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. 

 

                                                         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                                                                 

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.

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.

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.

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

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.