IKEA often presents a sensory overload for kids like my son, Sam: sometimes there’s too much to absorb, other times too little, and occasionally just the right amount.
Dear Jamie,
I apologize for not catching your last name during our encounter; the circumstances weren’t ideal for a formal introduction. However, I want to express my deep gratitude for the assistance you provided to my family and me this past Sunday at the Brooklyn IKEA.
You witnessed the start of the ordeal: I was in the self-service section grabbing a cart when, in a fleeting moment, I let go of my son’s hand. In an instant, he was off! I abandoned the cart and began my frantic pursuit. You saw me running, and I saw you. You asked, “Is that your son?” I replied absentmindedly, “Yes,” as I continued my chase. At that moment, my focus was solely on Sam, hoping to catch him before he ventured too far.
Navigating through Plants, Housewares, and Lighting, I maintained a visual on him, but then he vanished. His small stature and quick movements allowed him to weave through the throngs of shoppers and their oversized IKEA bags.
What I didn’t realize—what I couldn’t have known—was that you had also taken off in pursuit of Sam, but with a different strategy. You aimed to intercept him if I couldn’t. Well done, Jamie.
I raced through the lower level, my eyes scanning left and right, hoping to spot him. Eventually, I reached the stairs to the IKEA Café. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: Sam loves their french fries. Worth a try, but no luck. Then it hit me that he was attracted to a certain bedroom display, so I began searching the second floor for that setup.
I felt a brief moment of calm wash over me.
Being an IKEA employee, you’re likely well-acquainted with the layout; I, however, felt like a rat lost in a maze filled with shoppers and Scandinavian decor. I tried to navigate with agility but ended up bumping into two unsuspecting customers and nearly knocking over a Ypperlig floor lamp. (It wobbled but thankfully stayed upright.)
After ten agonizing minutes, I finally reached his favorite bedroom display. Again: no Sam.
At this point, panic began to set in.
You see, Sam is autistic. While he can speak, his ability to communicate effectively is limited. When anxious, he can have meltdowns that make it difficult to engage him. He doesn’t know which strangers to trust or where to go if he gets lost. As you witnessed, he’s also prone to impulsivity. I envisioned him darting outside into the icy parking lot, frightened and confused.
Just when I was about to call for help, something miraculous happened: a voice over the PA system, like a beacon of hope, called out: “Michael Carter, please come to the rug department.” It repeated: “Michael Carter, please come to the rug department.” What a relief!
However, I was faced with another challenge. I dashed to the nearest directory: Rugs, downstairs. But how to get there? The map looked indecipherable, and my mind was racing. All I could picture was Sam in distress, potentially crying or even making himself sick from anxiety, as he had done before. So, despite being middle-aged, I channeled my long-forgotten high school football skills to dodge collisions while making my way to the Rugs section.
Glassware, Lamps, Kitchenware—RUGS! And there he was, to my immense relief. Sam was lying on a stack of rugs, smiling, rolling around, and enjoying the sensory experience. And there you were, Jamie. I recognized you immediately: the person who had seen me chase after my son.
There was so much I wanted to say, but first, I had to check on Sam. After 15 minutes apart, he was fine, which was a relief. I, on the other hand, was a frazzled mess: sweating through my heavy winter coat and panting from the adrenaline.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m so grateful!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you were looking for him too!”
“No worries! I’m glad I could assist,” you replied with a warm smile. “He’s quite the character. It took a moment to get him to share your name for the announcement.”
I felt compelled to explain, saying quietly, “He’s autistic…” But before I could finish, you nodded in understanding. “I could tell you needed help when I saw him take off. I’m just happy I found him.”
“Me too. You have no idea.” Or do you? Perhaps you’re aware of how many autistic children go missing each year. Nearly half of them will run away before they turn 17—a phenomenon known as “eloping”—often with tragic outcomes. Maybe you just had an instinct.
Whatever the case, you performed a remarkable act. You saw a child darting away from his father and recognized that there was more to the situation. Most people may not have given it a second thought, and I don’t fault them, as appearances can be misleading. But you did, and you took action, sparing us both from overwhelming anxiety—or worse.
So, Jamie, thank you. I regret not obtaining your last name; I wish I had, as the letter I sent to IKEA corporate feels incomplete without it. In that letter, I recounted the events of Sunday, shared your first name, and requested that they acknowledge your compassion.
If our paths cross again, I hope to treat you to a plate of Swedish meatballs at the IKEA Café. Sam will have the fries.