Thursday, February 2, 2023

Why I Hate Februarys and Other Musings of a Suicide Loss Survivor

      I hate Februarys.  As January creeps along with its cold, stark, dark days my anxiety starts closing in. My mind starts rehearsing a January 6...7...now 8 years ago.  The questions are the same and likely always will be.  "What could I have done?".  "What did I miss?".  "Why didn't she tell me her true thoughts?".  And, the most damning lie, "What did I do wrong?"  and "Why wasn't love enough to heal?".  These are the thoughts you forever rehearse when someone you love dearly dies by suicide-- and it's why I hate Februarys.  February 13, 2015, I lost Willow.  My cousin.  My best friend. Lifelong sister who I grew up with just moments down the road. February...you suck.

     To most people I might look like a fairly high functioning human.  I'm now a nursing professor, business owner, juggling committees, charitable work, friendships, teaching fitness classes, marriage, grown kids, a home, a lovable beagle rescue mix.  But February tests me.  Inside I am a cauldron of-- I shoulda...woulda...coulda.  From my conversations with other survivors this is not unique. Suicide leaves a unique trail of grief on the hearts of the loss survivors.

     Willow took her own life while vacationing in Florida the day before her real life was supposed to resume again.  Maybe the starkness of the reality between how she wanted to live and how she was living was too painful to face and she felt trapped.  Last night I had a dream I went to Florida and visited Disney and Willow was working as Winnie the Pooh (a character she adored) in the Magic Kingdom.  I don't even know if Pooh Bear cruises the Kingdom these days, but it was a comforting thought to cling to that she was just hiding out and having fun and not really...dead. 

     I don't share this for sympathy.  I've had many angels in my path help carry the weight of this grief.  It doesn't exactly get easier you just learn how to carry it and still carry on. The grief doesn't get smaller--you just grow larger around the enormity of pain and grow in a different way then you imagined. I share this for awareness. There are on average 130 deaths by suicide a day in the United States and many more attempts. Mental health care is health care.  We have to collectively erase the stigma and improve access so everyone can get the care they need.

     In 2017 I traveled to the AFSP Advocacy Forum in Washington, DC to advocate for a national 3-digit mental health/ suicide prevention hotline with thousands of other volunteer advocates from every state.  Last year this dream came to fruition with the creation of the 988 hotline--which you should call if you need help or know someone who needs help due to a mental health crisis. It was a sweet victory for that line to go live.  But, in my unspoken thoughts I wondered what would have happened in February of 2015 if 988 was active. Would Willow have called?  Would she have sought help?  I don't know.  I hope she would have.

     I don't really know, but I really need to let myself ask those questions when they arise and feel the feelings and let them go to make room for love, compassion, good memories, and the smiles that we shared for 45 years of my life. I've learned through painful attempts suppressing the questions only prolongs the pain. 

     I hate Februarys.  And, that's OK.  Some things are allowed to suck. Forever.

     If you need help...please know you matter.  Please call 988 or visit afsp.org and get help. The world is better with you in it and Februarys will be better if you stay.  

Sunday, July 25, 2021

How's Your Information Diet?

      If the past year has underscored anything it has laid bare how interconnected we all are and how information is merely a fingertip away. Besides reading, writing, and arithmetic one of the most crucial skills our children will learn is how to discern good information.  Information is  like water. We all need it.   At first glance-- water may look like water.  However, water can contain insidious, invisible, and nearly undetectable contaminants that render it to be downright dangerous.   If you are not a discerning information consumer you can fall prey.  Now more than ever, we all have to become savvy and educated information consumers.

     How can you discern if something is true as you are scrolling the web or if a trusted friend posts something on Facebook? Just as you would want to be aware of the ingredients of a food you ingest, or that your water is unadulterated by contaminants-- we must be judicious consumers of information.  We know that people act on information and that you will make choices based on your information diet.  Those choices can be well informed or ill informed depending on the information that supports your decisions.  It's all about being a smart consumer.

     The first thing to realize is that everyone who writes, speaks, blogs, and communicates has a world view, opinions, cultural, ethnic, religious, and a myriad of other factors that influence the information they share.  Even the most genuine journalists committed to the truth have a bias--we all do.  The trick is to recognize that and consume your information diet with the knowledge that everyone has an agenda.  It may be a good agenda--to inform an audience about an important health update.  Or--it may be a self serving agenda such as publishing a hopelessly flawed study to boost profits of a snake oil.  It is your responsibility as an information consumer to analyze the information quality to determine if it merits integrating into your knowledge base or before sharing with others.  Remember, if you continually share bad information that can reflect on you.  We all want to be known as trustworthy--don't let insidious bad information mar your reputation.

     The first thing I do when someone posts an article, website, or blog is go to the URL and scroll to the bottom of the page and check out the  "About Us" tab if there is one (Teachnology, n.d).  If there is not an information tab that tells you a lot.  In my experience when an individual or organization is not forthcoming about who they are they likely are hiding something and have nefarious motives.  Read the information tab and then cross reference in your browser any key words, players, or partner organizations that come up.  For example, last year an acquaintance posted an article regarding a Covid treatment from a "doctor" from a particular organization.  I cross referenced her name to find out many colleagues had complained about her.  She had been fired from a hospital job according to a newspaper article I found.  Additionally, using white page lookup info I found a Google image of her "practice" which was next to a church which she pastored.  It was also revealed she had not actually practiced medicine in some time and the subject she spoke about was out of her specialty training. 

     Interestingly, I shared my findings (which took less than 5 minutes) with my acquaintance with a comment to the effect of, "Not sure we want to trust this source".  Sadly, the acquaintance had already made up her mind and was quick to defend the information.  Which brings me to my next point which was my first point--we all have an agenda.  Frequently we try to find sources of information that merely back up what we already believe.  Is that healthy information consumerism?  Certainly, if you knew water was contaminated you would turn it down and seek pure water.  Let's never be so set in our ways or blindly devoted to an idea or a course of action that not even facts can change our mind.  Our health, our safety, and the well being of those entrusted to our care is too important to dig our heels in when evidence of bad information challenges our tightly held beliefs. 

     My next rule I follow for discerning information is, "Follow the Money".  We all need it and nearly nothing can function without it.  Even reputable doctors and researchers are permitted to profit from their expertise.  Med school is not cheap.  But what are they selling?  Are they selling a product they are promoting with their "study" or their article?  Are they promoting a book, TV show, or other platform which they will solely profit from?  The best researchers work hard for grants and funding for studies that are then peer reviewed--vetted by experts in their field and evaluated for the worthiness of further consideration.  These processes are vigorous and consider the kind of research done, the sample size, the sample diversity, methods, and statistical analysis.  The best studies self identify their own areas of weakness and areas for further study.  These studies are often published in peer reviewed journals and promote the knowledge of experts in the field.  As research progresses other scientists can build on the knowledge of peers and consider areas of further study in future research.  Solid and trusted sources of information rarely directly benefit from the public from their research by directly selling a product, service, or idea. Misinformation and fake news are frequently used to manipulate an audience to further the agenda and/or profit of the author or organization sponsoring the site (Islam, et al 2020).

     Who is the author and what are his/her qualifications?  This should be readily apparent on the website or in the article through self disclosure.  This information can be validated readily through a Google search of the author(s).  What are peers saying about the author?  Are they trusted in their field?  Have they been censured? Fired? Have other people written articles discrediting them?  Now, don't immediately dispose of an idea because there is backlash--oftentimes "New" ideas are criticized. However, if someone is repeatedly and consistently discredited or portrayed in a negative light by other professionals who are trusted and whose own credentials check out you have to consume what they are feeding you with a dire warning---information may not be exactly how it appears.  Further research and careful consideration is warranted before you act on information disseminated by someone who is not trusted by their peers.  It seems like common sense, right?  However, this level of detail takes some research and in our instant gratification tech reality--that is time many people just do not care to invest.  But, I repeat--you and your family are worth it!  Remember your information is like water--keep it real. 

