Story to tell...
For those of you that are not familiar with my background, previous to my entry in the world of eliquid manufacturing I was a Licensed Mental Health Professional (PLMHP) in the State of Nebraska. I entered into that profession for lots of reasons, but the primarily reason was my 1st Cousin Josh. I wanted to help people with PTSD.
Here's (a small part of) his story...
(Source)
He always intended to be a policeman. To get there --- with his parents' guidance --- Josh Omvig became a soldier.
"He was a nice young man," Ellen (my aunt) says.
A mother's pained love.
"He was a pretty straight arrow," Randy (my uncle) says.
A father's wounded joy.
They knew Josh experienced combat in Iraq as an Army reservist. By connecting the dots, they concluded their son probably participated vigorously. Too late, they realized the person they got back from the war on terrorism was not the young man they sent.
Sadly, they say, post-traumatic stress disorder was only a vague concept until they saw Josh's world unravel.
"In retrospect, we probably should have pushed harder," Randy says.
His tone conveys little confidence the couple actually believe they could have saved their boy. As they see it, odds weighed heavily against their son.
"I keep thinking about it," Randy says. "But it was a no-win situation for Josh."
The soldier told his mother once he died in Iraq. But he kept living for another year.
Burning desire
Josh, a former Boy Scout with a newspaper route, wanted to join the military early. His parents refused to sign paperwork required of a 17-year-old and made him wait.
"'It is an adult decision. It is seven years of your life,'" Randy remembers telling his son.
Later, the couple insisted their son investigate several branches of the armed forces before making a commitment. And they helped.
"Josh was pretty focused," Randy says.
He enlisted with the 339th Military Police Company based in Davenport.
"When he signed up they hadn't been activated in more than 30 years," Randy says.
The choice was logical for an aspiring policeman or sheriff's deputy.
"He figured the best way to get some experience was to go into the reserves," Randy says.
Josh graduated a semester early from Grundy Center High School. Within two days he was training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri.
The company deployed to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, guarding suspected members of al Qaida. But Josh was not yet ready. Meanwhile, he enrolled in law enforcement courses at Hawkeye Community College.
"But sitting in the classroom was kind of tough on him," Randy says.
Josh seemed to enjoy much more the ride-alongs he arranged with sheriff's deputies in Tama, Grundy and Hardin counties.
"He liked the action part of it," Randy says.
Josh started working for a security company in Des Moines and became a supervisor. He moved to Altoona.
In 2003, the soldiers in the 339th --- back from Cuba --- and Josh and his parents anticipated what lay ahead.
"They kept telling them all summer, 'You're going to be activated real soon ... ,'" Ellen says. "That went on for months."
Josh got ready, had his teeth checked and deposited dna samples with the military. Officials activated the 339th once again in December 2003 and the company deployed to Iraq in February 2004.
The soldiers' mission included guarding people and enemy munitions. They at times also protected convoys. Shifts were 15 hours long. Their camp at one point was mortared daily.
Temperatures inside tents exceeded 100 degrees at night, Josh said, and soldiers resorted to flea collars on their beds and around ankles to stop the pests. But that didn't work too well, Ellen says, because the toxic chemicals irritated the soldiers' skin.
"It was pretty rough conditions for them," Randy says.
At the time, the couple didn't know where their son was. They later learned he served in the Sunni Triangle, a region northwest of Baghdad and home to many of Saddam Hussein's most loyal followers.
The 339th worked out of a "forward operating base," according to the Omvigs. There were no showers and only sporadic electrical service, Josh said. Telephone reception was poor and calls were frequently interrupted.
Soldiers in the company encountered close combat in urban conditions. Josh mentioned tall buildings crowding streets narrower than H Avenue where his parents lived in Grundy Center. Gunmen would pop up in windows a few feet away from convoys. Josh indicated a handgun might have been more effective than the grenade launcher he manned.
Josh never talked about killing anyone but said the 339th came under fire. He was usually in the company's lead vehicle and "he was their best shot," Randy says.
The couple received one letter from their son in 11 months. Josh later said he was firing off notes every month. Josh also occasionally skipped opportunities to call home, at least in part to allow fellow soldiers with spouses and children access to available phones.
"Another reason was he said it was too hard talking to us," Ellen says.
