My Daughter Was Pulled From a Lake Clinically Dead. Then Came the Scan

U.S.NewsPoliticsTechFact CheckSportsGlobalIran WarRussia-UkraineMiddle EastChina And AsiaLive BlogBetter PlanetAll World NewsLifestyleFamily & ParentingEntertainmentTravelPetsAutomotiveRelationshipsScienceHealthPersonal FinanceBetter WorkplacesReaders ChoiceOpinionMy TurnAll OpinionRankingsHealthFinanceProductsEducationWorkplacesCorporate ResponsibilityAll RankingsWatchThe 1600The Royal ReportUnconventionalFrom The PaddockNewsmakersExtraNewslettersDare to DreamEventsEssaysPodcastsVantageInsightsMagazineCEO CircleAnnouncementsLeadershipDev Pragad April 6, 2024, started like any typical spring morning, but the events that unfolded over the course of that day will stay with me forever. It had been a year and a half since I split from my ex-partner and, outside of work, my life revolved around my three children, including my two youngest, John, 5, and Ayda, 3. Around this time, Ayda's nursery had told me she was showing signs of autism. Getting an official diagnosis takes time. Years, in fact. I had already begun the process. She had seen a health visitor, attended a speech and language group, and was getting help wherever I could find it. Yet for all the organizations and experts I spoke to, not one mentioned autism elopement. I wish they had. Autism elopement happens when an autistic child leaves a safe or supervised area without permission. Studies have shown that 49 percent of autistic children will try to elope or wander away from safe environments after the age of four. These children have little or no awareness of danger. They can be non-verbal and may not respond to their names, even if you scream them. Autism elopement can have dire consequences for everyone involved, as I was soon to find out. That morning, I had taken Ayda to the park while John stayed with my mom. A couple of hours later, we swapped and I took John to a local safari park while my mom stayed with Ayda at the local park. I was out with John when I got a call from my neighbor. She was frantic, telling me: "Alex, you need to come home now. Ayda's in the lake. Ayda's in trouble." I was like, "What? Is she alive?" "I don't know," she said. "There's an ambulance and the police here." I scooped up John and jumped straight into the car to go home. Later, my mom would tell me what happened. She was putting Ayda's car seat into the car and, when she turned back, she was gone. It had literally taken a second. At that precise moment, though, I was driving back as fast as I could, calling my neighbor and asking, "Is she dead?" All she could say was, "I don't know." There's a lake in Thatto Heath. The bank is really steep. Although it is gated, the barriers that day were not secure enough to stop Ayda from getting in. As I arrived, I saw the police and paramedics and started sprinting down the bank towards my daughter. I had to be tackled to the ground. It was so muddy, and I was just screaming, "Please let me go to her." All they would say was, "You need to let them work on her." I work as an operating department practitioner in a hospital, assisting patients before and after surgery, so I was asking about her oxygen saturation, breathing and blood pressure. No one would give me an answer. When they said Ayda wasn't breathing, it sent me into a panic. By then, an air ambulance had arrived to take her to hospital. They took me by car. I still didn't know if my daughter was dead or alive. For about half an hour, I was left waiting in a room with my friend. By then, I was convinced they were preparing Ayda's body for me to see. Eventually, I was taken to her. She was lying on a table covered with warming blankets. She was hypothermic and had twigs and mud in her hair. Her eyes were wide open and full of grit. All I could think to do was clean her face. The doctors told me she had effectively been dead. They had performed CPR and eventually Ayda began to cough and they found a pulse. She had been placed in an induced coma while they tried to clear her lungs. I was told Ayda may have gone as long as 20 minutes without oxygen. The likelihood was that she would be severely brain damaged if she survived. I was told I needed to prepare myself for that possibility. So I didn't know if she was going to make it through the night. And if she did, the best possible outcome we could hope for was that she would be trapped inside a body that no longer worked properly. In the meantime, doctors were trying to remove the fluid from her lungs. Those first 48 hours were hell. Then we spoke to another consultant. He was German. He explained that in Germany, there had been cases of children falling through frozen lakes and drowning, but surviving without brain damage because the water was cold enough to preserve the brain. He didn't want to give us false hope, just some hope. It was April, but Ayda was small, and if the water had been cold enough, there was a chance. A little while later, after they had reduced Ayda's sedation, I stepped out of the room to get a drink. When I came back, all of the nurses were smiling. They told me: "She just sat up." Not only that, she had sat up, snarled at the room full of strangers in front of her, and tried to pull out her NG tube and catheter. Straight away, we got confirmation that she wasn't paralyzed, had sensation in her limbs, and still had hand-eye coordination. They had to increase her sedation at that point because Ayda was going for an MRI scan. I'll never forget the consultant returning with the results. It was all clear. Ayda had a perfectly healthy three-year-old brain. When they woke her up, Ayda simply put her arms out for me. I never thought I would get to hug my daughter like that again. Though there was still some way to go in her recovery, Ayda gradually returned to her normal self. It was a miracle. It was more than that, though. The people who came to Ayda's rescue that day made all the difference. Ian Hide, the police officer who pulled her out of the water, had previously worked as a lifeguard. He was giving her rescue breaths while swimming backwards to shore with her. Then there's Janet Grace, my next-door neighbor's sister, who just happened to be visiting that day. She's a respiratory specialist nurse and led the CPR effort. Everyone, from the paramedics and air ambulance crew to the consultants and nurses, played a part in saving Ayda. I'm forever grateful. I recently completed a skydive to raise money for the North West Air Ambulance and will run the London Marathon in support of Alder Hey, the hospital that saved Ayda's life. I also created the Instagram account @Amazing_Ayda to share her story and help raise awareness. Ayda is back to running circles around me. She's beautiful. I must kiss her face 1,000 times a day. She's doing well. She's at a school for autistic children and is learning to talk for the first time. I'm still haunted by thoughts of what she must have felt that day, but a neurologist told me she'll have no memory of it. Everything would have happened very quickly. I know I'm one of the lucky ones, which is why I'm so determined to spread awareness about autism elopement. Parents of children either diagnosed with, or suspected of having, autism need to be prepared. Get reins. Install extra locks on your doors. I've got an AirTag for Ayda and T-shirts with QR codes. I've even got a life jacket that she wears whenever we go on a big day out. People might say I'm overcautious, but studies have shown that autistic children are at a dramatically increased risk of drowning. What happened to Ayda that day will stay with me forever. I just hope that by spreading awareness on social media, I can make sure other parents don't have to go through the same thing, or something even worse. Contact Newsweek editors on this story: Rebecca Flood and Emma Lee-SangBy Jack Beresford and Alex Price0ShareNewsweek is a Trust Project memberSee more of our trusted coverage when you search.Prefer Newsweek on Googleto see more of our trusted coverage when you search.April 6, 2024, started like any typical spring morning, but the events that unfolded over the course of that day will stay with me forever.

