On Labor Day, I lost my son.
I lost my three-year-old, autistic son at the worst place possible: a water park.
He went down the slide, ran a few feet ahead of me, turned a corner and was gone. It was as quick as that. The only thing in front of him was a lazy river with a strong current. Even if he could swim, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
I dove in and couldn’t find him.
I ran around and couldn’t find him.
I started calculating the seconds, the minutes. How long does it take for a toddler to drown? Whatever the answer, I was pretty sure we were past that.
Then, I found a lifeguard and screamed for help. It was the last day of the summer, the last ten minutes before the water park closed for the year. I’m sure everyone was mentally off the clock.
And yet, they showed up.