Break in the action
In early September 2004, Josh returned to Grundy County for a few days of rest and relaxation. He found little of either, according to his parents.
"He shook for three days," Randy says.
He remained vigilant and seemed unable to let down his guard.
"He was in pretty bad shape when he got back," Randy says.
The effects were apparent enough that others noticed. One of Josh's first desires was a meal at McDonald's. While there, the family encountered a veteran of the Vietnam War.
The older man saw the jitters and addressed Josh.
"'I know. It will get better. Thank you for your service,'" Ellen remembers the man saying.
Josh only shared information about Iraq in one- or two-sentence fragments at a time. But as they spent time together, his parents learned driving presented perceived threats to the veteran. Deer along the road. Headlights in the review mirror. Ordinary items, like culverts, that to Josh represented hiding places.
"His head was on a pivot," Randy says.
While home, Josh withdrew periodically from family festivities.
"'You've got to forgive me. But I can't be around people too much,'" Ellen remembers him saying.
But he was glad to be in Grundy Center.
"He kept saying, 'I'm so happy to be home,'" Ellen says.
Randy remembers Josh taking time to smell flowers and touch leaves still hanging on trees. He talked little about what he had experienced. Peace eluded Josh, especially at night.
"Of course, you heard him. The bad dreams," Ellen says.
Their son would call out while sleeping, usually "No" or "Stop" or some other military command.
"He didn't really want to go back. But he didn't want to leave his buddies either," Randy says.
Josh fulfilled his obligation. He returned to Iraq after about 10 days.
"We just got him pretty well rested and fed," Ellen says.
The couple was concerned. Looking back, they realize they witnessed the serious effects of combat-stress reaction.
"'I'm fine. I can handle it. I've got it under control,'" Ellen remembers Josh repeating several times.
"I didn't know enough," she adds.
"And he was putting on a pretty good act for us," Randy says.
Headed home
Josh completed his tour of duty in Iraq on his 21st birthday in November 2004. He later told his parents the company expected to spend three weeks in Kuwait. At another point, Josh believed he would be at Fort McCoy in Wisconsin for three months.
In reality, the soldiers were in Iowa within a week.
As the Omvigs explain the transition, Josh "went from fifth gear to first gear" in a few days.
For many troops returning to the United States, the fastest way out is the preferred path. Though sick, Josh declined an opportunity to visit the infirmary in Wisconsin.
Randy explains a soldier's option at that point.
"Do I say yes and have to stay, or do I say no and go home to my family?"
When he arrived in Iowa, the next day was Thanksgiving. On Friday, Josh returned to work in Des Moines.
Ellen and Randy knew their son was suffering. Josh, however, continued to assert he could handle the situation. He expressed concern that talking with an Army counselor, admitting a mental health issue, conceding he needed help would damage his career.
"We even tried to get him to go get private help that we would pay for," Ellen says. "He said, 'Nope. They will find out.'"
Ellen suggested seeking therapy by using an assumed name. Josh rejected the idea, shocked his mother might condone lying.
The specifics about what troubled their son and to what extent remained a mystery.
"You get short conversations," Ellen says. "Loving and kind. But short."
Other veterans later told Randy and Ellen that Josh at times appeared to want to discuss something. The veterans did not press the issue, giving the soldier space to proceed at his pace. Josh inevitably let the moments pass, the veterans said.
The security firm put out pink slips and Josh was out of work. He moved into his parents' home in Grundy Center and --- still considering a career in law enforcement --- enrolled at Ellsworth Community College.
While waiting for classes to begin, Josh commuted to a part-time job in Des Moines. At one point, he shared a conversation with his father, notable because of its length and content.
"'Dad, I just want to be happy like you,'" Randy remembers.
Josh repeated the thought several times.
An aunt, Julie Westly of Sioux City, and others in the family also knew about Josh's "deep, deep depression."
"We all encouraged him to get help. But he was so afraid because he thought his career would be over," Westly says.
Weeks played out, and casual observers in Grundy Center might not have noticed any change in Josh. He started helping as a crossing guard for the elementary school, setting out stop signs. He volunteered with the Grundy Center Fire Department, bounding out of the Omvigs' home when his pager sounded.
