A Mom's Nightmare: Lost

On Victoria Day, 2010, after a weekend away together (all six of us), my boyfriend was getting ready to return to work on the evening shift. His children had been returned for their stay with their mother. Vic and I would be spending the night home together.

While Matt was upstairs getting dressed, I left Vic happily playing on the computer while I went up to look for something. I couldn’t even tell you what it was now. But it was two minutes. Two minutes, tops. I went upstairs, looked for whatever I needed, and came right back down. Vic was no longer sitting at the computer. The chair was empty, the screen still displaying Big Bird eagerly awaiting his next mail delivery.

Okay, he’s probably in the bathroom, I thought. But the bathroom was empty. As was the kitchen, living room, and every bedroom upstairs. He was not in the house. Perhaps he wandered out to sit in the car. He did that sometimes. He figured that sooner or later one of the vehicles would leave, and he wanted to be in it when it did. He loved going for drives. No sign of him in any of the vehicles in the yard.

Bile rising in my throat, heart and mind racing, I shouted, “He isn’t here! He’s gone!” Tears filling my eyes, I realized that my baby boy was missing. Matt said he would go look near the ponds in the woods behind the house. Frantic, I searched the neighbouring yards, ditches, roads, screaming Vic’s name. Where could he be? Where would he go?

I realized I couldn’t possibly search everywhere for him on my own. I raced back into the house and called my sister, who lived less than a kilometre away. Her husband said she wasn’t home, she had gone to our other sister’s house, about two kilometres away. As I listened to her phone ringing in my ear, my mind whirled at all the possibilities … maybe he was injured. Maybe he is lost. Maybe he is sitting five feet away from us and we didn’t even know it. He doesn’t understand that when someone calls his name, he needs to respond. And the worst scenario: what if someone snatched him? He would go with anyone. It was not impossible that a car stopped in front of the house and he got in it.

Finally, my sister picked up the phone. I didn’t even wait for her to say hello. “I can’t find Victor! Oh my god, I can’t find him!” Uttering those words out loud released the dam of tears that had been threatening to fall. I sobbed uncontrollably while I waited for the cavalry to arrive. I think they were there before I could return the phone to its cradle.

My sisters arrived, bringing with them the feeling of comfort, support and the hope that we would soon find him. “Did you call 911?” Oh dear god, what kind of mother am I? It never occurred to me to do that. “No.” Faintly, over the din of confusion my erratic thoughts were creating, I could hear her asking me questions the emergency dispatch needed answered. How long has he been missing? Forever, my heart answered. About half an hour, give or take, I replied. What was he wearing? Looking around the room, I crumbled. His shoes and jacket were still by the door. My baby was missing, wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Nothing on his feet. Nothing to keep him warm if he needed it.

With the promise from the emergency dispatch operator that help was the way, I went back outside, vainly searching. Across the road from our house was a drainage ditch. I followed it from beginning to end, calling his name. Of course, I was answered with silence. No giggle, no whining, no boy noises of any kind. That ditch ended at the shoulder of the 101 Highway. As I climbed down the embankment, the strangest thing happened. A car headed east stopped under the overpass. A man got out of the driver’s seat, circled the car, got back in his car and drove away. I was sick with worry and fear. How easy would that be? For a car to simply stop, open the door for my eager boy, and simply drive away.

I couldn’t let my mind wander down that road. No way. I headed back toward the house, choosing to search the woods between the highway and home. By this time, we were garnering attention from neighbours. I can’t tell you how many people were out searching for him. I didn’t even know who some of them were. I was numb. All I remember is that people were on foot and in cars, scouring the area.

Upon arriving back home, I was greeted by an RCMP officer. She was very kind and sympathetic, but I couldn’t help but feel I was being judged. And why not? I deserved to be. My baby depended on me to keep him safe in this world he had not yet merged with, didn’t quite understand. A world that didn’t understand him. And I let him down. Profoundly. I failed to keep him safe. Yes, I deserved every judgment. “I know it’s hard to do, but try to stay calm. We have every available unit out looking for him. Your neighbours and community are helping us search. And we’ve called in the K-9 Unit.”

K-9 Unit? Okay, this is suddenly real. All too real. But this didn’t happen to people like me. These things happened to other people. People who lived in other parts of the country. Even other parts of the province. My mind instantly went to the devastating event a few months prior when the young boy in Cape Breton, who was also on the spectrum, wandered away from his home in the winter. His parents experienced a nightmare even more devastating than mine: he died shortly after rescuers found him mere metres from his family’s property. Oh my god, where is my baby?

K-9. Canine. Dogs. Not only did I fail to keep my baby boy safe, but he was god knows where, shoeless and without a jacket. And we were going to send the one beast that terrified him out to find him.

I felt completely numb. Ironic, given the intensity and sheer number of emotions I was also feeling. I heard the crackle of the radio emanating from the police cruiser. What did they say? Seeping through the numbness and despair, another emotion began to take hold. Hope.

“We have located your son. We found him! He is fine, and on his way home!” Mere moments later, the cable guy showed up. This particular cable guy happened to be my brother-in-law. And in the cab of his truck sat my pride and joy, beaming from ear to ear because he got to ride in “Jeff’s truck.” Totally oblivious to the chaos around him, he came to me, smiling. I wrapped him in my arms, sent thanks to whatever powers-that-be in this universe, and vowed that never again would I let him down. He is mine. He is mine to love, nurture and protect. And if I don’t kill him first, I will do just that.

As it turns out, my intrepid explorer set out on foot, leaving the sanctuary I called home, walking to the end of our road, Dodge Road, and onto Highway 1. Along one of the busiest roads, in sock feet and alone, he traveled to Vault Road. Somewhere along this path, a keen-eyed passenger who was driving with her mother noticed him. “Mommy, I think that’s Victor.” The mom asked if she was sure. After all, why would Victor be out wandering the streets by himself? No, this little girl, who was in Vic’s class, was sure it was him. So, thankfully, mom turned around to find that, yes indeed, it was him. I don’t know, or don’t remember, the rest of the details. But his friend from school and her mother managed to let someone know where my boy was. Somehow my brother-in-law ended up being in the neighbourhood, picked him up and brought him home safe and sound.

I can’t imagine the hell that other parents have, and still do, endured. Parents whose children are missing for days, weeks, even years. My episode, from beginning to end, probably didn’t last more than a couple of hours. The longest, most agonizing hours of my life. But in the big picture, it wasn’t that long. My heart aches for those who have faced this nightmare, for those who are still searching. This is a unique pain I would never wish upon even my worst enemy.

Mine had a happy ending. For countless others, including that dear boy from Cape Breton, the results are far different. My heart goes out to each and every one of them.