even if the light still glows and the button still beeps.

It's not your job to know any of this. Nobody told you. Nobody tells grandmothers about CO detectors. They tell us about choking hazards and outlet covers. They forget the air the kids are breathing.

But you know now.

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I check my four every morning now. It's part of my routine. Coffee. The newspaper. The screens.

Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.

That's all I need to see.

I haven't slept through the night since the phone call.

I still wake up at 3 in the morning and walk down the hallway to the yellow room and put my hand on the digital screen of the detector by Lily's bed and read the number.

Zero.

I go back to sleep.

Lily came over last weekend.

She fell asleep in the yellow room. The detector outside her door read zero. I stood in the doorway for a long time and watched her breathe.

She doesn't say red. She still doesn't say red.

The neurologist says it might come back. They don't know yet.

I don't think it will.

I will live the rest of my life knowing my granddaughter cannot say the color of strawberries because I trusted a green light on the wall of the house I raised her mother in.

I can't give Lily back the word red.

But maybe I can save your granddaughter's words.

Some grandmas count visits.

Tonight, count zeros.

— Susan Smith 🤍

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