"He loved it. He loved to help people," Randy says.
Getting up in the night for an emergency hardly seemed an inconvenience.
"'Well I don't sleep anyway, Mom,'" Ellen remembers him saying.
Josh altered his career goal slightly. He still wanted to be a policeman, but in a small community.
"Mostly, he wanted to be happy," Randy says. "I knew what he meant."
Besides restless nights, Josh experienced flashbacks. Unfamiliar sounds sparked an undeniable urge to examine his parents' property --- in military terms, to secure the perimeter.
Ellen and Randy know Josh would circle their lot. He may have gone farther into the neighborhood.
"I don't know. We didn't follow him," Ellen says,.
Josh occasionally shared thoughts that his mother did not understand.
"'I don't want you to hate me,'" she remembers him saying.
At the time, Ellen interpreted the comment as a reflection on tasks performed in combat. Attempts to reassure that she would never hate her son were only marginally effective.
"'What you had to do over there is what you had to do to survive,'" Ellen remembers saying.
Josh admitted another problem.
"He talked about hearing voices, seeing faces," Randy says.
Ellen pressed her son on one occasion about what he meant.
"He said Iraqi people."
Bad to worse
Josh had an ally in Iraq. Ellen and Randy know him only as Ray.
The soldiers were assigned to each other as battle buddies during boot camp because they were standing in line together.
"They ended up good friends," Ellen says.
Toward the end of December, Josh apparently learned Ray had been killed in Iraq. The soldier's death followed unfortunately close to the funeral for Jimmie Kitch, Ellen's mother.
On Dec. 21, Josh went out drinking, an uncharacteristic event, according to his father and others.
"I've never seen him drink a beer," Westly says.
At some point during the evening, Josh's truck and another vehicle went into a ditch along Orange Road and got stuck in snow. Josh and the other driver left the area. When they returned in a third car with two other people, a police officer from Hudson and Black Hawk County sheriff's deputies were at the scene.
According to their report, the deputies smelled alcohol on Josh's breath and he failed two of three field sobriety tests. They arrested Josh for operating a vehicle while intoxicated.
Josh got out of the Black Hawk County Jail at 9 a.m. Ellen remembers by 11 he was home in Grundy Center. It was a Thursday.
He shaved and put on his desert fatigues. He said he wouldn't be going to work. At the time, Ellen remembered a conversation about visiting a friend and didn't think anything unusual. There was also mention of helping a recruiter talk with prospective young men and women, which Josh had done in the past.
He asked his mother for their pastor's telephone number. And a sheet of paper. He wanted to write a few things down.
Ellen tore a piece out of a spiral notebook, shearing off one corner. Josh said the damaged page was good enough. Ellen remembers her son's demeanor as calm.
Josh later handed his mother a note and went out a back door. Ellen read the words but didn't understand. Josh described joining his buddies. She at first thought that meant re-enlisting, a possibility Josh had entertained.
She went after him.
"I wanted him to talk to his dad," Ellen says.
"Then it finally hit her what he was talking about," Randy adds.
Josh was in his truck. The doors were locked. Ellen pleaded with her son to not do what he was contemplating. Her appeals turned to screams.
Ellen did not the time Josh had already called a friend, police officer Terry Oltman. He asked Oltman to stop by the house in a few minutes.
Seeing what was developing, Oltman ordered Ellen away from the car, she remembers. Ellen refused to leave her son.
Josh raised a handgun and fired a single shot. He turned his head slightly to avoid possibly injuring his mother.
"I just can't believe how much can happen in one minute," Ellen says.
Father and mother want information in their son's suicide note held privately. Save for the closing thought:
"I will always love you. Josh."
The family buried their soldier with help from the U.S. Army Reserve 339th Military Police Company. Josh Omvig was 22.
"He thought it would get better because he was home," Westly says. "And it never got better. It got worse."
Josh told his mother once he died in Iraq. But he kept living for another year.
___________________________________________________________________________________
In honor of Joshua Omvig, Nicoticket will upgrade or toss a freebie in on all orders shipping to APO, FPO, or DPO addresses. It's a small token of our appreciation for the men and women of the US Military whom serve overseas, and, a small way for us to carry the memory of Josh forward. Thank you, and God Bless you all.
