Trigger

I pull into the parking lot and spot you immediately. You jump out from behind the corner of the small cinder-block building that serves as your summer camp's home base. You see me; you were waiting for me. A huge grin instantly lights up my face - you're the best thing I've seen all day since I dropped you off four hours ago. Your face fails to mimic mine. Your eyes dart away. You dash back around the corner of the building.

I get out of the car and strategize on my approach. I consider goofy - pointing and making silly faces, maybe swaying my hips in a goofy gait. Goofy's usually a safe bet, especially with you, my child that is quick to melt into smiles at the slightest bit of loving attention from his momma. But this time I know better. I approach slowly with my heart visible and raw for the offering. As I round the corner I find you there, just like I knew I would. Huddled against the wall, trying to posture like everything's ok but afraid to make eye contact. A couple of kids kick a ball at the wall next to you. I assume you may have been playing with them prior to my arrival. They eye me; they watch us. They know.

"Hey, buddy. How's your day going?"

You shrug your shoulders in a gesture I haven't seen for many, many months. The Ethiopian child's shoulder shrug, usually accompanied by an "imbe" (I don't want to), and I know this is serious. You turn your body even closer toward the wall acting as if you would insert yourself between the cinder blocks if you could. I crouch down close, making my voice as soft as possible.

"Hey buddy. What's wrong? Can you find your words and tell me? I can't help you if you can't tell me what's going on? I can tell you're upset. Come on, what is it?"

More shoulder shrugs and an even closer proximity to the cinder blocks.

"Hey buddy. What's going on? Can you use your words, please?"

Nothing.

"Is someone not being nice to you?"

Nothing.

"Are you worried because Mommy is here to get Elsa and you're afraid no one will come back for you?"

Trigger.

It comes instantaneously. There's no way you can stop it. First the streams of tears down your cheeks, and seconds later then the wails. Not your typical six year old wails. Wails from the dark place deep in your soul. Tongue sticking straight out, tears drenching your face mixing with the snot that has also started to flow, you wail. The boys kicking the ball elbow one another and stare. I try to lead you some place a little more private but you won't budge.

"Oh buddy. I can tell you are really scared. I know you don't believe me right now, but Daddy and I will always come for you. Do you remember when you were at Lego camp and Elsa had to go to camp Ventura all by herself? This is just like that. She's going to yoga camp and Daddy will pick you both up. Daddy will even pick you up first because yoga camp doesn't end until 4."

More wails. More reasoning, but reasoning doesn't work. You're not in the place where one's brain responds to reason. I get up to get you some tissue and you continue to wail until I get back. You let me wipe your nose but the tears keep flowing. I stand close, rubbing your back, murmuring reassuring words that you can't hear. A couple of counsellors stand nearby ready to help with the transition.

"Ok buddy. I've got to get Elsa to yoga camp. Can I give you a big hug first?"

You let me pick you up but you are dead weight. Your legs hang limply from your torso making your body hard to support just like they did when we first met, before I taught you how to be held. I wisper my sincere love for you into your ear.

"Daddy will be back to get you very soon."

A counsellor takes your hand and leads you away. I mention that you might just need a quiet place to get yourself together for a little bit. She suggests putting on a movie and you follow.

Elsa and I dive into the car. She has 15 minutes to eat lunch in the car before yoga camp starts. We discuss the healthiest, most sustaining choices in her lunch box and she gets busy. We drive away, but my heart stays behind at the corner of that cinder block wall with my little boy.

*******************************************

It's been a long time. A long time since your grief has been triggered. Many events or activities have come and went where I prepared myself for it, but you took them in stride, your new found confidence carrying you forward.

When I get home you run out to greet me. You grip me tight, give me a huge hug and plant a huge juicy kiss on my cheek. At night, before bed, we talk. You let me scoop your too big body up and cradle you like a baby in my lap. You're still scared. I try reassurance and reason again. I get nowhere. You're anxiety begins to build again; it's apparent as you start to turn your body from me to avoid eye contact.

"Hey. I have an idea. What if, when Daddy picks up Elsa for yoga camp tomorrow, he leaves you his house key?"

You take a minute to think about what I just said and turn back toward me, curious.

"Ashagre, Daddy and I will always come and get you. We will never leave you somewhere. I know that is very hard for you to believe. I know you remember being left once before. I know the last words you heard when you were left, I have no other choice, are burned in your cortex forever. I know even if I tell you over and over and over again that we will pick you up, that we will be there in the morning when you wake up, your heart is too hurt to internalize it. So how about this? How about Daddy leaves his house key with you when he picks up Elsa? He'll have to come back for you and the key so he can get into the house. He would come back for you anyway, but if you have the key you don't have to be nervous. How does that sound?"

Your eyes light up and your huge grin returns to your face. "Yes!"

When I tell Daddy the plan, he agrees, but also questions, "What message are we sending him? Are we telling him that a house key is worth picking up, even if he's not?"

Maybe, but we're not talking to his logical brain. The one that understands cause and effect. The one that makes comparisons and reasons. We're talking to the primal part of his brain. The one that operates in response to fear. The one that just needs to feel safe. That brain doesn't compare keys to kids. That brain just knows it can chill out so long as that house key is tucked safe in his pocket.

*********************************************

Today when I return from work you are back to your old self. You're glowing. You rattle on and on about all the fun games you played at camp. You made a new friend; the two of you swam together and are going to play together tomorrow too.

"I didn't loose the key Mommy! I was very careful with it!"

I know you were, little man, I know you were.