     Another question to ask--is the information I am reading being disseminated elsewhere?  Have other researchers replicated these results? Science is not "One and done".  A solid research study is able to be replicated with similar results.  If it cannot then there are study flaws that should be identified.  Researchers with integrity should not be so emotionally attached to their hypothesis that the study methods are manipulated--that's how scientists fail peer review of their studies and lose trust.  In the past it has resulted in some very high profile study retractions and falls from grace of once revered doctors.   In the world of science trust is a precious commodity that can garner research and grant opportunities, so top notch scientists do not toy with it. 

     Additionally, look at the forum the article is written on.  Is it a scholarly peer reviewed journal or is it click bait designed to draw you in to advertisements, or other revenue generating content? Does the claim sound reasonable and consistent with other known facts? (Pennycook & Rand, 2021).  Is it a .com, .gov, .edu, or a .org?  Whether it originates from a commercial, governmental, education, or non profit source will skew the information and you just need to know the angle (Teachnology, n.d.).  How does the web page feel?  Is it easy to navigate and is information easy to access?  Can you easily find out information on the authors, board of directors, or other leadership  information or does it feel like you are trapped in an aisle at Walmart and you keep getting distracted by the merchandise?  That  may be okay if you are trying to catch up on Britney's progress dissolving her conservatorship.  However, if you are trying to find reliable information to make a health decision that is....no bueno. 

     Lastly, do you have an expert in your life you can correlate the information with--like a real live living person you can talk to who will be straight with you.  In the example I gave above I called my sister-in-law who happens to be an ICU nurse with nearly 20 years of experience in a leadership position.  She has been caring for Covid patients since day 1.  I said to her, "Hey, this acquaintance posted an article about this treatment for Covid.  What has been your experience?"  Notice, I didn't tell my sister in law what I already had found about the quack doctor with her office next to her church talking about content far outside her area of expertise.  My sister in law quickly and authoritatively rebutted the effectiveness of the stated treatment and told me why.  In great detail she told me of her experience in the early stages of the treatment and how the patients responded negatively.  She told me how they had tried various dosages and techniques. Then she told me what the current standard of care was and how it worked.  I went to an expert.  She knows her stuff.  She is respected in her field.  She herself knows and trusts and respects experts and follows their lead and that has lead to her breadth of knowledge.  Do you see what I did there?  By the way-- I shared this exchange with my acquaintance who was completely undeterred by these facts.  Is that how you want to live?  I hope we never are so arrogant that we cannot defer to trusted experts.  We cannot know everything.  We need each other. We are not islands.  The choices we make do affect those around us.

     One of my jobs is a clinical instructor to nursing students.  I ask a lot of questions. When my students look up their patient's information I will ask them, "Why do you think that patient with that medical condition is taking that medication?".  "Hmmm yesterday his labs were "X" and today they are "Y", what do you think is going on with his disease process?".  No matter how many questions I ask there is one answer that I always respect and it opens the doors to new knowledge.  It shows humility and a desire to learn.  You cannot be filled with the gift of knowledge if you are full of yourself.  There is great humility and wisdom in the three simple words, "I don't know".  The first day with my clinical group I tell them the most dangerous nurses are the ones who don't know, what they don't know.  And that is true for all of us.  

Stay curious. Ask questions. Know what you don't know.  Seek quality information. Follow the money.  Confirm the author qualifications, education, and their other work.  Check their reputation among peers.  Consult experts people in your life and have a real conversation with them when you are trying to make a decision.  Have a medical question? Ask your doctor.  A tax dilemma? Ask an accountant. A massive car repair?  How about consulting an expert--a car mechanic you trust.  We are only as smart as we are willing to recognize our limits.  When we go beyond our knowledge base we are just faking it and playing roulette. 

     You are worth good information.  Your family, your children and those in your care rely on you to be a savvy information consumer. You are what you eat, drink, and think--and your thoughts are shaped by the information you consume.   Be willing to know your limits and consult those you trust and only share what you really know. Be well! Be safe! Be smart!


Kim Mihelich RN, MSN, CPAN



References

Islam, M. R., Liu, S., Wang, X., & Xu, G. (2020). Deep learning for misinformation detection on online social networks: a survey and new perspectives. Social network analysis and mining10(1), 82. https://doi.org/10.1007/s13278-020-00696-x

The Pennycook, G., & Rand, D. G. (2021). Psychology of Fake News. Trends in cognitive sciences25(5), 388–402. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tics.2021.02.007

Teachnology, n.d., "How to Evaluate the Accuracy of a Website", accessed How to evaluate the accuracy of a website (teach-nology.com)

Saturday, May 22, 2021

                                                                            Trail Brothers


     Their footsteps thundered behind me.  I was a casual slow runner and had the chance to catch a few miles after work.  It was their practice time--and their foot falls in simultaneous rhythmic cadence sounded like a herd of gazelle as they ran from the school past our house.  Their brotherly debates and prodding pierced through the thunderous running. They cantered past me in a hail of laughter, "Hey Mrs. M...."-- Always pushing each other on and inspiring the best while keeping each other humble. I wasn't sure exactly how they did it--but it worked.  They were trail brothers and they had run thousands of miles together.  Any time I caught a glimpse it filled my heart with joy.  My son had found something rare and precious--a brotherhood few stumble upon forged by friendship, not blood. 

     Some of them had run together since sixth grade.  However, their group coalesced in the mid fall of 2017 after my son Logan, or "Logdawg" as he became known--won a key JV race which bumped him up to this Varsity group.  They proved themselves over and over, becoming one of the winningest teams in the school's history.  For some time my son was the 6th or even the 7th man--but always there--together with his trail brothers and ready to take up the team banner when they needed him. 

     I saw them during spaghetti dinners, giggling and busting each other's chops.  Late night camping trips in the woods.  Runs to Little Bow Pond, jumping in to cool off before the ice had barely melted, months before anyone else would dare to go ankle high. Hill repeats at the Meadows and the famed "Mama Mo" hill, fartleks  that elicited snickering from Logan's dad, to the disgust of the serious runner--who diligently recorded his summer miles, turned down brownies when his biological brothers inhaled whole pans--because he had a race the next day. Mile after mile I watched and cheered from afar.  Year after year I spent at the finish line, holding the vomit bags, cheering all their names at the top of my lungs, taking pictures and texting photos of Logan's trail brothers to the other moms.

     There were overnight adventures out of state to New Englands and Regionals.  There were tents to be hoisted, gear to be packed, sweat wobbed socks to be accounted for,  safety pins to be rationed, victories to be celebrated, and elusive defeats to be turned to inspiration to come back stronger, more focused, and more determined.  There were mom texts about catching rides and sign up sheets and borrowing forgotten jerseys on occasion.  Trips to Runner's Ally for team night, then more trips two months later because the miles and miles just kept coming and the trail brothers needed fresh gear.  It was wonderful, and tiring, and amazing and emotional.  It was magical.    

     Covid hit and the dreams for their senior year dramatically shifted.  Visions of possibly making it to New Englands and even Nationals evaporated as our nation collectively hunkered down and assumed survivial mode.  We were fortunate to even have a season.  However, this band of brothers rallied and by the end of their season they placed eighth in the nation. These trail brothers were served a challenge and they rose to the occasion, exceeding the expectations of a community that rallied with a parade of every vehicle with a siren they could muster.

     One by one their birthdays rolled around and these trail brothers I had watched grow up became an adult--now ready to graduate in a week.  Today, they participated in their final home events and they took their place in the 4x400 relay--trail brothers--back to back-- rounding the track together yet separate just  one last time.  

     Watching these trail brothers grow together has been one of the most rewarding highlights of motherhood.  Each team mate is a dear friend to my son, but to me they are precious because collectively they grew together into manhood and pushed my son to be his best.  They will go their separate ways--some to college--some to business--some to the Navy.  I have no doubt the bonds they formed as trail brothers will follow them the rest of their lives.

