Why I’m starting a blog…

Oatmeal Accident

“Here’s your food. Do you want any sauce with that?”

We’re grabbing food from Taco Time before heading up the mountain to go camping. Brandon and I are a little annoyed with each other because packing and leaving always takes longer than we hope for. I’m an anxious over-packer. Also, I’m six months pregnant and moving slower these days.

“Yes, mild sauce, please,” I say as I grab a fat stack of napkins. Thinking, we should make sure the truck’s glove box is stocked.

“Have a great night,” the employee says as she puts the sauce packets in the paper bag.

“Thanks, you too!” She doesn’t hear me as she’s already on to her next task. I gather everything and take it back out to the truck. We didn’t want to get Leo out and I didn’t know what I wanted so I went in to order the food.

We picked Taco Time because it’s right next to the freeway entrance. As Brandon navigates the truck and camp trailer out of the parking lot, I get a soft taco out for Leo, unwrap it, turn around as best as I can with my big belly, and set it on his lap in his car seat. Leo is three years old and can sort of handle a taco by himself now. However, he’s a picky eater, so there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll actually eat it.

I turn back around and start to get our food out of the bag when the truck starts slightly fishtailing. I drop the food back into the bag and look around, suddenly on high alert. We’re getting on the freeway, about to merge, but the truck keeps fishtailing. Brandon speeds up to try to regain control of the trailer, but instead, the fishtailing worsens.

It feels like my heart is in my throat. I look at Brandon for reassurance, but he looks worried as he is furiously working on the steering wheel to keep us straight. Anxiously, I glance out the window and see that all the cars around us have slowed down and moved away.

We’re now fishtailing violently across multiple lanes. Brandon is trying his hardest to gain control. Speeding up didn’t work and he knows that slowing down usually makes the fishtailing worse. He yells, “Get ready to crash!”

A whimper escapes me. I’m so scared, but I can’t talk or cry. I look out the windshield to see what we might crash into. The right side of the freeway slopes down a hill lined with big trees. If we crash, we’ll likely flip when we hit that hill. Will the trees stop us from rolling, or will they be what kills us? I try to imagine how this might go down so I can prepare. What can I do?

I whip my head around to look at Leo. He’s frozen, his wide eyes filled with confusion. He has the taco in his hand. Was he really going to eat it? As fast as I can, I grab the taco, wrap it back up, and put it in the bag. Because if we flip, we don’t want tacos flying around and making a mess, do we?

Time slows down. Each second stretches endlessly as we whip back and forth across the highway. I look at Leo once more. He’s securely buckled in a five-point harness—I hope his car seat does its job. I can’t do anything else for him. I turn around and make sure my seat belt is positioned correctly under my pregnant belly. I place one arm over my belly and grip the door handle with the other.

I sound like I’m hyperventilating. I want to scream and cry, but all that comes out is more scared, whimpering sounds. I glance at Brandon again, and I can tell he’s scared. That terrifies me even more. I typically look to him for guidance and strength. What do I do when he’s struggling? I feel so helpless! In my panic, I somehow find my voice and yell, “Heavenly Father, please help me!” It’s the loudest and most desperate prayer I’ve ever uttered.

There isn’t enough time to think about anything else to say. Are we slowing down? It’s hard to tell, but something feels different.

I stay silent and hopeful as we continue whipping across the freeway. Come on, come on, come on, I silently chant.

Brandon’s arms and hands work fast and furiously, gripping the steering wheel to keep us on the road. He looks slightly more confident as the jerking starts to ease. I don’t know what changed, but somehow, we manage to slow down enough to safely pull off onto the shoulder.

A few seconds later, traffic resumes as if nothing happened. Inside the truck, we sit motionless, staring straight ahead. My arms and legs feel numb from the panic. I still can’t breathe. I look back at Leo—he’s scared but okay. I look at my belly—it’s hard as a rock from a Braxton Hicks contraction, but my baby is safe. I look at Brandon. He meets my gaze with a strained but relieved expression. He grabs my hand and asks, “Are you okay?”

I squeeze his hand tight and break down sobbing!

After I cry for a while, Leo starts to get antsy. We decide to drive to my parents’ house to regroup. We stick to the back roads and go slow. I can’t stop crying, clinging to Brandon’s hand the entire time.

When we park at my parents’ house, we check the trailer for damage. As we open the door and peek inside, we’re met with chaos. Brandon helps Leo and I inside, and we take a closer look. Everything is covered in oatmeal! The food and dishes from the cupboards are scattered all over, and oatmeal is all over our bedding, luggage, countertops, and floor. It looks like someone threw an oatmeal confetti party in our trailer. That’s why Leo named this experience “The Oatmeal Accident.”

This was a terrifying experience. I will never forget the moment when I truly believed I could die. The clearest thought came to me: I can’t die yet—I haven’t written down my life experiences!

I was surprised that this was my first thought in the face of death. I know keeping a journal is important, but I’ve never been good at it. In fact, I totally suck at it.

But I realized that I don’t want to die and just disappear. I want my family and future generations to know me, to know my trials and how I’ve navigated them. I keep a lot inside; there’s so much I don’t talk about. I suffer in silence, it’s what I do.

The Oatmeal Accident was a massive wake-up call—I have a purpose on this earth. I need to record my life experiences! That was almost nine years ago.

I’ve felt hundreds of impressions to share my story. I wrote a lot of it four years ago, during a difficult trial. But writing it down and putting it on the internet are two very different things. Both require courage, but in different ways.

At first, I didn’t plan to share my story with strangers, but I’ve been inspired by people who bravely shared theirs:

– Kim White (@kimcankickit)

– Collin Kartchner (@collinkartchner)

– Chelsea Anderson (@heartsofzion, formerly Rock and Lily)

They’ve all passed away. Kim from cancer. Collin from a sudden heart problem. Chelsea from a brain aneurysm.

And yet, they continue to inspire me every day. I want to honor their courage and pay it forward.

I’m trying to be brave like they were.

So… here we go!