Missing

I lost Shayne once at the grocery store. He was seven. I remember pushing the cart through produce, then reaching the meat section and he had vanished. I stopped and looked behind me, peered around the next aisle, then immediately went hot and cold and sick. Did someone grab him? Would I ever see him again? I left my cart and sprinted to the front of the store and he was bent over working on tying his shoe. He didn’t know he was “lost.” I remember picking him up and squeezing him, even though he was way to “cool” to be manhandled like that in public.

Schizophrenia is a perceptual disorder; it’s like turning off the filter in your brain for sensory input. Like right now typing this, I’m aware of the feel of the keyboard under my fingers, the sound of the swamp cooler (which by the way, I think is not working correctly), and I can taste the mint of the toothpaste I used before going to bed last night. I’m aware of the letters and words before they appear on the page; I know a semicolon is an appropriate punctuation mark in this sentence, but I could have also made two sentences. I am sure there is other input my brain is registering, like the feel of the sheets and a cricket chirping, but some of those signals are filtered out as non important because they aren’t needed to complete the task at hand. Shayne’s brain can’t turn off the signals coming at him. All sensory details are equally important. And his inside running dialogue, isn’t his conscience, it’s like commands from someone or many people all at the same time. I explained it once to a little kid and she said, “It’s like his inside voice doesn’t have manners.” Yeah, that. In addition, my son’s memory is eroding. Not long ago I asked him make me a quesadilla. A little while later he emerged from the kitchen eating a quesadilla. I said, “Oh, you made one for yourself first.” He rolled his eyes at himself and said, “I couldn’t figure out why I was making this, I’m not hungry.”

So even though he is twenty-eight, this week has been like living that moment in the grocery store, only a million times magnified. I knew which direction he went in. I knew about how much gas he had. I knew about how much money he had. I knew the voices were probably getting louder and meaner. I knew that he was probably terrified of police or anyone in a uniform. I knew he would seek a place where there was no one. I knew he wasn’t going to ask for help. I knew that getting lost was a scenario that would kill him.

I was hesitant to put a flyer up; historically, they haven’t been all that helpful. Everyone in the world starts reporting sightings. And in this case, I was also afraid that the flyer would make my terror that something had happened to him more real. I could barely look at the pictures of him on my phone, let alone come up with the words to put on the page. I had my own little sensory overload. A friend helped me out though and after a conversation with the police, I realized that if I was going to find my son, I needed my village. It’s not that police are uncooperative; they took down the information that my son was missing. But they weren’t looking for him. He is twenty-eight and left home of his freewill and I’m being overreactive. They didn’t fully appreciate how acutely ill my son is.

The flyer quickly spread over social media. The flood of support is overwhelming. Even more kind and generous and full love of love than I have come to expect from my family and friends. But my brother is the one that probably picked up the most solid clue on a lead. He came over and sat down with Shayne’s computer and somehow was able to search for his phone through the apple id. He came up with a map of deep green and single pulsating red dot. He explained to me how the dot wasn’t Shayne, but a cell tower and Shayne could be anywhere within range of that tower. The tower is in the middle of the forest at edge of three counties, a place with rugged mountains, sparse roads and no amenities. A search was launched.

I have only received one update. His car hasn’t been found. But the beacon of the light on the map was like turning on the light switch to hope for me. There is water in the area. And maybe the trees have sheltered him from the heat. I know he could still be hurt, or maybe not even alive, but maybe he is okay. And as much as I want to get in my old, battered Toyota and tear up there, I am hoping that the people who search and save lives know their job and will find him.

I am so very grateful for the love and support of my family and friends. I am especially grateful to my brother. I am sorry that I made him eat dog food when he was a kid. I still don’t know how this will end, but I am hoping for peace.