     Thank you trail brothers for taking such good care of my son.  I will always cheer for you. Run well.  Your race has just begun. 


 

Sunday, November 1, 2020

                                                         Maslow's Hierarchy of Disease

     

      I'm going to preface this by saying, I am not a front line nurse.   I've been a recovery room RN for 21 years and I'm in a fairly low risk sector of healthcare right now.  I work in an ambulatory surgery center and as a clinical instructor for a local college.  However, I have family members on the front line and I have colleagues I care for deeply on the front line.  In April, at the height of wave 1 I traveled to New York and cared for a friend who had a lung transplant 2/29.  Instead of going to a rehab center and risking Covid, she came home and I was her rehab nurse.  I was the traffic cop at the door for the repairmen making structural changes to her home to accommodate her needs--sanitizing the heck out of everything constantly.  I was the meal prepper, wound care, PT nagger--and miraculously my friend is doing great now.   I've been following the science, and am involved with screening patients prior to surgery.   So now you know the background it brings me to our subject-- Maslow. 

     Have you heard of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs?  Twenty -six years ago in my first day of nursing school I sat in a lecture hall learning of this concept for the first time.  We all know it instinctively.  We know a kid cannot go to school and accomplish any meaningful learning on an empty stomach--so we say, "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day", and as a society many schools have even made provision for students to get their bellies full before they dive into the books.  Makes sense, right? 

    When  I stared at Maslow's triangle for the first time, I never imagined how much it would guide some critical practice decisions--but here we are.  The blue zone--the basic stuff we all need first in order to accomplish anything else is a safe place to live, food, shelter, clothing.  Advancing career, education, innovation, creativity, family connection--all of it gets put on hold until those things are accomplished.  

 

     As we are today, the US is sitting at about 100,000 new Covid cases daily and climbing. We are approaching critical mass of exponential growth of cases.  I saw a map today that was all red, bar one lonely Midwest state doomed to be swallowed up soon.  There's a new doctor in the Whitehouse-- Dr. Scott Atlas, a neuroradiologist.  That's great if you have had a stroke and need someone to read your MRI--but he is not an expert on viruses and infectious disease.  That's why we have Tony--but apparently they have a muzzle on him these days.  But I digress, having a neuroradiologist from Fox news at the upper echelon of the pandemic response is like having gynecologist intubate you.  They may have read about it in medical school and tried it on a manikin,  but they are not experts on the subject and really have no business dabbling.  That's the other thing I learned the first day of nursing school--know what you don't know.  Otherwise you are dangerous--which is why we consult experts.  

     Most of my life I have generally voted Republican, fairly conservative with a strong Independent streak.  But this year is different.  My fellow Americans----we will be stuck in the blue zone until this virus is under control and contrary to White House tweets we are not rounding the bend.  We are ballooning the curve.  You may think it's just a flu.  You may even think masks are a government conspiracy to take away your freedom.  That's for another blog.  However, there are 220,000 dead Americans in 8 months so we don't get to have nice things like normal school, normal work, low unemployment, unhindered weddings, family gatherings without the consideration of illness, and a multitude of other things until we have a handle on this.  

     Other countries have done it but we missed our chance.  We should have emerged from lockdown with national mask guidance and we didn't.  We had all summer to get it right but there were too many people on rabbit trails of conspiracy and infringement of rights to realize we all just want this to be done.  No one wants it to be done more than the front line workers, especially frontline workers who are now having to homeschool or remote school their children.  They are tired and they are fighting two battles.  The first is the daily battle to care for the ill.  The second is the uncooperative public who suddenly has become an expert on Hydroxychloroquine from a Facebook course they took on the subject. The mass dismissal for basic science is boggling. 

     So how does a life long Republican/ Independent voter suddenly feel compelled to write a blog about voting for Biden?  Maslow's Hierarchy--we have an unmet need for safety as long as this pandemic is spiraling out of control.  Who will listen to experts?  Who is humble enough and collaborative enough to build consensus and have a plan?  Right now we have 50 separate plans with states competing for PPE.  This is a national problem.  There has not been a coordinated national response.  If your house was on fire you would not instruct each of your children to just figure out how to get to safety on their own.  The stakes are too high and safety is involved.  No--you make a coordinated, and clear plan from the top so everyone would be as safe as possible. Our current administration doesn't even recognize there is a problem--never mind have a plan to get us out.  This week news from the White House bragged about Covid being under control on a day when a new case total record was announced. The unmasked Trump rally train and the continual tweets of disinformation underscore the man does not have a grasp on this.  Meanwhile every reputable infectious disease doctor is desperate for him to just listen to the experts.  The arrogance is deadly.  

     I want my young adult children to be able to get on with their schooling and career plans which have been put on hold.  I want normal family gatherings and restaurant dates.  I miss vacations.  I miss normal. But what I miss even more is respect for science and those who dedicate their life to medicine and caring for others.  Those who have the most disdain may very well find in the coming months they are in need of an expert.  All I can say is I hope you don't have to get intubated by a gynecologist because the surge is coming and we do not have infinite resources.

     On Tuesday, vote like your family's health depends on it because it likely does.  Oh, and mask up, wash your hands and take care of each other--and pray.  It's the only way we are getting out of this mess. 

                                                                    Kimberly Mihelich RN BSN CPAN, MSN Student                                                                 

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Of Olives, Pandemics, and Purpose and Making Good Salad Dressing