It had been a year and a half since I split from my ex-partner and, outside of work, my life revolved around my three children, including my two youngest, John, 5, and Ayda, 3.

Around this time, Ayda’s nursery had told me she was showing signs of autism. Getting an official diagnosis takes time. Years, in fact. I had already begun the process. She had seen a health visitor, attended a speech and language group, and was getting help wherever I could find it.

Yet for all the organizations and experts I spoke to, not one mentioned autism elopement. I wish they had. Autism elopement happens when an autistic child leaves a safe or supervised area without permission.

Studies have shown that 49 percent of autistic children will try to elope or wander away from safe environments after the age of four. These children have little or no awareness of danger. They can be non-verbal and may not respond to their names, even if you scream them.

Autism elopement can have dire consequences for everyone involved, as I was soon to find out.

That morning, I had taken Ayda to the park while John stayed with my mom. A couple of hours later, we swapped and I took John to a local safari park while my mom stayed with Ayda at the local park.

I was out with John when I got a call from my neighbor. She was frantic, telling me: “Alex, you need to come home now. Ayda’s in the lake. Ayda’s in trouble.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s an ambulance and the police here.”

I scooped up John and jumped straight into the car to go home.

Later, my mom would tell me what happened. She was putting Ayda’s car seat into the car and, when she turned back, she was gone. It had literally taken a second.

At that precise moment, though, I was driving back as fast as I could, calling my neighbor and asking, “Is she dead?” All she could say was, “I don’t know.”

