It was June 12, 1962. I was eight years old, and the summer sun promised a nice afternoon for travel. I remember how warm it was, the kind of heat that makes the inside of a car feel stuffy and uncomfortable. My six-year-old sister, Darcy, sat beside me, and our mother was up front, guiding us south on Highway 99, just outside of Weed, California. We were headed toward a new adventure, excited to play with our cousins in Sacramento, California. Not one of us ever imagined that in moments, everything would change.
Just south of Weed, our Volkswagen Bug was involved in a horrific crash. Our car was struck head-on by a drunk driver; we were the fifth and final car hit in a chain-reaction incident. Everything happened so fast. I remember the sound of metal crumpling, glass shattering, screams all around me—and then, silence. The stillness was almost louder than the impact. I didn’t know what had happened. I was in and out of consciousness, unaware that I had been thrown through the windshield. All I knew was that I was hurt, confused, and afraid.
A truck driver who witnessed the accident pulled over and called for help on his CB radio. He rushed to my side, assuring me that help was on the way. When ambulances arrived, I was lifted from the car and laid down on a blanket on the road. I still remember the heat of the pavement through the fabric. Almost instantly, a California Highway Patrol officer knelt beside me and shaded me with his hat. He gently pressed gauze to my head and tried to comfort me as he stopped the bleeding. I still remember how shiny his shoes were, polished to perfection. At one point, he asked if I could see my reflection in them. I said yes, and he quickly covered them with a jacket so I wouldn’t see my bloodied face staring back.
I had a deep scalp wound, damage to my right eye, forehead, and cheek. My hip was badly dislocated, and I would later learn I had internal abdominal bleeding. Darcy had been thrown against the back seat but somehow escaped with only minor injuries. She was screaming for our mom, who was still trapped in the car. The sound of Darcy’s terror is still etched in my mind. She was in shock, unable to understand what was happening, and seeing things no child should ever see.
It took the jaws of life to free our mother from the vehicle. Her injuries were severe, and she wouldn’t be fully removed from the wreckage until much later due to the complexity of the crash. We were rushed to Mount Shasta Hospital, a rural healthcare center with just 13 beds. Dr. Victor Thompson, whose practice was in Weed, did everything he could. He stitched my wounds, relocated my hip, and stabilized my mother and me as best he could. But it was clear we needed more specialized care, and urgently.
In the hospital I remember the CHP officer asking where my dad worked. I didn’t know exactly, only that it had something to do with planes. I shared that my daddy told airplanes when to come and go. He asked if my dad worked at the Medford Airport—I said yes.
My father was working at the air traffic control tower that day, and when he was notified about our condition, he dropped to his knees. The officer didn’t believe my mother or I would survive, and the call was to inform him of the seriousness of the accident. George Milligan, founder of Mercy Flights, was contacted. Together with the tower chief, they quickly arranged a Piper plane to fly my father and grandmother to be with us.
Darcy would later be taken home by Greyhound bus with our grandmother. George Milligan, my father, and a team of medical personnel flew my mother and me to Sacred Heart Hospital in Medford for advanced care. That flight was harrowing. My mother was in critical condition with a shattered ankle and a blood clot in her brain, barely alive and in a deep coma. I was still bleeding internally and had been told I coded midair, it was quite literally touch and go. My father, on the flight, was beside himself, helpless as his family hovered on the edge of life and death. Somehow, we made it to Sacred Heart Hospital. Looking back, that flight feels like a miracle.
I spent two weeks in Sacred Heart Hospital. I had hundreds of stitches for my face and head lacerations. I was in traction for months and underwent major abdominal surgery once my blood pressure stabilized. The surgery revealed a shattered spleen, which was removed. That day marked the beginning of a long road to recovery. To date, I’ve had 17 surgeries and life-threatening infections, all linked to that accident.
Unbelievably, my mother also survived. After six weeks in a coma, she beat the odds. Though changed by her injuries and trauma, she came back to us. After a year of rehab, she walked again for about a decade, albeit with a pronounced gait. For the last 20 years of her life, she used a wheelchair. She had once been a dancer and an artist, things she could never do again. But with her husband by her side, she found joy in new things, especially gardening and raising her children with the grateful heart of a woman who got a second chance. That helped her heal in ways medicine never could.
We were privileged to know George Milligan personally. My father became acquainted with him through his years at the Medford Control Tower. All the traffic controllers knew George’s mission to save lives by taking to the air. I remember George and his family at Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) summer picnics and Christmas fundraisers, changing lives in a different way. I’ve never forgotten his kindness or the innovation behind Mercy Flights. In an era when air ambulances were rare, George’s commitment to urgent care saved my life and my mother’s. Without him, I wouldn’t be here to tell this story.
Today, I am the last living member of my family. My mother and sister passed away in 2010, and my father followed six years later. I carry them with me—literally. The scars I’ve worn since that day are now covered with tattoos, each one a tribute to my family and the memories we made. The tattoos and the scars are with me always.
I am now in my 70s, married to my husband Michael, the love of my life. We’ve been together for 38 years and have four children, nine beautiful grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. Life has come full circle. The pain of that day never fully left, but neither did the love of family. Because of a dream, a man, and Mercy Flights, our family was given the miracle of survival.
I will always be grateful to Mercy Flights and to George Milligan, the man whose vision gave us a second chance.