     It's been awhile since I've written.  All my life I have used writing to work out emotions. Most of it is archived in a hard drive somewhere never to be accessed again--the act of writing it accomplished the purpose.   Some people bake and knead dough to press their fear and frustration into kinetic energy.  I type.
     So here we are in our own little corners at a time like none other, as a pandemic sweeps across our big beautiful world.  Overnight some have lost jobs and become homeschool parents.  Others with pre-existing medical conditions have recoiled in fear knowing their risk is higher and they are more vulnerable.  Unfortunately other people are having play dates and hoarding toilet paper.
     The underlying current for shutting down an education system and an economy is really ….human.  As a nation we are trying to protect our vulnerable, elderly, and immunocompromised.  Now individually we are not all buying in.  I see you...the rule breakers.  But as a matter of national  policy for at least this brief time we have taken decisive action that our most vulnerable, fragile, elderly, and sick citizens are precious to us.  And that my friends, gives me hope.
     I find it ironic during this time I was charged by my women's group at church to develop a lesson on "Suffering Prayerfully".  You know if you take on a lesson like that you're going to have to do the homework...so here I am doing my due diligence.  One of the aspects of my lesson discusses Jesus in the Garden of Gethsamane.  ( I don't want to give it all away lest I get the chance to really teach this).  I'm not very vocal or open with my faith....I'm more a live it out in silent action type--so here I am awkwardly sharing what is nagging me.
     Gethsamane was a beautiful garden at the base of a hill where an expansive olive grove was.  This garden would serve as the central collecting area where the olives would be pressed into oil. You see-- here is the thing my friends-- One does not have access to that precious, nutritious, tasty oil without the essential application of pressure.  When we had a chance to visit France last year I got to see the olive groves as we traveled. There were miles of manicured slopes of olive trees, soaking up the sun of southern France.  I even got to go to an olive oil tasting.  I was pleasantly surprised at the many different kinds of olive oil which I tasted right off the spoon, unadulterated by bread or anything else.  Sometimes they mix the older and younger fruit--allowing the olives to stay on the vine at different levels of maturity until they are pressed. They utilize different kinds of olives.  The vine tender in his wisdom and discretion cultivates, gathers, and presses the olives according to his good pleasure for different purposes. Some olives produce oil that is good for cooking.  Other oil is used for dipping bread or making vinaigrettes.  Each purpose has a different process and the vine tender knows them all.  But they all get pressed before their vital promise is released. Those little fruits don't get out of this life without getting pressed if they are to become a useful oil.
     Have you been pressed this week?  Are you living in fear because you know you are about to be pressed and you don't know how long or how painful the pressing will be?  I know I am.  But I rest in this......God, my vine tender has me.  He knows me and my family and He loves us all.  He loves you too.  You are safe in the Vine Tender's hands. When He presses you it is to release the vital riches that otherwise would not be available. He has a purpose in mind.  You are not a random olive bouncing against the millstone.  Your particular process of pressing was hand picked just for you.  This is not the first time I've been pressed and I can tell you as I approach a major decade birthday--with each pressing a new aspect of faith and character is revealed and tended.  It's not fun by any means but I see it as a necessary journey, one I've yielded to.  I've yielded to the press and ask myself these days what is it I am supposed to reap from this exercise.  When I come through this what does God want from my life?
     Tonight at dinner my oldest son sat to my right.  He was supposed to leave for school in Vermont to start studying a new trade in mid March.  He had already quit his job based on the date he was scheduled to leave--then he got the word school entry was delayed at least one month.  He's 21, frustrated, itchy to hang with friends, and uncertain about his future.  Across from me sat our middle son whose hours at work went from greater than 25 a week to 6 or less.  All of his classes are online now and he is uncertain as he studies to be a high school history teacher and a lot of his hands on practical education classes have dramatically changed.  Our youngest son is overwhelmed.  Normally a high honor student he is juggling a barrage of online material, emails, and assignments.  He misses his friends and his running buddies who were all preparing for track season.  Even my job as a nurse is uncertain as vital surgical supplies are not readily available and being diverted to other sectors of healthcare. I was to be caring for a friend in NY right now as she is one month post lung transplant--but all plans are on hold as she is in the epicenter of this pandemic and neither of us knows what tomorrow holds.  We are all being pressed in ways we never imagined, sometimes beyond comprehension and comfort on all sides.
     But there is blessing in the pressing. It's personal and it's different for each of us.  It may be momentary snippets and gems of faith but it is there. It is the painful but beautiful process that gets us to our purpose.  We only see the blessing if we are looking...and look we must.
      Around our table---all five of us gathered.  It's been a few years since we've done that regularly.  The older two boys have worked evenings, attended classes, and there were sports and meetings and work obligations.  But here we were--gathered in together socially distancing together.   There was laughter and brothers chiding each other and an overwhelming gratitude that for right now we are healthy and together.  This. Just one of the blessings in the pressing.
     Once the olives are pressed they become valuable---oh so much more valuable then when they sat in their original state.  Nothing more is added to them to increase their value.  It is the application of pressure and the time and attention of the Vine Tender that makes them valuable and useful and makes the oil available. Before the pressing that vital potential is locked away and unattainable. And so it is with us.  We reveal our best, when pressed.
     Don't despair if you are being pressed.  The way I see it is that God is just getting you ready for your true purpose.  This is not the end.  This is just a new beginning.  This moment can define you--with a Devine view of your future.
     Be safe.  Be well.  Be humble and kind but most of all....... be looking for the blessing in this pressing.

Monday, September 30, 2019

Time For Hydrangeas





     It had been such a busy day.  After school I  ushered my little tribe outside for some much needed play time.  The oldest saw me raking up the leaves that peppered our lawn.  He asked if he could help, knowing he was saving his allowance for a special toy.  He worked diligently raking the leaves into a plush pile of red, gold, and brown.  When the pile was to his liking he would run and jump in them with an eruption of toothless giggles.
     Soon it was time to leave for soccer practice and I began issuing orders to my three sons.  “Get your shin guards on”, “Go use the potty”, “Where’s your sweatshirt?”  As he went to fulfill his mission, my oldest son stood up to grasp the hydrangea tree that was blooming in our yard just beyond where he had been raking moments earlier.  He marveled at the beautiful rosy blooms, when all around him everything else was dying and slipping into winter’s long sleep.  I urged him to hurry—the clock ever present upon my wrist.
     In a flurry of activity we set out to leave—water bottles packed, toys to occupy the little one, mail to read while I waited at the field.  The flurry did not stop when practice was over—bath time, supper time, homework time, story time…time…time..time.  It always seems so short.
     Later that night, everyone was tucked in soundly.  They were all clean and fed.  Backpacks all set for the coming day. Lunches packed and awaiting the morning rush.  Dinner dishes were being washed with the low hum of the dishwasher drumming away in the background. As I collapsed in a heap on my bed to read I wondered if when the busy flurry of raising children is over if I will miss it.  I wondered if I would have the energy to do this again tomorrow.  I wondered at what opportunities I had missed, what things I should have done differently, what my kids would remember about their childhood.
     As my glance moved upward I noticed a new addition to the room.  Upon the windowsill, stood a large plastic tumbler, nearly brimming with water.  Floating on the top were a few hydrangeas—rosy blooms—a reminder of the splendor that remains when all the impatient flowers in the yard have long since withered.  Sometime between, “Where’s your sweatshirt?”  And “Put your shin guards on!”  my eldest son had thought of me.  He had picked me some flowers, carefully preserved them, climbed upon the counter like a monkey to get the tumbler, filled it with water and snuck it into my bedroom upon my windowsill.
     I sat there in amazement, and in deep gratitude.  In the midst of the whirlwind, my oldest son reminded me to stop and treasure the flowers.  I walked into his bedroom to hug him and thank him—but there he was, exhausted—sleeping, with the face of an angel.
     It’s been 2 days now, and that big plastic tumbler still sits on my windowsill.  The hydrangeas have slumped a bit in their generous bog.  But, the mere sight of them fills me with joy—and when I walk by them I’m reminded not to let the clock around my wrist keep me from missing the hydrangeas on my sill.


Monday, September 18, 2017

Be Still

Be Still


When the surf of disappointment washes over me

And eyes darkened by grief fail in hope to see,

When my identity –crafted by my hand—crumbles before man

And the high places I constructed withering fail to stand,



When those I love shrink back in fear

And all my efforts fade like mist,

You beckon me come closer.

You pursue though I resist.



When grief so deep enshrouds my soul,

When I ran so far and fast

To shake the depths of the night

Though I knew relief wouldn’t last,



When joy is an elusive butterfly

I could see but n’er catch

And peace a winsome breeze

Never caught in my net.



When my toil exhausted, mind unrelenting,

In never ending work

Up again, must do again, n’er slacking

Never shirk.



Busy. Oh stay busy. Lest your mind come rest on grief.

Busy.  Stay so busy. Navigate  tumultuous sea.

Always working. Never shirking. 

Like the buzzing of a bee.

Stay busy.  Oh so busy.  Lest your mind come rest on grief.



But for love could divine rest exert  It’s perfect will

Oh so busy but I love you so I grant you to be still.

Be still my child—you may not move—sit right here—toil not.

Be still my child—rest.  Listen.  Learn.  The sea with peril fraught.



Be still and rest.  Lean back and sleep.

You can entrust  Me with your ease.

The wind and waves still know My name

The surf and sea is mine to tame

You toil for not—dear child so weary

Labor not.  Observe my perfect will.

Dear child, for this season

Come here. Rest.

Be still.








