The Accident

Note: In order to acknowledge the hand of God, I feel it is important to write down what has happened. Other parts of the story will follow. (Originally posted 9/15/13, now re-dated to make posts fit chronologically)

I parked my mini-van in the barely-sloped driveway of my friend's house where preschool would be held that day. I was dropping off Andrew, but I also had a handful of things to give to my friend. I was explaining the various items, so Noah got out of the car and brought Lissy with him. When we went back outside, Noah hopped in the driver's side door, and Lissy climbed up after him. She looked at me and grinned. "Drive, drive," she said. I looked around to see if anybody else saw how cute that was, and then reached out to grab her and put her in her car seat.

Right as I went to grab Lissy, I saw another little family approaching preschool, with two little ones in a stroller. Their preschooler was saying he didn't want to go to preschool, and since I taught last week, I thought I would say a few words to comfort him. I took two steps away from Lissy, and, still right beside my vehicle, knelt down to talk to the boy. "You are going to have so much fun in preschool! I saw you smiling and laughing when we were singing songs and . . ." I was mid-sentence, and suddenly I saw a horrified look on the other mother's face and noticed that my van was rolling. My first thought was that their little 20-month old girl was going to be killed, so I tried to get those kids out of the way and/or stop the van. I have no idea what kind of assistance I was with that, but I remember feeling like those kids were safe, when all of the sudden I saw pink out of the corner of my eye. Lissy was under the van! I thought she'd already been run over (which turns out to not be true), and I wanted to save her from being run over again. I couldn't get to her, so I tried to stop the van. It wasn't working, and it started rolling over Lissy. I knew then that even if I could stop the van, I didn't want to while it was on top of Lissy, so I had to watch it roll over her. It felt like it took a very long time, as I sat there and waited to be able to see what had happened to her. After the van cleared her, I reached down towards her, but she did a little skid, and a large chunk of her hair was scraped into the road. I thought the back of her head had been scraped off and wondered if that had killed her.

This was all very quiet and slow to me. I have been told later that I was screaming, several others were screaming, and that it all happened in two blinks. One witness said, " . . .but the car was moving so fast . . ." I didn't hear any sounds at all.

My first thought was, "See if she's alive." I saw that her eyes were opened and she was covered in vomit, but   I didn't know what that meant. She started to cry, and I took that to be a good sign, and knelt down beside her, yelling, "Call 911, call 911!" (Why do you sound so hysterical, Emily? My calm inner voice asked.) I heard the call being made, and wanted to pick Lissy up, but knew I could injure her further by doing so. A friend who witnessed the whole thing stood beside me and soothingly coached me. "You're right, don't touch her," she said. I stroked Lissy's cheek, and felt so helpless watching her writhe on the driveway. I knelt down to pray, but the words wouldn't really come out. I sat beside Lissy thinking, "I know you're not supposed to touch accident victims, but if she's dying right now, I need to hold her. I need to hold her during her last few minutes." As I was anguishing over that decision, Lissy rolled over and tried to get up. She only got to her knees before she cried out in pain, and I heard my friend say, "Okay, hold her tight." That was one of the many tender mercies, I got to hold her. I remember thinking, "Why aren't I crying about this?" However, I have been told later that I actually was crying. One friend says the image of me crying while softly rocking Lissy in my arms was the most haunting image of the accident.

I wanted the ambulance there NOW, but it seemed like it was taking forever to get there. I knew Lissy had a chance to live since she was crying, but I also knew she could be hemorrhaging on the inside, and every cry could be her last. She just looked so limp and broken. One side of her face was completely red, and there was a distinct tire track down her face, so I knew her skull and brain had been run over. She looked so pale, and her lips were purple . . . why aren't they here now?! I kept thinking. A friend kept rubbing my back and saying, "She's crying, this is a good sign," and other comforting things. I heard sirens, and hope welled up, but when the car showed up it was from the Sheriff's department. No! I thought. Only the ambulance can save her. I have been told I said that to him in some form, but I was nice about it. As the sheriff knelt down beside her, he said into his radio, almost immediately, "We need a birdie in the sky." That brought me a small measure of relief - they weren't going to mess around, they were going to fly her straight to Primarys.

Lissy needed a priesthood blessing right away, I knew, but as I looked around the circle of onlookers, it was only women. I asked the bishop's wife if her husband was home, knowing the answer would be no before I asked. Suddenly, a man from our ward came running around the corner. The second I caught sight of him I asked him to give Lissy a blessing, and he came right to my side and did so. I don't remember anything about it, besides that she was blessed to recover, and when that was said, something at the back of my head told me thing would work out. I tried to cling to that inside, but my body kept reacting to the scene before me.

