Yesterday I did so much walking that I got blisters on the bottoms of my foot. I followed what the Mayo Clinic says to do and am keeping it clean, dry, and covered. It’s pretty tender to walk on, not too much, but with the distance I’ve been putting on my hoofs lately, it’s a challenge.

When I went to the museum yesterday, there was a lot to see. There is a video presentation that depicts footage from that time in history. I expected to see bombs. I expected to see guns. I expected to see violence. I mean, it’s a museum about D-Day for heck’s sake.

As a Death Doula, my calling is to make sure that people die on their terms. The setting as ideal as I can create it to be at their request. Each person I’ve helped through the transition from the breathing life has died on their back. Sometimes with loved ones nearby, sometimes a solo flier, but they died peacefully while laying in a bed.

The video I watched progressed pretty much as I’d expected until the part where the American, English, Canadian, and French soldiers marched through a mountain of rubble from destroyed buildings. On the ground, in the forefront of this footage, was a dead body laying face down in the mud.

The soldiers continued past the body as if it were a brick, or a twisted monument of violence. I couldn’t tell by the brief (maybe 5 second view) if the man who died was a soldier, a civilian, or a casualty of mistaken identity. It disturbed me enough that I’ve had to take over 24 hours to process that.

What I also didn’t expect was the immensity of the tanks, guns, transports, and even the bulldozers. I, for whatever reason, thought they were smaller. Maybe because I’ve only ever seen them in films (not documentaries) or in TV shows depicting the era. I stood next to a bulldozer on display and felt like a kid staring up at dad working as I did when I was like nine years old.

Caen was occupied by Nazi’s. On the very streets I’ve been walking and enjoying there were horrors committed against these people’s elders (then young folk). It snapped a sharp picture in my head that the history I’ve been feeling in my veins isn’t just that of William the Conqueror, but that of a city that has fought to survive.

June 6, 1944, D-Day, the Normandy Invasion

320,000 German soldiers became gravestones.

135,000 Americans didn’t watch another sunrise.

65,000 United Kingdom soldiers didn’t return home to waiting families.

18,000 Canadians didn’t get to watch/play hockey again.

12,200 French soldiers didn’t get to eat another baguette.

Over half a million people lost their lives during the Normandy Invasion. That would be like wiping out the entire population of Tuscon, Arizona. (Beautiful city, would recommend a visit). Gone. Extinguished.

The immensity of the loss of life has been downplayed in history classes I’ve taken. It’s just a number, right? It’s like trying to figure out how rich you’d have to be to not worry about what something cost. It’s all speculative numbers. Until you actually consider that those deaths meant more than just a number. They were people like you and me. They had loved ones they wanted to return to. There were birthdays they would never again celebrate. They were humans.

There was grief and mourning that couldn’t take place because D-Day wasn’t just one day. Operation Overlord didn’t complete until the 19th of August 1944 when the Germans retreated back over the river Seine. That’s 74 days of intense fighting.

Tomorrow I’m going to go to the Caen Memorial and pay homage to those souls that fought for the liberation of their way of life. My mom asked me to say a prayer for them. I will honor that request. I feel it’s the least I can do.