Sunday, January 22, 2017

Two Years

     Two years.  It's been nearly two years since the worst day of my life.  It's supposedly a milestone marker when the paralyzing grip of grief lifts and you are able to live "normally" again.  At least that's what all the people who have not lived through it say. That is what people who are not a suicide loss survivor may say.  What they don't realize is there is no time line.  Grief is ongoing and ebbs and flows in waves no one can predict or control. The more you try to get a grip the more the relentless waves  overwhelm you.  I have learned the better choice is to yield, keep afloat, and allow the waves to wash over you. Feel the power and the fear and the loss --and then passively allow that which seeks to overwhelm you subside into the surf.  It's always there and you know it will return. But the momentary peace is pleasant and you learn to negotiate the intrepid waters of grief better with the passage of time.
     I am sitting here watching the NFC championship.  I am not some avid football fan.  Prior to February of 2015 I was a casual Patriot's fan.   When they started kicking butt, I started paying attention.  Willow however-- she was a diehard fan.  She LOVED her football.  I still remember going to her brother's high school football games and leaping to her feet and cheering when the team made a good play.  She was my cousin--7 years older than me and I looked up to her in so many ways.  However, growing up next to her we really grew up like sisters and became life long best friends.
     So here I sit, watching the NFC game to find out who will play our beloved Patriots in the Superbowl-- because that is what Willow would have done.  I do other things in her honor too. When given the choice between good coffee and mediocre cheap coffee-- I choose the good coffee.  When my kids ask if they can use up the can of whipped cream on their waffles-- I say yes now.  When I can wear one of the sweaters, shawls, hats, mittens or scarves she knit for me-- I do. They encircle me and comfort me like a warm hug from my sister over the horizon.  
     Two years.  In some ways those 730 days seem eternal.  In other ways-- my last memories of her seem raw for she is forever frozen in time in the final moments I saw her.  I have analyzed those final moments a million times.  What signs did I miss? What could I have done?  If I could only go back.... These are the haunting questions every suicide loss survivor shares and shapes their special brand of pain.  Suicide is one of the leading preventable causes of death. With prevention comes responsibility and unfortunately the guilt of that prevention often rests squarely on the shoulders of those left in the wake, surviving a suicide loss.  However, what is also true is that we as a society must all make access to mental healthcare and knowing the signs of mental distress a priority.  These skills are easier to learn and act on when you are not in a crisis.  In much the same way as we all learn CPR and the Heimlich maneuver in order to aid loved ones in an unexpected time of crisis--we all need to know the signs of mental distress and where to get help BEFORE a loved one is exhibiting signs of depression, anxiety, or suicidal action.  We all have a responsibility to tear down the stigma that prevents people from getting help. 
     I encourage everyone in the hearing of this blog to attend a free Community Mental Health Awareness Night 2/1/17 at 7:00 PM in Dover, NH.  We have assembled 7 mental health and suicide prevention advocacy groups in one place for an unprecedented forum where lifesaving information will be shared.  Suicide prevention is everyone's business for in your lifetime it is statistically highly likely you will be touched by suicide in one way or another.  Don't wait.  Get informed today and register!

https://m.signupgenius.com/#!/showSignUp/20f0445aaaa2fa1fb6-youare

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Crockpot from Heaven

     I slammed the cupboard door with a resounding thud.  "Really,  the crockpot?  He took the crockpot?"  Hadn't he taken enough?  My hopes for the future.  My dreams of an intact family.  I had lost 15 pounds in the fourth month of  pregnancy with my first son and was hospitalized on bedrest.  He left.  He decided he didn't feel like being married after eight years of marriage and he left me to be a single mom.  He didn't want to be a dad and he had completely lost his mind.   And now, he had taken the darn crockpot too.  He didn't even know how to use the crockpot. I can't even remember the last time he cooked anything.  I had been crushed.  I had been broken and wallowing in despair.  But, at this moment I was just plain mad.  I was mad at God.  That man had taken so much from me in the blink of an eye and now I didn't even have a crockpot to make dinner while I worked long hours to support my son and I.  I finished packing up the kitchen for my move and cried myself to sleep.  There was no time or tears left to linger here.  I sold the house and was moving to a cheaper condo near my job.  Life had not been fair or what I had expected but it marched on....tears and all.

     Some weeks later, as I was starting to show my pregnancy,  I began the process of moving into my new home.  An army of friends surrounded me and cleaned, painted, and repaired my new humble abode because I still was not allowed to lift anything too heavy.  My dear friend Diane was scrubbing out the kitchen cupboards when I heard her laugh out loud and call me into the kitchen.  She had been party to many grumbling sessions where I cursed him for leaving and then taking the crockpot on top of it all.  She would nod sympathetically and hug me and pray for my wounded heart--that somehow I could look beyond this crushing blow to the hopeful new future God had in store for me as a mom.  I had witnessed God's unfailing provision in so many ways-- the quick sale of the house, the provision of funds  to cover my hospitalizations during the pregnancy and inability to work as a nurse due to my lifting restrictions, and of course the endless army of helpers that surrounded me at every turn.

I guess I thought I had used up my prayers.  I put God in a small box--the size of my ability to imagine provision and I did not allow myself to envision Him any bigger.  After all, who in their right mind prays for a crockpot?  You know--it's kind of silly.  There are people starving in Africa--sleeping on the ground.  Some people don't even have a cupboard...so that would be selfish, and a waste of a prayer, right?  Yeah, I know he numbers the hairs on my head but that doesn't mean he wants me to eat steaming hot pot roast when I get home from work.  Oh yeah, and there is that too--if He really cared I wouldn't be in this situation to begin with, right?  Yeah.  Right. I begged Him and I prayed night after night for God to change my husband's heart and He didn't......so why would he care about my stupid crockpot?  Yes, I had put God in a very small box indeed.

Diane called me again. She beaconed me to the kitchen, "Kim, you've gotta see this!"  I waddled in, tired from the move.  I could feel Isaac kicking.  It wouldn't be long at all.  Honestly, I was expecting she had found a pipe leak or  something else broken.  My bitter heart was expecting the worst.  Diane's grin was as wide as the sky-- her eyes twinkled and she had a tear streaming down her face.  The cupboard was wide open and she pointed.  "Look, Kim, do you see it?"  There on the bottom shelf, still sealed and new in the box was a crockpot. A brand new crockpot.  My heart stopped.  In His sovereign loving care  God had provided a brand new crockpot for his bitter, broken, angry child-- to show her He still loved her, He still was in control--and yes, He did want her to have steaming hot pot roast after a long day at work. 

My box was broken that day.  I realized that no care is too small, no request too silly, and no need too obscure to bring to the One who loves my soul.  He will not always protect me from the trial but He will walk me through it--sometimes carry me through it--and He will provide all I need to the very end. And sometimes, just because He loves me He provides things I don't need.  But, just like a loving earthly father, He desires to lavishly grace us with our heart's desires when it is good for us.  That crockpot from heaven taught me I can trust God to provide for my every need and then some. 

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Willow's Run

In the spring of 2005 Aunt Willow sat in the middle of our living room with a pile of boys around her as she always did.  She had a grand idea for the backyard, and wide-eyed Logan, not even 2 years old--chubby cheeked Caleb who was nearly 4, and precocious Isaac who would be turning 6-- were frozen as they listened intently.  She wanted to buy them a swing set.  The real sturdy wooden kind with a fort on top....one that Daddy would build-- not the flimsy metal kind that hops and skips when you get the swing high enough to reach the stars.  A swing set! Aunt Willie was going to buy us a swing set!

I remember it well.  Willow and Pete took off to the lumber yard and returned with a rough plan and a book of accessories for the boys to choose from. There was a steering wheel to go atop the fort, a telescope to spy distant ships, a panel of controls and the list went on.  The boys had to pick two.  Since Isaac was the most vocal he quickly put in his vote and the always agreeable Caleb quickly acquiesced. They would need a steering wheel to steer their ship and a telescope to spot their enemies. It was decided.  Daddy got to work right away.  Every time Aunt Willow came to visit she was like a kid herself....scampering to the back yard to see the progress that had been made.  She was magical.  She was incredibly generous and sprinkled those she loved with joy.  I still can hear her hearty laugh as her boys would tumble off the swing set to come see their Aunt Willie as she pulled in the driveway....they would run to her and leap into her arms with big hugs and the littlest one would get lifted way up in the air and get "zerberts" on his belly with squeals of giggling.  She would call out their pet names-- "I-man, Shorty, and Lumpy" and suddenly it was "Aunt Willie Time" and the boys would relish her very presence for as long as she could stay.

When we unexpectedly had to move from that house two years later, the boys were adamant that "Aunt Willie's swing set" had to come....and so it did.  Truth is we all wanted it to come. We couldn't imagine leaving it behind.  It had provided so many hours of entertainment...and thus peace for me that it was not even a question.  The swing set nestled into it's new setting with ease.  It was erected before many of our rooms were unpacked. 