For those of you that are not familiar with my background, previous to my entry in the world of eliquid manufacturing I was a Licensed Mental Health Professional (PLMHP) in the State of Nebraska. I entered into that profession for lots of reasons, but the primarily reason was my 1st Cousin Josh. I wanted to help people with PTSD.
Here's (a small part of) his story...
(Source)
He always intended to be a policeman. To get there --- with his parents' guidance --- Josh Omvig became a soldier.
"He was a nice young man," Ellen (my aunt) says.
A mother's pained love.
"He was a pretty straight arrow," Randy (my uncle) says.
A father's wounded joy.
They knew Josh experienced combat in Iraq as an Army reservist. By connecting the dots, they concluded their son probably participated vigorously. Too late, they realized the person they got back from the war on terrorism was not the young man they sent.
Sadly, they say, post-traumatic stress disorder was only a vague concept until they saw Josh's world unravel.
"In retrospect, we probably should have pushed harder," Randy says.
His tone conveys little confidence the couple actually believe they could have saved their boy. As they see it, odds weighed heavily against their son.
"I keep thinking about it," Randy says. "But it was a no-win situation for Josh."
The soldier told his mother once he died in Iraq. But he kept living for another year.
Burning desire
Josh, a former Boy Scout with a newspaper route, wanted to join the military early. His parents refused to sign paperwork required of a 17-year-old and made him wait.
"'It is an adult decision. It is seven years of your life,'" Randy remembers telling his son.
Later, the couple insisted their son investigate several branches of the armed forces before making a commitment. And they helped.
"Josh was pretty focused," Randy says.
He enlisted with the 339th Military Police Company based in Davenport.
"When he signed up they hadn't been activated in more than 30 years," Randy says.
The choice was logical for an aspiring policeman or sheriff's deputy.
"He figured the best way to get some experience was to go into the reserves," Randy says.
Josh graduated a semester early from Grundy Center High School. Within two days he was training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri.
The company deployed to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, guarding suspected members of al Qaida. But Josh was not yet ready. Meanwhile, he enrolled in law enforcement courses at Hawkeye Community College.
"But sitting in the classroom was kind of tough on him," Randy says.
Josh seemed to enjoy much more the ride-alongs he arranged with sheriff's deputies in Tama, Grundy and Hardin counties.
"He liked the action part of it," Randy says.
Josh started working for a security company in Des Moines and became a supervisor. He moved to Altoona.
In 2003, the soldiers in the 339th --- back from Cuba --- and Josh and his parents anticipated what lay ahead.
"They kept telling them all summer, 'You're going to be activated real soon ... ,'" Ellen says. "That went on for months."
Josh got ready, had his teeth checked and deposited dna samples with the military. Officials activated the 339th once again in December 2003 and the company deployed to Iraq in February 2004.
The soldiers' mission included guarding people and enemy munitions. They at times also protected convoys. Shifts were 15 hours long. Their camp at one point was mortared daily.
Temperatures inside tents exceeded 100 degrees at night, Josh said, and soldiers resorted to flea collars on their beds and around ankles to stop the pests. But that didn't work too well, Ellen says, because the toxic chemicals irritated the soldiers' skin.
"It was pretty rough conditions for them," Randy says.
At the time, the couple didn't know where their son was. They later learned he served in the Sunni Triangle, a region northwest of Baghdad and home to many of Saddam Hussein's most loyal followers.
The 339th worked out of a "forward operating base," according to the Omvigs. There were no showers and only sporadic electrical service, Josh said. Telephone reception was poor and calls were frequently interrupted.
Soldiers in the company encountered close combat in urban conditions. Josh mentioned tall buildings crowding streets narrower than H Avenue where his parents lived in Grundy Center. Gunmen would pop up in windows a few feet away from convoys. Josh indicated a handgun might have been more effective than the grenade launcher he manned.
Josh never talked about killing anyone but said the 339th came under fire. He was usually in the company's lead vehicle and "he was their best shot," Randy says.
The couple received one letter from their son in 11 months. Josh later said he was firing off notes every month. Josh also occasionally skipped opportunities to call home, at least in part to allow fellow soldiers with spouses and children access to available phones.
"Another reason was he said it was too hard talking to us," Ellen says.