There’s a lake in Thatto Heath. The bank is really steep. Although it is gated, the barriers that day were not secure enough to stop Ayda from getting in.

As I arrived, I saw the police and paramedics and started sprinting down the bank towards my daughter. I had to be tackled to the ground. It was so muddy, and I was just screaming, “Please let me go to her.”

All they would say was, “You need to let them work on her.”

I work as an operating department practitioner in a hospital, assisting patients before and after surgery, so I was asking about her oxygen saturation, breathing and blood pressure. No one would give me an answer.

When they said Ayda wasn’t breathing, it sent me into a panic. By then, an air ambulance had arrived to take her to hospital. They took me by car. I still didn’t know if my daughter was dead or alive.

For about half an hour, I was left waiting in a room with my friend.

By then, I was convinced they were preparing Ayda’s body for me to see. Eventually, I was taken to her. She was lying on a table covered with warming blankets. She was hypothermic and had twigs and mud in her hair. Her eyes were wide open and full of grit. All I could think to do was clean her face.

The doctors told me she had effectively been dead. They had performed CPR and eventually Ayda began to cough and they found a pulse. She had been placed in an induced coma while they tried to clear her lungs.

I was told Ayda may have gone as long as 20 minutes without oxygen. The likelihood was that she would be severely brain damaged if she survived. I was told I needed to prepare myself for that possibility.

So I didn’t know if she was going to make it through the night. And if she did, the best possible outcome we could hope for was that she would be trapped inside a body that no longer worked properly. In the meantime, doctors were trying to remove the fluid from her lungs.

Then we spoke to another consultant. He was German. He explained that in Germany, there had been cases of children falling through frozen lakes and drowning, but surviving without brain damage because the water was cold enough to preserve the brain.

He didn’t want to give us false hope, just some hope. It was April, but Ayda was small, and if the water had been cold enough, there was a chance.

A little while later, after they had reduced Ayda’s sedation, I stepped out of the room to get a drink. When I came back, all of the nurses were smiling.

Not only that, she had sat up, snarled at the room full of strangers in front of her, and tried to pull out her NG tube and catheter. Straight away, we got confirmation that she wasn’t paralyzed, had sensation in her limbs, and still had hand-eye coordination.

They had to increase her sedation at that point because Ayda was going for an MRI scan. I’ll never forget the consultant returning with the results.

Ayda had a perfectly healthy three-year-old brain.

When they woke her up, Ayda simply put her arms out for me. I never thought I would get to hug my daughter like that again.

Though there was still some way to go in her recovery, Ayda gradually returned to her normal self. It was a miracle.

It was more than that, though. The people who came to Ayda’s rescue that day made all the difference. Ian Hide, the police officer who pulled her out of the water, had previously worked as a lifeguard. He was giving her rescue breaths while swimming backwards to shore with her.

Then there’s Janet Grace, my next-door neighbor’s sister, who just happened to be visiting that day. She’s a respiratory specialist nurse and led the CPR effort. Everyone, from the paramedics and air ambulance crew to the consultants and nurses, played a part in saving Ayda.

I recently completed a skydive to raise money for the North West Air Ambulance and will run the London Marathon in support of Alder Hey, the hospital that saved Ayda’s life. I also created the Instagram account @Amazing_Ayda to share her story and help raise awareness.

Ayda is back to running circles around me. She’s beautiful. I must kiss her face 1,000 times a day. She’s doing well. She’s at a school for autistic children and is learning to talk for the first time.

I’m still haunted by thoughts of what she must have felt that day, but a neurologist told me she’ll have no memory of it. Everything would have happened very quickly.

I know I’m one of the lucky ones, which is why I’m so determined to spread awareness about autism elopement.

Parents of children either diagnosed with, or suspected of having, autism need to be prepared.

Get reins. Install extra locks on your doors. I’ve got an AirTag for Ayda and T-shirts with QR codes. I’ve even got a life jacket that she wears whenever we go on a big day out.

People might say I’m overcautious, but studies have shown that autistic children are at a dramatically increased risk of drowning.

What happened to Ayda that day will stay with me forever. I just hope that by spreading awareness on social media, I can make sure other parents don’t have to go through the same thing, or something even worse.

Contact Newsweek editors on this story: Rebecca Flood and Emma Lee-Sang