While a gaggle of three boys was busy playing on their fort, mom and dad really could accomplish so much more.  There were grand builds in the sandbox in which toads were captured from the woods and temporarily became part of the play set where Lego guys and Tonka trucks were only allowed to tread.  There were games of tag and monkey bar antics hanging upside-down. There were whirling plunges down the slide. There were skinned knees and smiles, imaginary monsters and squeals of delight.  There were fights about whose turn it was, and tears.  There were apologies, and sneaky tricks, giggles and grins. There were melted ice cream cones, spilt juice cups, caterpillar "habitats" and ant corrals. There were secret clubs and meetings in the fort.  There were signs erected, "No girls allowed".  There was a contented mama sipping her lemonade and watching it all.  Watching it all and thanking Aunt Willie.  I would treasure the times she would visit and sit beside me and witness it all herself. 

We would joke about growing old together...about wearing purple....about watching the boys grown up and get married.  She wanted to open a café and make soup and teach people how to knit.  I thought it was a fine idea and thought it would be great to join her when Peter retired.  She was my cousin---the boy's Aunt Willie...but for 44 years we were joined at the heart.  We would reminisce about our childhood together, life on the farm, our Nanny and our Bumpy, or any of the hundreds of "Thelma and Louise" like adventures we had been on together in our decades long friendship. 

Today I wandered out into the yard after a rain storm.  The swing set was damp and had the look of an abandoned ghost town.  A few broken trucks dotted the sandbox and the grass around the swing is tall...for no foot steps trample it down like they used to.   Those boys are now nearly 18, 16, and 14.  Swing sets are for little boys.  Over the past few years I've thought long and hard about if it should be torn down...reconstructed in someone else's yard where it can live again and ignite the imagination of other littles....however, as I sit here on the damp steps with tears streaming down my face I cannot do it.  I am not one to hold onto worldly possessions.  When the boys outgrow clothes I give them away immediately.  If I haven't used a cookbook or worn a piece of clothing in 6 months it is fair game to be gone.  I don't want to be tied down, cluttered, or encumbered.  However, I just cannot part with this skeleton in my yard.

You see, 18 months ago Aunt Willie took her own life.  In a tragic, horrible, unexpected, and crushing blow she was gone.  And now, I cannot part with the gift she gave us that provided years of laughter, blessings, imagination, and fun...because that was also WHO she was to us.  As I lean against the old timbers, weathered, worn--they provide little comfort from the loss except to remind me of a happier time-- that day in the living room with a pile of boys gathered around her, wide eyed, and the shrieks of joy when they learned about their new swing set that was coming.

Suicide changes everything.  It kills a person...but it also kills dreams.  It kills hopes.  It kills plans.  It kills innocence.  But it cannot kill love and it cannot kill faith.  If you have never experienced it in your life than you are very blessed.  However, statistics being the cruel purveyor of truth they are-- indicate that in our lifetime each of us will be intimately touched by suicide in some way.  It is the leading preventable cause of death in many age groups. 

Willow's Run was created as a charitable run/walk to eliminate the stigma and barriers to discussing suicide and raising funds and awareness for suicide prevention and education.  I never envisioned, as I watched my boys playing under the swing set-- that my life would take this turn.  I am an accidental advocate.   I found myself in a place of such horror and deep pain that the only way out was to do the most loving thing I could muster--and that is to tell my unlikely story of an ordinary mom who had an extraordinary relationship with a cousin she loved like a sister. All I can do is educate people to know the signs of suicide, not to be afraid to get help and talk about it, and to support programs that are working in our community. Perhaps when you hear my story, you will stop imagining this happens to other people and you will start being aware that it could happen to you and you will be more aware...eyes wider open...smarter...and know what to do and what to look for.  With knowledge comes the ability to act.

Perhaps you have an Aunt Willie in your life.  They are the magical, beautiful, sensitive people who have been wounded, are dealing with mental illness, who perhaps cannot see past the pain of today.  Please visit our web site, please come to our event and please donate if you are able. If you or someone you  love are in crisis please don't wait. Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline-         1-800-273- TALK.

Hope. Help. Healing.  It's the only way to move forward.

God Bless.
Kim

www.willowsrun.wordpress.com


Thursday, December 3, 2015

The Hard Miles


     Every runner knows that for every mile where the wind is at your back and the sun is shining gently on your face, and the tar is flying under your feet-- there are nearly the same number of miles where the hills are steep, the sweat burns your eyes, and you question your own judgment of merely stepping out the door.  That’s just how it is.  If you’re going to do it—there are going to be hard miles.  There are miles when the trees dance by you in gentle breezes cooling you and urging you on to the end.  Then there are the miles where your energy ebbs, your legs burn, and your feet talk back persistently.  Every runner knows there are easy miles and hard miles—but they are all good miles.

     Running can teach you a lot about life.  This has been a year of incredible loss and grief for me.  I’ve lost two of my best friends.  I lost my lifelong best friend and honorary cousin/sister when she tragically took her own life earlier this year.  The pain was—and is—overwhelming at times.  I need to choose daily to let God heal me and not let the grief cloak me in its shroud.  Then, just two weeks ago, I lost a friend whose favorite activities included chasing squirrels and playing with her squeaky hedgehog.  Sierra, our nearly 12 year old family dog succumbed to cancer and slipped peacefully away.  Grief upon grief—watching my children yet again mourn a loved one lost they had known their whole life.

     If you scan your friend’s Facebook pages it is easy to perceive that loss, grief, sadness, and mourning, are abnormal--that there is something wrong with you if that is your present lot.  However, that is not the truth.  Unfortunately, in this life the hard miles are part of the journey.  Everyone has them—even if they don’t talk about them.  Maybe if we did talk about them we wouldn’t feel so isolated when we have them.  When you are running some hard miles you have two choices.  You can get out there and do the work of grief, rebuilding, hoping, trying, reaching, and striving.  Or—you can give up.  You can choose not to let your feet hit the floor that day.  In the process, our world—no matter how safe, gets increasingly smaller as we choose not to make ourselves vulnerable to love and lose, hope and fail, dream and be disappointed.

     Over the past year, during these very hard miles—I’ve learned some very important things.  First, I’ve learned faith will get me through.  Hope in a better future will help to heal, and the love of friends and family is the very best salve of all.  I’ve learned some deep lessons about the adequacy of prayers that have no words because your heart is too wounded to speak.  I’ve felt the unspeakable comfort of friends who have no words—who just hug me and cry with me.  I’ve experienced the incredible grace of a wounded spirit who is learning to gingerly, carefully, expectantly, put one foot in front of the other.  These are lessons you do not learn running easy miles.  So, while no one ever really chooses the hard miles, they do prepare you, teach you, mold you, and shape you in a way the easy miles never could.  This year, I’ve learned that a mile is a mile.  Easy or hard---with faith, hope, and love—they are all good.

