On The NOK
The Horrific Knock on the Door
Howdy,
In the waning moments of my career, I had the honor of operating in a most challenging space. In my infinite appreciation, my previous commander allowed me to come back on staff for the last six months of my career after my trip to the funny farm. I was Retired On Active Duty (ROAD), for sure. Alas, when I wasn’t at medical, I tried to pitch in where possible.
A few months before my retirement, I got a text asking, “Are you free right now?” Now, I’m not going to lie; a part of me was like, “Uhhhhhhh…..I know what this means!”
But I told my boss I was free. He had received a hot tasker—we needed a Casualty Notification Officer to conduct a next-of-kin (NOK) message to a parent whose son had died while on duty.
My response was immediate, “I’ll do it.”
I’m not good at many things: dealing with bureaucracy, working on technology at a kindergarten level, cooking, and fixing anything. (Yes, the lovely Charity is lucky to be with me!)
But, one of my strengths is having difficult conversations. I can operate in that space reasonably well. It’s not because I’m some superhero (my body notwithstanding, I know). I’ve just had a lot of practice. As many longtime readers know, I’ve dealt with death throughout my career.
As usual, there were a bunch of unnecessary forms. We had to jump through fifteen hoops when it wasn’t needed. Nevertheless, we got all the Is dotted and Ts crossed due to the fantastic work of an acting first sergeant who made it happen—-because she’s a SNCO, peeps.
After I came home, I quickly changed into my service dress. I told the lovely Charity what I had to do, and of course, as military spouses have done since the birth of the AVF, she had to ditch her plans to support this duty quickly. She never complained. She understood the enormity of this honor for me.
I met the Chaplain and Doc in a meet-up spot. They looked sharp—probably sharper than me. I'm not going to lie; I’m not meticulous about my uniform. (After I wrote that sentence, a million SNCOs groaned out in pain.) My teammates did a quick uniform glimpse to ensure I wasn’t a soup-sandwich (that’s a technical term).
I made sure I had all the details right. I practiced a few times in my head. There are rules on what I could say or not say. No details of the death. It’s just delivering the unthinkable in a dignified manner.
I believe all CCs should have to demonstrate the ability to operate in this space. It’s essential that you can steel yourself to carry out a duty of immense importance. These parents gave you their sons and daughters, and now you’re telling them that you couldn’t keep them safe. That, tragically, happens with training accidents, illness, suicides, and even car crashes.
As we approached the house, I grew more confident. I knew I could do this because I’ve done it many times. I’ve perfected the ability to deliver horrible news. I can compartmentalize with the best of them.
The mom and dad were waiting for me as we approached the house. I was their worst nightmare. Although they had already heard, I was the confirmation. I’ve seen pain in many people’s eyes, but the pain on her face is etched in my mind. The husband, who was on active duty, was more stalwart.
“You guys look sharp,” he stated.
Good. We had to. You have to. These are the moments that being present and delivering horrific news makes or breaks you. I relayed the message. I answered a few questions, like what he should expect next, and some advice.
I had two great teammates who supported me and also helped the bereaved family. They were perfect.
The event took 20 minutes, but it will be with me forever. It is, without a doubt, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it was also an honor. I’m proud that I could be there for that family and deliver the most dreaded news in a dignified and graceful manner.
I provide you with this story to underscore my latest column on the needs of the All-Volunteer Force. We need Americans to take a step toward the military so we can start rebuilding this frayed relationship. We must start talking again. We need you, and you need us.
I want to give my readers a glimpse of military life. There will be other things I write about (see: latest diatribe about Trump), but that’s my goal with all this—gestures wildly.
We need you. Let’s start having that conversation. You can learn about us, and we can learn about you.
It’s beyond time. Hear our stories and ask questions. Please. Don’t be afraid.
Until Next Time
I cannot even imagine how hard this was to do and yet I do know that you are excellent at the hard conversations. I am grateful that you took this honor on as you also have the heart for it. Every parent-- both mothers and fathers-- as well as spouses--who sends their loved ones to the military and off to deployments especially have had this conversation with themselves. Parents actually have various reactions to this possibility. I steeled myself every time you were deployed as I arrived at the house , peeping around the street corner to see who was there--yes totally over the top but true. I kept my phone tied to me at all times and would go into panic mode if I missed a call and had nightmares about the "knock at the door". All exaggerated reactions but it shows the level of anxiety that parents and spouses live with. Because the fact of the matter is, it's a dangerous world we live in and the military is a dangerous occupation even when not deployed. Just training is dangerous. You have handled all of this well and been there for many losses with your troops and their families. Grateful is what I am that you came home and I will always remember those who did not. I also promise to try hard to live a life worth that level of sacrifice.
I trained to do those visits as well and thank all that be that I never had to do it while I was in. My son is going to join the Navy next year and...all I can think is I don't want to be the parents on the receiving end of that visit. He's joining that AVF you wrote about so eloquently, in a peace time Navy. He's joining because military is what we do in my family and it can't always be someone else's boy.
But I hope the universe hears me when I plead that I don't want to answer that doorbell. I don't want that to be me.