Break in the action
In early September 2004, Josh returned to Grundy County for a few days of rest and relaxation. He found little of either, according to his parents.
"He shook for three days," Randy says.
He remained vigilant and seemed unable to let down his guard.
"He was in pretty bad shape when he got back," Randy says.
The effects were apparent enough that others noticed. One of Josh's first desires was a meal at McDonald's. While there, the family encountered a veteran of the Vietnam War.
The older man saw the jitters and addressed Josh.
"'I know. It will get better. Thank you for your service,'" Ellen remembers the man saying.
Josh only shared information about Iraq in one- or two-sentence fragments at a time. But as they spent time together, his parents learned driving presented perceived threats to the veteran. Deer along the road. Headlights in the review mirror. Ordinary items, like culverts, that to Josh represented hiding places.
"His head was on a pivot," Randy says.
While home, Josh withdrew periodically from family festivities.
"'You've got to forgive me. But I can't be around people too much,'" Ellen remembers him saying.
But he was glad to be in Grundy Center.
"He kept saying, 'I'm so happy to be home,'" Ellen says.
Randy remembers Josh taking time to smell flowers and touch leaves still hanging on trees. He talked little about what he had experienced. Peace eluded Josh, especially at night.
"Of course, you heard him. The bad dreams," Ellen says.
Their son would call out while sleeping, usually "No" or "Stop" or some other military command.
"He didn't really want to go back. But he didn't want to leave his buddies either," Randy says.
Josh fulfilled his obligation. He returned to Iraq after about 10 days.
"We just got him pretty well rested and fed," Ellen says.
The couple was concerned. Looking back, they realize they witnessed the serious effects of combat-stress reaction.
"'I'm fine. I can handle it. I've got it under control,'" Ellen remembers Josh repeating several times.
"I didn't know enough," she adds.
"And he was putting on a pretty good act for us," Randy says.
Headed home
Josh completed his tour of duty in Iraq on his 21st birthday in November 2004. He later told his parents the company expected to spend three weeks in Kuwait. At another point, Josh believed he would be at Fort McCoy in Wisconsin for three months.
In reality, the soldiers were in Iowa within a week.
As the Omvigs explain the transition, Josh "went from fifth gear to first gear" in a few days.
For many troops returning to the United States, the fastest way out is the preferred path. Though sick, Josh declined an opportunity to visit the infirmary in Wisconsin.
Randy explains a soldier's option at that point.
"Do I say yes and have to stay, or do I say no and go home to my family?"
When he arrived in Iowa, the next day was Thanksgiving. On Friday, Josh returned to work in Des Moines.
Ellen and Randy knew their son was suffering. Josh, however, continued to assert he could handle the situation. He expressed concern that talking with an Army counselor, admitting a mental health issue, conceding he needed help would damage his career.
"We even tried to get him to go get private help that we would pay for," Ellen says. "He said, 'Nope. They will find out.'"
Ellen suggested seeking therapy by using an assumed name. Josh rejected the idea, shocked his mother might condone lying.
The specifics about what troubled their son and to what extent remained a mystery.
"You get short conversations," Ellen says. "Loving and kind. But short."
Other veterans later told Randy and Ellen that Josh at times appeared to want to discuss something. The veterans did not press the issue, giving the soldier space to proceed at his pace. Josh inevitably let the moments pass, the veterans said.
The security firm put out pink slips and Josh was out of work. He moved into his parents' home in Grundy Center and --- still considering a career in law enforcement --- enrolled at Ellsworth Community College.
While waiting for classes to begin, Josh commuted to a part-time job in Des Moines. At one point, he shared a conversation with his father, notable because of its length and content.
"'Dad, I just want to be happy like you,'" Randy remembers.
Josh repeated the thought several times.
An aunt, Julie Westly of Sioux City, and others in the family also knew about Josh's "deep, deep depression."
"We all encouraged him to get help. But he was so afraid because he thought his career would be over," Westly says.
Weeks played out, and casual observers in Grundy Center might not have noticed any change in Josh. He started helping as a crossing guard for the elementary school, setting out stop signs. He volunteered with the Grundy Center Fire Department, bounding out of the Omvigs' home when his pager sounded.
"He loved it. He loved to help people," Randy says.