 
Run on.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

D Day--Failure Was Not An Option



 

    Peter Jacob Mihelich was a 23 year old Staff Sergeant on the morning of June 7, 1944 as his landing craft approached Omaha Beach.  He was tossed against his 68 pound pack in the choppy, ink black Atlantic waters.  The 457th Anti-Aircraft Artillery/ Automatic Weapons Battalion was slated to arrive the day before—D-Day.  However, due to the stiff Nazi resistance and catastrophic destruction of the heavy equipment their unit was supporting, Peter and many others were delayed until the beach was secured (Personal communication, P. Mihelich, July 8, 2014). As fate would have it, he arrived one day after a scene of horror erupted on Omaha Beach.  It was the moment all of Europe held its collective breath for and dreaded all at once.  It is a moment I have imagined frequently, because that man was the father-in-law I never met.  He went on to raise a family, including my husband.  D-Day was a feat of unprecedented planning and cooperation and the perilous Omaha beach invasion nearly failed.  How preparation and bravery came together on this historic day leaves us all to wonder, "What if it had failed?"
          Five years of war had left Great Britain in utter shambles, denied even basic comforts.  The sewers and streets were rampant with rats and routine provisions were scarce. British men could buy a new shirt every 20 months and food rationing put limits such as two ounces of cheese monthly on citizens (Atkinson, 2013)  People improvised--a bit of twisted wire became a hair tie.  Their palate changed to avoid rations--eels were harvested from London streams. Every resource possible was poured into the war effort.  Their very existence was at stake. 
     Tens of thousands of Londoners sheltered nightly in the putrid subway, “The Tube”.  Mandatory blackouts from 10:30 pm to 5:22 am (Atkinson, 2013) sent citizens hiding in the fearsome dark during the air raids. Children had been evacuated to the country—Great Britain’s future ushered far from the impending danger to a hopeful future. In these desperate conditions, Great Britain looked to their strongest ally for help conquering a common foe.
     There had been talk amongst the Allies of a European invasion for some time but it was not until decisive victories fractured the Axis that the Allies would loosen Hitler’s strangle hold on Europe.  In November of 1942 the Allies began the invasion of North Africa, fighting through Tunisia and west to Egypt.  After fierce combat through Sicily and the Italian mainland Mussolini’s regime met a humiliating and abrupt end in September of 1943 (Atkinson, 2013).  At long last the Allies could focus on Europe. D-Day planning began in earnest.
     The sight and timing of the invasion were crucial, so skilled meteorologists were enlisted. The weather, beach conditions, moon and tidal phases, air field sites, distance from harbors and location of the German forces were all considered.  Additional barriers were the stronghold of the Atlantic Wall which Hitler had utilized 260,000 laborers and ten years to build.  It consisted of 15,000 concrete fortifications from Belgium to Northern France (Berman, 1994). After thorough study,   Hitler’s Achilles was found in Normandy, a relative weak spot in the wall.
    The timeline of the invasion was a source of great debate from experts who had calculated there were only 6 ideal days considering tides and moon glow—add the element of weather to that and there was only a tiny window of opportunity. June 5th was the first choice for an invasion day, but severe weather forced a delay.  Top meteorologists eventually concurred there would be a window of 36 hours of fair weather for war operations.  With that prospect, it was decided the liberation of Europe would commence on June 6, 1944 (Berman, 1994).
     The man charged with this task was Dwight D. Eisenhower, a 53 year old well-seasoned war veteran who smoked up to 80 cigarettes daily, contributing to a myriad of health problems (Atkinson, 2013).  No doubt, he had mulled over a European victory in his mind to exhaustion.  He was a War Department Planner, a Senior American Soldier in London in 1942, and Commanding General of the invasion of North Africa, Sicily and mainland Italy.  In the spring of 1943 he was promoted to Commander of the Supreme Headquarter Allied Expeditionary Force (Atkinson, 2013).
     The details of the Normandy land battle were delegated to General Bernard Montgomery.  Montgomery’s battle plan was succinct, “Armored columns must penetrate deep inland, and quickly, on D-Day.  This will upset the enemy plan and tend to hold him off while we build up strength.  We must gain space rapidly, and peg out claims well inland“(Atkinson, 2013 p. 5).  The plan for quickly conquering the beaches and amassing land would be costly and require unprecedented cooperation and innovation—and the resulting epic battle would be hallowed for generations as a prime example of bravery in the face of a menacing enemy.
     To prepare for the invasion the Allies conducted secret mock drills called Operation Tiger in April of 1944 in the northern channel village of Slapton Sands.  The 3000 residents were evacuated while drills with new equipment were carried out (Culpepper 2008).  Tragically, on their return trip German U-boats attacked, killing 749 soldiers and their valuable equipment sunk to the bottom of the channel. The knowledge they gained proved to be very valuable though.  For example, the Allies learned the timing and techniques of clearing underwater debris, barriers, and mines prior to landing craft arriving (Berman, 1994).
     While equipment and plans were readied, so were the men.  Eight million men were drafted from 1942-1944.  The average soldier was 26 years old, but on D-Day more than 50% of the combatants were teenagers.  A soldier earned $50.00 a month for his brave efforts.  To increase the pool of eligible soldiers the Army lowered its standard entry requirements.  Draftees were only required to have one good eye, one good ear and could be missing a thumb or three fingers on one hand—trigger finger included.  They didn’t even need teeth (Atkinson, 2013).  In wartime America it was ‘all hands on deck’. 
     Recruits arrived 15,000 at a time via the Queen Elizabeth or Queen Mary through several British and Scottish ports. The trip from New York took merely 5 days. They were welcomed to “Spamland”, a city of 400,000 prefabricated huts and 279,000 tents erected to house the men and equipment of the Allied forces (Atkinson, 2013), staged to win back the European continent.  The nauseating smell of feces burned in the coal fired incinerators, no fuel was wasted.  The Brits tolerated the rambunctious “Yanks” and in a time of tight rationing, Britain rolled out the red carpet, providing massive provisions—including beer.
     On May 23, 1944 troops dispersed to their final staging areas.  British citizens watched them pass, but weren’t allowed to speak to them (Atkinson, 2013). Extraordinary security included banning more than 600,000 visitors monthly from the coast that spring.  Two thousand counter intelligence officers fluent in 22 languages combed the countryside looking for any suspicious activity. Censors examined soldier’s letters seeking leaks and any building or vehicle involved in the invasion effort standing more than 10 minutes was camouflaged (Atkinson, 2013).  They even proactively passed on false information to known German agents, throwing them off the trail (Czech, 1995).  This may have contributed to the Nazi belief that an Allied invasion would go through Calais, France at the narrowest part of the English Channel, thus concentrating much of the Nazi’s deadly forces there and leaving them spread very thin elsewhere.
      Early on June 6, 1944 soldiers were issued seasickness pills and bags, 68.4 pounds of gear, and skunk suits impregnated to defend against poisonous gas.  Then 200,000 seamen with 59 convoys of 130,000 soldiers, 2000 tanks and 12, 000 vehicles set out for the Normandy coast (Atkinson, 2013).   The landing craft tanks (LCTs) were slow, weakly structured and they “rolled and pitched in the great undulating waves…of the English Channel” (Culpepper, 2008 p. 44).
     On board were the anxious, quivering, crying scores of soldiers preparing to fight their greatest battle. Some soldiers hung their heads softly in silent prayers.  Others, attempting to lighten the mood joked glibly.  Victor Fast, a surviving soldier of D-Day noted of some of his comrades, “they were sweating blood, literally” (Culpepper, 2008 p. 46).   As they approached the beaches officers read inspirational messages from Eisenhower and Montgomery. Chaplains prayed over soldiers, barely out of boyhood. They dispersed—Utah met light resistance. The British, Canadians and free French fighters quickly took Juno, Gold, and Sword beaches.  However, by all accounts—Omaha Beach was a blood bath.
          As the beaches were sighted,  the Allied Navy sent bombardments sailing over their heads with a dizzying whirl and war planes soared overhead.  German defenses fired cannons from their trenches and bunkers.  Initially, the landing craft doors were opened too soon, swamping disoriented, seasick soldiers with heavy gear in water over their waist. Equipment that took great manpower to ferry across quickly became useless as all but five of the Sherman tanks never made it safely to shore. Belgian Gates, underwater barriers of reinforced iron frames atop rollers snarled many landing craft to the demise of the men (Austra, 1999).