After what seemed to be the longest wait of my life, the ambulance and crew showed up. They took Lissy, and told me to sit in the driver's seat of my van. I sat down and knew I had to something to help my baby if she was going to make it off the life flight. Prayers - she needed as many as possible, right now. I picked up my phone and trembled out a text to the last 40 people I'd texted (the max it would let me). "Pray your hardest ever. Lissy has been run over by our van. Flying to Primarys." I felt the prayers almost immediately. Later, I heard stories of people's horrified feelings and immediate prayers. My brother-in-law was at work, and immediately got up, shut the door to his office, and dropped to his knees.

The next part is more of a blur than the other. A friend was telling me I needed a blessing, but I thought I was fine and just wanted to do something for Lissy. Later, I was told I was completely white, the comparison was made to a white hospital wall. The police were asking me questions, and I was doing my best to sound composed. The first question was my address, and I heard somebody say, "I don't know if she knows right now." I took a deep breath. I could tell them my address. And Lissy's name, birthdate, and approximate weight. Then, a piece of paper was put in front of my face. "I know this is a hard time, but we need a statement from you." I shakily started writing, "baby was in the driver's seat . . ." "I can't do this," I said. "Can somebody else do this?" The paper was taken away from me, and later I found out that a friend tried her best to write as I frantically walked back and forth trying to describe what happened. I guess I said I put Lissy in the driver's seat, which is why the news reported that later. It doesn't make much of a difference, but I definitely know she climbed herself, because I remember specifically the part where I looked around to  see if anybody else had noticed what a cute stinker she was.

The police were recommending that someone else drive me to Salt Lake. I didn't feel incapable of driving (although I obviously was), but a friend immediately said she was driving me. Her kids were already taken care of. The police then tried to ask me what my plans were for my other kids. I looked at the crowd of onlookers, and knew that any one of them would take care of my boys for the day, and they would work it out amongst themselves, I didn't even have to ask. So, I said, "They're taken care of." I think the police thought I was talking out of my shock-induced state. They asked again, what plans needed to be made for my other children. I just pointed at the circle of wonderful people and said again, "They're taken care of." What an amazing feeling it was to be able to do that with confidence. What an amazing neighborhood.

As my friend led me away from the scene, I looked back at where Lissy had been before she was put on the ambulance, and I saw her pink shirt, cut down the middle, lying on the ground. A little below that were several large chunks of her hair. That was the closest I came to crying (or knowing I was crying), when I saw that.

I was led into a house, where two brethren were prepared to give me a blessing. I was blessed that I wouldn't feel guilt or responsibility about the accident, which at the time I didn't think a lot of, but became a huge issue just a few hours later. I could always look back on that blessing when searching for comfort. One of the sisters gave me a hug before I got in the car, and it was so comforting, I went for another one. By the time I was in a car heading out of the neighborhood, it was just in time to watch the Life Flight helicopter lift into the sky, turn around, and head towards Salt Lake with my baby. I stuck my head out the window and asked the EMTs still on the scene if she was still conscious. She was.

I had to stop at my house to grab my I.D. and a bra (let that be a lesson to you all), but I couldn't leave town without letting Noah know I loved him. I knew he'd seen the whole thing, and that he is smart enough to know what made the car go. We'd seen after the ambulance arrived that Noah had put the keys in the ignition (didn't start the engine), and put the van in neutral, which is what made it roll. Our van is apparently one model year too old to have the safety feature where you have to press on the brake to shift. At one point before the ambulance arrived and I was cradling Lissy on my lap, I suddenly noticed Noah behind my shoulder. I scolded him for messing with the car, then immediately felt bad and kissed his cheek, telling him what a good boy he is. However, as he walked away from the scene with friends, he held his head down, dejectedly. So, on my way out of town, I stopped to love my Noah. I hugged and kissed him and told him I loved him. He didn't say a single word to me, but my teary friend who had him at her house reassured me he would be doing fun things, so I gave him one last squeeze and left.

I see how long this is, and want to go back and write more about the accident and the moments before the ambulance came - those are the moments that seemed like forever. Those are the images that replay over and over in my head. How do I fully capture what it was to hold my bloodied and broken little girl, or to describe the intense need I felt to get her care that could save her? How do I express what it was to wonder if this was the last I'd be with her on earth? I've hardly been able to cry about this accident, but right now I can hardly breathe. After her blessing I felt that Lissy would recover, but . . . but everything. The things my mind worried about and what I had seen and experienced were still human. As we drove to Salt Lake, I remember joking about silly stories where we forgot to wear a bra, and also talking to my mom and Gary's mom. I didn't feel jittery inside. However, I have been told it's good that I don't remember the ride to Primarys because I'd periodically mention something like life flights often crash. I tried to get a hold of Gary right before we got to the hospital so I'd know what to expect when I got inside, but no answer. So, I just walked inside and said, "My daughter just came in on Life Flight."

Disclaimer: Not her life flight, a picture of another red life flight helicopter, taken from tmcnews.org.

Read the next part, Miracles.