Getting up in the night for an emergency hardly seemed an inconvenience.
"'Well I don't sleep anyway, Mom,'" Ellen remembers him saying.
Josh altered his career goal slightly. He still wanted to be a policeman, but in a small community.
"Mostly, he wanted to be happy," Randy says. "I knew what he meant."
Besides restless nights, Josh experienced flashbacks. Unfamiliar sounds sparked an undeniable urge to examine his parents' property --- in military terms, to secure the perimeter.
Ellen and Randy know Josh would circle their lot. He may have gone farther into the neighborhood.
"I don't know. We didn't follow him," Ellen says,.
Josh occasionally shared thoughts that his mother did not understand.
"'I don't want you to hate me,'" she remembers him saying.
At the time, Ellen interpreted the comment as a reflection on tasks performed in combat. Attempts to reassure that she would never hate her son were only marginally effective.
"'What you had to do over there is what you had to do to survive,'" Ellen remembers saying.
Josh admitted another problem.
"He talked about hearing voices, seeing faces," Randy says.
Ellen pressed her son on one occasion about what he meant.
"He said Iraqi people."
Bad to worse
Josh had an ally in Iraq. Ellen and Randy know him only as Ray.
The soldiers were assigned to each other as battle buddies during boot camp because they were standing in line together.
"They ended up good friends," Ellen says.
Toward the end of December, Josh apparently learned Ray had been killed in Iraq. The soldier's death followed unfortunately close to the funeral for Jimmie Kitch, Ellen's mother.
On Dec. 21, Josh went out drinking, an uncharacteristic event, according to his father and others.
"I've never seen him drink a beer," Westly says.
At some point during the evening, Josh's truck and another vehicle went into a ditch along Orange Road and got stuck in snow. Josh and the other driver left the area. When they returned in a third car with two other people, a police officer from Hudson and Black Hawk County sheriff's deputies were at the scene.
According to their report, the deputies smelled alcohol on Josh's breath and he failed two of three field sobriety tests. They arrested Josh for operating a vehicle while intoxicated.
Josh got out of the Black Hawk County Jail at 9 a.m. Ellen remembers by 11 he was home in Grundy Center. It was a Thursday.
He shaved and put on his desert fatigues. He said he wouldn't be going to work. At the time, Ellen remembered a conversation about visiting a friend and didn't think anything unusual. There was also mention of helping a recruiter talk with prospective young men and women, which Josh had done in the past.
He asked his mother for their pastor's telephone number. And a sheet of paper. He wanted to write a few things down.
Ellen tore a piece out of a spiral notebook, shearing off one corner. Josh said the damaged page was good enough. Ellen remembers her son's demeanor as calm.
Josh later handed his mother a note and went out a back door. Ellen read the words but didn't understand. Josh described joining his buddies. She at first thought that meant re-enlisting, a possibility Josh had entertained.
She went after him.
"I wanted him to talk to his dad," Ellen says.
"Then it finally hit her what he was talking about," Randy adds.
Josh was in his truck. The doors were locked. Ellen pleaded with her son to not do what he was contemplating. Her appeals turned to screams.
Ellen did not the time Josh had already called a friend, police officer Terry Oltman. He asked Oltman to stop by the house in a few minutes.
Seeing what was developing, Oltman ordered Ellen away from the car, she remembers. Ellen refused to leave her son.
Josh raised a handgun and fired a single shot. He turned his head slightly to avoid possibly injuring his mother.
"I just can't believe how much can happen in one minute," Ellen says.
Father and mother want information in their son's suicide note held privately. Save for the closing thought:
"I will always love you. Josh."
The family buried their soldier with help from the U.S. Army Reserve 339th Military Police Company. Josh Omvig was 22.
"He thought it would get better because he was home," Westly says. "And it never got better. It got worse."
Josh told his mother once he died in Iraq. But he kept living for another year.
___________________________________________________________________________________
In honor of Joshua Omvig, Nicoticket will upgrade or toss a freebie in on all orders shipping to APO, FPO, or DPO addresses. It's a small token of our appreciation for the men and women of the US Military whom serve overseas, and, a small way for us to carry the memory of Josh forward. Thank you, and God Bless you all.
Thanks again!