     The first soldiers to land on Omaha were from the 29th and 1st Infantry Divisions, also known as “The Big Red One” because of their distinguished combat resume (Austra, 1999).  Soldiers who did make the beach encountered barbed wire and heavy sniper fire above.  The dead littered the beach and washed ashore in a gruesome display of war.  It was a relentless massacre.
      German Major Werner Pluskat of the 352nd Artillery was violently awakened at 1:00 am to Allied aircraft flying overhead and called his superior officers to inform them.  He was quickly dismissed and assured the Allied invasion would be coming via Calais.  He called them back some time later with reports of paratroopers landing, prompting General Marcks to put the 21st Panzer Division on alert at 2:00 am.  However, by 5:00 am the Allied fleet was in view of Pluskat’s Omaha Beach bunker, which survived naval and air bombardments with  his phone line intact (Austra, 1999). The slow response prevented Nazi reinforcements from bearing down on the bruised American landing force, allowing a glimmer of hope.
     Down on the beach, the Americans continued their slow, bloody progress.  Grave registration staff sifted amidst a fiery hail, performing their macabre work among soldiers coming ashore (Czeck, 1995).  Such mass chaos and lack of communication prevailed that a tortured General Bradley considered evacuation and diversion of troops to Utah or the British beaches.  For example, troops reported that German fire was coming from a church steeple high over Omaha bluff.  However, with orders not to fire on churches or hospitals, it took 24 hours for command to allow elimination of the German stronghold (Culpepper, 2008).
     Hope appeared by 7:00 a.m. when the Americans opened six gaps in the German defenses on the beach.   By 8:30 am Company C and the 5th Ranger Battalion landed and captured the rifle pits on the cliffs.  Spurned on to persist, Bradley allowed two additional divisions to land, further reinforcing the effort. The 116th 3rd Battalion and 16th Infantry Division, along with the 1st and 29th Infantry Divisions made progress inland and eventually forced the surrender of German bunkers (Austra, 1999).     
      By 10:30 am the 37th 146 Combat Engineers arrived with their bulldozers, clearing minefields and breaking through gaps in the sea wall. The Navy continued to pound strongholds on the cliffs. At noon, more Sherman tanks arrived.  This time they made it onto the beach (Austra, 1999). Simultaneously, the 1st Infantry Division cleansed the beaches and the bluffs of threats, adapting quickly to the treacherous conditions they confronted on first arrival.  By nightfall the Germans were pushed one mile back from the beach (Czech, 1995).   However, this triumph was not free.  Within the first two days of conflict the 2nd Ranger Battalion had 60% of their men become casualties of war.  The 1st Division losses are best estimated to be 1, 036 brave soldiers while the 29th Division and Corps troops experienced 743 and 441 losses respectively (Austra, 1999).  All told, the Allies experienced 10,377 casualties on D-Day (Weider History Group, 2014).   For the Allies it was a staggering albeit expected loss. Battered and demoralized, they began the long battle for Normandy’s hedgerows and the eventual liberation of Paris on August 25th, 1944.
   The men fighting valiantly on the beach were not alone though.  In the air, 430,000 sorties by the American and English air forces (Hughes, 2003) bombed strategic Nazi strongholds above Normandy, dropped paratroopers to hold prime targets, and deliver supplies.  A grand coordination of air, land and sea efforts was under Eisenhower’s command through the Allied Expeditionary Force and Air Vice Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory (Hughes, 2003).  The tenuous chain of command required brokering and compromise on the part of Eisenhower.  Snafus and lack of communication and cooperation between the US Air Force and British bombers left many historians to view the Normandy air campaign as largely unsuccessful.  Bombs that were intended to destroy Nazi beach positions overshot their targets leaving cliff bunkers largely untouched (Symonds, 2014). However, the lessons learned regarding coordination of joint command operations are relevant today.
    Air operations included 820 C-47 troop carriers that dropped more than 13,000 paratroopers in an effort to seize territory near Sainte-Mere-Eglise and other key geography under cover of darkness (Haulman, 2014).   The brave paratroopers were plagued by insurmountable hardships resulting in them not achieving their objectives or being greatly delayed.  Landmarks were shrouded by darkness and clouds, without the benefit of night vision technology.  Also navigation equipment was in short supply, only aboard lead planes. The thick clouds forced pilots to break their tight formation mid-air to avoid collision.  The paratroopers and planes encountered a hail of anti-aircraft fire.  Most of the troop movers were not trained fighter pilots so it was a terrifying ordeal (Haulman, 2014).   With radio silence ordered, they were flying blind and deaf into enemy hands.
     The destroyers that had bombarded the beach prior to the landing craft descending on Omaha had taken positions off shore to allow room for the invasion force.  By 8:30 am, when the forces were being tattered and distress calls went out, dozens of destroyers set a course full speed to annihilate the targets on the beach cliffs.  Some of the destroyers took up positions only 800-1,000 yards from the beach, precariously close to underwater mine hazards with mere feet of depth to clear their keel. A fortunate benefit to their presence was a stark decrease in gunfire raining down on the beach from Germans not wanting to reveal their positions (Symonds, 2014).
     Immediately after the combat forces started the journey across the English Channel, support troops prepared for the fight inland and the mission of supplying the troops.  Mulberry Harbors, great floating ports that had taken 150 American and British private sector civil engineers to plan and construct, were towed piecemeal across the Channel and erected to supply combat troops (Brown, 2013).  This massive effort of collaborative ingenuity was another example of the unprecedented planning that went into this historic day, leaving a legacy of technology.
     So, what if?  What if the Omaha beach landing had failed?  Grimsley (2013) states, “Only their valor in inching toward and destroying obstacles barring access to the beach exits prevented catastrophe” (p.84).  Historians have proposed theories exploring if Bradley’s initial instinct to retreat from Omaha had come to fruition.  What if a few more bad reports had landed on his ears?  Grimsley (2013) relates that it only took a few hundred soldiers reaching the protected area of the cliffs to turn the tide toward victory.  All the alternative scenarios whereby the Allies did not hold Omaha leave a catastrophic breach in the Allied invasion—an opportunity that the Nazis would have surely capitalized on, possibly leading to utter failure of the Allied effort to liberate the European continent.  Most historians agree if the first invasion had ultimately failed, the Allies had little chance of piercing the Nazi armor.
       For his service throughout the war, Peter Jacob Mihelich earned a bronze star, two good conduct medals,  a victory ribbon for Europe, a bronze arrowhead for D-Day, and 4 campaign stars (Personal communication, P. Mihelich, July 8, 2014).  He didn’t speak of his service, but stoically carried on with life.  In fact, this is what most veterans did—resuming training, careers, and family-- perhaps going to an occasional reunion where they shared their memories freely (Crockett, 2013).  While unspoken, they carried with them a burden of memory of Omaha-- buddies plowed down by enemy fire-- sights, sounds and smells of war that one never forgets, rears up in dreams, and forever changes your view of the world.
     Seventy years later, D-Day is remembered in solemn ceremonies as the finest example of people with common values coming together with their collective resources to conquer a mortal threat.  A world ruled by an evil dictator actively engaged in genocide was not an option.  Although the price was high--the bravery, ingenuity, and fortitude of the soldiers was greater.  The lessons we learned have rippled through generations.  We can all be eternally grateful that in the hour of greatest need, unprecedented cooperation and valor allowed freedom to prevail.
 
 
 
This is a picture of Peter Jacob Mihelich that his son Peter Gerard obtained from a US Army Archival website.  Although the photo is not labeled, from his research, Peter G. believes this picture of his father was taken in April, 1945 somewhere in central Germany just about 1 month before the war was completed.  The gun pictured is an anti-aircraft gun, which he would have operated and repaired.  Later, Peter Jacob went on to become a design engineer at Grumman Aircraft, and was instrumental in designing the electrical systems for the lunar model, the F-14 fighters, X-29 experimental jet, and the wiring system of the shuttle wings.
Obtained from www.usarmy.germany.com
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
References
 
"Air Defense Units." 457th AAA.. <http://www.usarmy.germany.com>.
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Brown, J. (2013). Turning the tide of war: the Mulberry Harbors.Civil engineering, 83(12), 46-49.
Crockett, W. (2012). Becoming the "greatest generation", Company B, 137th Infantry Regiment. Kansas History, 35(4), 234-249.
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