Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t trade my kids for all the money in the world. I cherish every accomplishment, every victory and every new insight that we experience together. They are bright, funny and completely original. Raising them is the most important thing my husband and I will ever do.

But it isn’t always easy. Although my son and my daughter have much in common, they each experience autism in their own unique way. Because of my son’s struggles with aggression, he has often required more extensive support, especially in emergency situations.

Lots of people who live with someone with autism know how hard it can be to support that person when they experience a “meltdown” in public.

It’s far more difficult, of course, for the individuals with autism. During a meltdown, they experience levels of fear and panic that most of us only deal with once or twice in a lifetime. When it happens to my son, he looks and sounds like he’s afraid for his life. He lashes out the way someone would if they were completely cornered by an attacker. The “fight or flight” reflex in his brain can lead to behaviours such as running away, yelling, swearing, and physical aggression.

It is awful for him. While autism has many amazing and positive qualities to it, this kind of suffering is not one of them. As he’s grown up, things have become more difficult. He’s 15 now, taller than me and much stronger.

When we’re out in public during a meltdown, my job is to focus all of my energy on keeping him safe. Sometimes that means having to restrain him, using a combination of techniques that I’ve figured out on my own and that I’ve learned in specialized training courses. In recent years, my son has been prescribed medication that I can use during a crisis, but it can be a challenge to get to it in time.

Often these meltdowns are very emotional for everyone involved, and frequently, there are tears. I can’t imagine what this looks like to others, but I’ve never had the time or the inclination to worry about that. My sole focus in those moments is helping bring my son back to a state of calm.

But here’s the amazing part: for years now, I have found myself surrounded by “angels” disguised as strangers. With no regard for their own safety, they approach us and offer to help. I’m awestruck at how often it happens. Some recognize the signs of autism and offer assistance because they are related to someone else on the spectrum. Some know because they work with people with autism. Some just do it out of the goodness of their heart. To these kind people, I would like to say thank you. More specifically, I’d like to say:

To all the first responders who have helped over the years: I am astounded by your professionalism and your willingness to empower us in an autism emergency by asking us questions and following our lead as parents.

To the older gentleman in the mall who knelt down on the floor and spoke to my son in a soft, kind voice as we held him down to keep him safe: your patience and understanding were as inspiring as they were astonishing.

To the lovely group of Italian “nonnas” who walked past all the police cars in front of our home and stood with us as police searched for my son: you have no idea how wonderful it was to not be alone in that moment, and to see the joy on your faces, too, when our son was returned safely.

To the man in the submarine sandwich store who saw the whole meltdown unravel and offered me an encouraging word and a pat on the shoulder on his way out: you’ll never know how much that meant to me.

To the person who agreed to take my son’s autism service dog to a safe place until the meltdown was over: your kindness will never be forgotten. I hope you have a dog one day that loves you as much as my son’s dog loves him.

To the man who got right down on the floor with me and said “I’m here to help. Tell me what you want me to do”: you, sir, are the definition of a good citizen.

To all those who had the decency to ask, “Are you OK? Is there anyone I can call for you?” even as the tears were streaming down my face: that simple act of kindness restores my faith in humanity.

I’d like to give an award to each and every one of the people who have helped us over the years, but too often they slip away before I have the chance. But there is one angel that I was able to catch, and so I will thank her and ask her to stand in for all the others. I know her name because she works as a security guard at the Promenade Mall in Thornhill and because — quite simply — she wears a name tag. Her name is Ana Melissa Abreu.

In March of 2013 we were at the mall and my son had lost his sunglasses. We were retracing our steps and I was doing everything I could to reassure him that we would find them, but he just couldn’t hold it together. Sometimes he can cope with little upsets like this, but sometimes, his brain betrays him and sends him panic signals that are totally disproportionate to the situation.

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It’s not his fault, I reminded myself. Within minutes, he began to panic. As the meltdown started, I remember trying to direct him to an area away from a store entrance and I placed my purse on the ground. I tied his autism service dog to the leg of some seats nearby and braced myself for what would happen next.

I don’t remember many details about the next half-hour or so. I do know that it was the most intense meltdown that he had ever had in public. Within seconds, we were down on the floor as I tried to hold his hands so that he couldn’t strike me or anyone who was passing by. But he was too big and he kept getting away from me. He landed several blows on me and on people who were walking by. He was yelling, but I don’t remember what he was saying.

I remember someone offering to help and thinking it was too dangerous to ask them to enter the situation. Instead, I asked them to call mall security.

It must have looked like we were wrestling at this point, and both my son and I had worked up a sweat by the time the security guard arrived. Abreu, who is volunteering with Toronto Police Force with the goal of joining its Mobile Crisis Intervention Team, immediately came down to the floor with us. She was patient and strong, and no matter what I asked her to do, she did it

Eventually, she held down one wrist and one ankle while I held down the other, both of us working together to make sure that my son’s airways were clear. There was another man who helped us, too. Someone got the medication from my purse and yet another person looked after the dog. Someone had called 911 at this point, and all we could do was just sit on the floor and wait. I remember talking to my son and trying to comfort him, and I remember crying — a lot.

Through it all, though, I remember Abreu. She spoke to me calmly, reassured me that I was doing a great job and helped to keep the people around us safe. I remember feeling comforted by her presence, knowing that we were safer as a result of her help. I remember her listening to me while I told her a bit about my son’s story, and laughing with me as I tried desperately to relocate the sense of humour I frequently use to get me through my hardest moments.

But the honest truth is that something broke in me that day. I think that for the first time, I truly faced the reality that my husband and I might have to send our son to live somewhere else. That was a horrible thing to think about, but Abreu reminded me that I wasn’t alone. She told me that I was a good mother and that I was doing a great job — at a time when I really needed to hear that.

Gandhi once said “hands that help are holier than lips that pray” and I believe it to be true. Abreu’s willingness to roll up her sleeves, get down on the floor and get involved made all the difference in the world to me that day.

Laura Kirby-McIntosh nominated Ana Abreu for a community hero award. Thornhill MPP Gila Martow will bestow the honour on May 21 at 5 p.m. at Promenade Mall.