Wednesday, August 1, 2012
At 6pm,we headed down to San Diego to have dinner at my cousin's house. Patrick fell asleep and stayed asleep until 8pm. After such a late "nap", Patrick wasn't tired for bed. Traveling and being off schedule is difficult for 3 year olds, especially autistic ones. Mike stayed up with him until he fell asleep a little past midnight. Mike and I had Patrick sleeping on the floor next to us. Being in an unfamiliar place, we wanted him to be close to us.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
At about 2:30am Patrick kind of woke up. He was a little scared and I told him it was okay and he snuggled up next to me. Please note, I am a very light sleeper.
Then, at about 5:30am, my dad rushed into our room and frantically said, "Is Patrick in here? There's a police officer at the door asking about a little boy named Patrick." I was confused at first and then I scanned the empty room to find that Patrick was not in there. Now I was panicked. Mike and my dad rushed outside. I quickly put on some clothes and joined them outside. I was still confused and panicked.
When I got outside, the officer asked me if I knew where Winamar Place was. I told him that I didn't and he said that it was about 1/3 mile up the main road. That is where a girl coming home after being out all night saw him. She took him home and woke up her mom and they called the police. The officer telling me all of this was very calm and very kind, but I was having great difficulty processing what he was telling me. Then he said, "I kept asking him what his name was and he was just talking jibberish under his binkie. Finally, I said, 'Take out your binkie and tell me your name.'" The officer pantomimed him taking out his binkie, then said, "Patrick," and put the binkie back in. This is pretty amazing for an autistic child to give a response to this kind of question. I'm grateful that the officer had the intuition to be so direct and forceful in asking him his name. We were still trying to put all the pieces together. The officer asked us if the garage door had been open all night. We didn't think so but weren't completely sure. That's when my dad looked in the garage and saw a chair pushed up by the garage door opener button and Patrick's blankets on the floor next to the chair. I realized that he had likely gone out to the garage because there was a box of musical instruments that we had all been playing with the day before. There were no toys or other entertainment in the house, so naturally he remembered all those fun instruments. Once he got out there, though, he must have seen the chair and decided to use it to open the garage door so he could go on a walkabout. The pieces were starting to come together, but only a little bit.
At this point, I still had no idea what was going on and where Patrick was. I collapsed into Mike's chest and started crying. It was probably only a few minutes later, but it seemed like forever when several other police cars pulled up along with a sedan. The girl who had found Patrick got out of the car with her mom and carried him over to us. I was a hysterical mess. I was barely awake and barely dressed and I felt like the person that I was at that moment couldn't possibly be me. I held Patrick tight. He wasn't the least bit scared and kept patting me and telling me, "Iss okay mommy, iss okay." I wanted to tell him that it was not okay, not even a little bit. But, it was hard to speak. Mike took him from me and all I could do was say, "Thank you," over and over and over while I hugged both of the women who returned my baby boy to me. The mom said to her daughter, "Well, I guess something good came out of you staying out all night." I wanted to tell her that she was an angel. But, it was still hard to speak. I told them that he was autistic and that he had been sleeping right next to us. I started saying a lot of things, but it was more like a vocal stream of consciousness. I'm sure I wasn't making sense. I felt bad for them, too, because I'm sure I smelled like everyone does in the morning before a shower and a good teeth brushing. And, I was this hysterical stranger who was hugging them and talking to them. They were very nice and very gentle, though, and I don't think they judged me for the mess that I was in that moment. I hope I will have the karmic opportunity in my life to pay forward what these wonderful women did for me. I don't know their names or even remember what they look like, but I will forever be grateful to them and love them for what they did.
After that, a different, not so kind officer decided to take me aside amid my rambling and started questioning me. He firmly told me that this was a really big deal and that they had six officers going door to door looking for where Patrick had come from and that they hadn't been responding to any other calls all morning. I wanted to say, "No sh** and thank you so much." Then he started grilling me about where we live and what we were doing there and had this happened before and how did this happen without us knowing, etc. It was upsetting, but not nearly as upsetting as what had just happened. I understood that he was just doing his job and I didn't have anything to hide. I was fully expecting a complete CPS investigation, but I didn't care. I was just so glad that all of the bad outcomes that were running through my mind were not the reality of what happened. The reality was that Patrick was safe and back with us. Also a part of my new reality, though, was that I was emotionally broken and I didn't know what to do next.
We went inside and my panic attack came to fruition. I remembered that I had packed some xanax, so I took one and hoped it would work. My dad needed to drop off his car for repairs, so he and Mike took Patrick with them to do that. I thought I might have to take a second xanax, but after about 15 minutes, my breathing slowed down and I was able to go back to sleep. I woke up around 10am to see Mike asleep next to me and Patrick asleep, still strapped into his car seat, next to Mike. I went out just as my parents were taking my three older kids to McDonald's for breakfast. My dad came right to me and hugged me and asked me if I was feeling any better. I was calmer but still shaky and just said, "I don't know." He said, "It's okay. These things happen," to which I replied, "I don't think they really do." Then, he said, "Well, I just mean that kids do crazy things and it's nobody's fault." Sometimes my dad knows just what to say. Thanks dad.
Friday, August 10, 2012
So, it's been a week, and I still don't think I have processed what happened. I probably never will. But, hopefully, time will help to fade the trauma of that day. I know that many a parent has had their child returned to them by the police in the early hours of the morning, but probably not when their child is three. (That's my token, coping joke.)
I would like to apologize to the family and friends that I meant to visit those next few days that we were in California. I was in zombie mode for the rest of our time there and I really just needed to get home and hunker down for a little while. I hope you understand and know that I love you.
We have been home since Sunday afternoon and Patrick has been very happy to be back in his normal life. I think that what happened was a combination of many factors. He was completely out of his routine, he was tired, he was in a new place (a brand new empty house with nothing to get into), and most importantly, he is an autistic 3 year old. I told one of Patrick's therapists on Wednesday about what had happened. After validating what we had gone through with her own emotions, she told me to get him a medic alert bracelet. Of course! A medic alert bracelet! Why had I not thought of this before? Surely, every young child should have one, especially autistic children. I have always written my cell phone number on my kids' shoulders with sharpie if we are going to be traveling in airports or at Disneyland. But, what about every other day of our lives. Yes, a medic alert bracelet. I was having a hard time finding somewhere local to get one. Thank you to one of my autism playgroup mom friends for finding a place in Poulsbo that sells and engraves them.
I also want to get a service dog for Patrick. I did some online research and found www.4pawsforability.org .
Let the fundraising begin.
Oh, and in case you're wondering how we got any sleep for the rest of the time we were in California . . . we slept in front of the bedroom door so there was no way for Patrick to get out. After we did that, he kept saying, "That door is way hard." Yes, darling, that is how we like our doors where you're concerned. Way hard.
