In the bustling sensory landscape of IKEA, the experience can be overwhelming—too much noise, too many choices, and at times, just the right amount of distraction for a child like mine.
Dear Alex,
I regret that I didn’t catch your last name during our encounter; the urgency of the moment didn’t lend itself to formalities. However, I want to express my heartfelt thanks for your assistance on Sunday at the Brooklyn IKEA.
You witnessed the beginning of a frantic episode: I had just grabbed a cart in the self-service area when I briefly let go of my son’s hand. In an instant, he dashed away! I abandoned the cart and sprinted after him. You were there, and you asked, “Is that your child?” I replied, “Yes,” while continuing my pursuit, completely focused on catching up with him.
I could see Colin moving quickly through the plant department, but soon he disappeared from view. His small size and agile movements allowed him to weave through the crowd, making him difficult to track.
What I didn’t realize was that you took action as well, pursuing Colin on a different path in hopes of intercepting him. A clever decision, Alex.
I dashed through the lower level, scanning the area for any sign of him. I even thought of heading to the IKEA Café, knowing how much he enjoys their french fries, but that didn’t yield results. Then, I remembered his fascination with a specific bedroom display, so I began to search the second floor for it.
The store layout was foreign to me, akin to a rat navigating a maze filled with shoppers and Scandinavian designs. I tried to be careful, but I accidentally bumped into two unsuspecting customers and a lamp—thankfully, it stayed upright.
After a harrowing ten minutes, I reached his favorite display, only to find it empty. At that moment, panic set in. Colin is autistic; while he can communicate, he struggles with practical language and often has anxiety-driven meltdowns when he feels overwhelmed. I feared he might be lost, confused, and in distress.
Just as I was about to seek help, a voice echoed through the PA system: “Michael Thompson, please come to the rug department.” It repeated, bringing a rush of relief.
I rushed to the directory: Rugs, downstairs. However, the map felt perplexing, and my anxiety clouded my mind. Imagining Colin in distress propelled me forward as I navigated the store, dodging shoppers.
Finally, I spotted the Rugs section. To my absolute relief, there was Colin—lying on a stack of rugs, grinning and enjoying the textures. And there you were, Alex, the employee who had come to my aid. I rushed to check on Colin, grateful to find him safe after 15 anxious minutes.
I exclaimed, “Thank you so much! I didn’t realize you were helping me!”
You replied cheerfully, “No problem! He’s quite the character! It took a little bit for him to tell me your name.”
I began to explain, “He’s autistic…” but you nodded in understanding. “I could tell when I saw him run off. I’m just happy I was able to help.”
“Me too. You have no idea.”
Or maybe you do. You might know about the alarming statistics regarding autistic children going missing. Nearly half of them will elope before they turn 17, often leading to tragic outcomes. Your quick thinking made a world of difference for us in that moment.
Thank you, Alex. I regret not getting your last name for my letter to IKEA corporate, where I shared your first name and expressed my hope that you would be recognized for your compassion.
If our paths cross again, I’d love to treat you to some Swedish meatballs in the café—Colin will stick to his fries.