True Story. 

It was July 5th — the morning after a packed Fourth of July celebration. Everyone was off doing their own thing: morning projects, quiet walks, cleaning up. You know that peaceful hum that lingers after a big holiday?

That’s where we were.

Our neighbors, Sarah and Tom, had borrowed our front loader to move some brush and fallen logs on their 50-acre property. Nothing major, just a “putter day,” as they called it. They were experienced and had used the equipment before. I didn’t think twice.

And then, out of nowhere, my friend’s mom’s phone rang.

She looked at the caller ID and said, “Huh, it’s Sarah?”

That stopped me cold.

“Wait,” I said, confused. “Sarah?”
How would she have your number?

Before we could even process it, my friend’s mom answered the call.

All we heard was Sarah’s voice, screaming:
“Call 911! Send everyone! Find Paula!"
And then the line went dead.

For about 15 minutes, Sarah had been desperately trying to reach all of us—calling every phone number she could think of—because in an emergency, every second counts.

But none of us had our phones nearby; some were off doing projects or simply out of earshot. On top of that, Sarah could barely get a call through to 911, with spotty cell service making it nearly impossible to get help quickly. No walkie-talkies, no radios, just her voice and sheer determination in a silent scramble for assistance. It was a harsh reminder of how vital clear, reliable communication is when disaster strikes—and how easy it is to be caught off guard.

The few of us who heard that call just stared at each other in stunned silence, trying to compute what had just happened.

Was that really Sarah?
How did she even get my friends moms phone number?
Where was she? What happened?

And then it clicked. 

Holy. Shit.
I grabbed my keys and bolted to the car. No shoes, no bag — just instinct. It took about five minutes to drive across the property and up the hill to theirs.

What I pulled up to looked like a scene from a war zone.

Blood. Everywhere.

Tom was still sitting in the front loader — slumped, barely conscious, and drenched in blood. A massive 800-pound log had rolled out of the bucket from about five feet up and landed squarely on his forehead and shoulder, then rolled across his head before finally hitting the ground.

Sarah was frantic, trying to reconnect with 911. Paula — a retired ER nurse who happened to be visiting — was already at his side, calmly assessing the situation like the total pro she is.

And me?

I had nothing.
No first aid kit.
Not even the small one I always keep in my car.
And I didn’t grab the big go-bag at the house either.

I’m a prepper. And I had nothing.

It’s the kind of moment that makes your stomach drop and your heart scream, What were you thinking?

While Paula worked on stabilizing Tom, I ran into their house, found a roll of microfiber cloths in the kitchen, soaked them in cool water, and rushed them back. We used them to cover the head wound — to cool him down, block the bugs, and let Paula get a better look at what we were dealing with.

Minutes later, a helicopter landed in the field behind their house and airlifted Tom out.

And here's the part that still gives me chills:

He survived. With no major injuries.
No traumatic brain damage. No spinal injuries. No internal bleeding.
He shouldn’t have walked away. But somehow, he did.

His angel was definitely standing right there with him.

And me? I’ll never forget what it felt like to show up empty-handed in an emergency.

Since that day, my car is fully stocked.

My go bags are checked and rechecked.

I’ve got quick-access trauma kits in multiple locations. Because this is what prepping is really about — not just canned food and flashlights, but being able to help when seconds matter.

We don’t prep for if — we prep for when.

And when came that day. I wasn’t ready.

But I won’t let that happen again.

---

 

Ready to Be the Woman Who’s Always Prepared?
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