The Job That Makes The Hair on My Arm Stand Up
By: Sean Kernan
Tags: Life Lessons, Self Improvement, Happiness, Self-awareness, Life

I’ve been berated by retail customers for only having turquoise gift wrapping paper when they wanted blue. I had an old lady say “What?” over and over again as I repeated myself and got progressively louder. After shouting, she finally heard me. Then she reminded me that I needed to learn to speak proper English. I simply smiled and apologized.

I’ve installed workout equipment in homes for $9 an hour. It was hard labor and thankless. I had to see how gross people’s homes could be. I’ve also been propositioned by cat ladies en lieu of payment, “I’m sorry ma’am. But you have to pay. Please sign.”

I’ve had a few terrible jobs over the years. I’m actually grateful for them, not just because I no longer have them, but because they give me a broader context to life.

However, I have yet to see a more heart-rending and meaningful job than the one my parents encountered.

My personal connection to the role

We were a military family. My dad was a Navy SEAL and constantly deployed to war zones. He was gone for half of every year of my childhood. He was always chasing war criminals in Yugoslavia and other distant reaches of the planet.

He was in a leadership role. Consequently, men died while under his command. While he was deployed, I attended several funerals that he was unable to make it to. It was a terrible experience. I sat through one, where the deceased’s twin brother and six siblings sat behind me, crying, hard. Yet that experience still pales compared to what one professional routinely goes through.

An unbelievably difficult job

One of the hardest things about a soldier's death is the notification. You are often in a rush against time to let the family know before the media announces it. You owe them the consideration of telling them in person and having them be the first to know.

It’s typically done by a Death Notification Officer. He’ll often be accompanied by a religious figure, per the soldier's affiliation. Sometimes, he’ll be accompanied by a soldier who knew him or who was his commanding officer.

In most cases, you are notifying a young wife who, very often, is raising young children in her husband's absence. Sometimes the soldier’s mother is there, helping her with the children. Other times, you are notifying two unsuspecting parents.

It couldn’t be a harder job. All military families know what a notification procession looks like. They typically pull up in a black car, with a chaplain, and full regalia officers, walking up to the driveway, carrying a folded flag.

My mom and dad went on a few of these notifications for soldiers from his command. They didn’t have to go but did so out of respect. If you send men to die, one must be prepared to deal with the aftermath as well.

After the person answers the door, you are supposed to quietly ask if you can come inside to talk. Then, you are supposed to have the person sit down so that you can deliver the news. When my parents went, they never made it halfway up the driveway before hearing a blood-curdling scream from within the house.

The notification officer I spoke with said that every walk down that driveway, the first time or the fiftieth, is the longest walk you’ll ever take. You can feel your heart in your chest. Each breath is louder than the next.

The idea of being that person, in that moment, telling a mother her son is gone, telling a wife her children no longer have a father, is beyond any reality I’ve lived in.

Regardless of where your politics fall on military matters, one shouldn’t let those opinions shade the service of military personnel. They are sent to do a job. Sometimes fate calls and the abyss opens up, demanding their life as forfeit.

Drawing meaning

I often think about the life of death notification officers. It isn’t a particularly fun thing to consider. But I do it. It’s a form of emotional flagellation that keeps me grounded.

We become so insulated by our problems. We’re all guilty of it. We look at small issues and watch them swell into irrationally huge roadblocks. It’s an effective emotional response that gets us to take action. Unfortunately, it tends to affect our wellbeing and cause us to lose perspective.

Even people who’ve hurdled insurmountable odds become acclimated to life’s still waters. The soldier who made it home finds himself yelling about a cell phone bill. The cancer patient who overcame the odds becomes discontent over long lines for coffee.

But the notification officer, who walks down the sidewalk, and must muster the courage and conviction to deliver heart-rending news is routinely reminded that those annoying moments are but luxuries in the grand scheme of life.

I’ve had far, far more difficult periods of my life than I’ve had now. I’ve suffered terrible pain from a back injury. For months, I laid in bed looking at the ceiling, promising God I’d make something of myself if he just made things better. And yet, when things got better, I still went on to waste years being an idiot before I righted the ship.

Your boss might be micromanaging you. Your relationship might be in the sewers. These aren’t insignificant problems. They should be respected. Reflection on the woes of others isn’t meant to erase them.

I’ve found that seeing life for the brutality it brings, has a way of reeling my feelings back into a place of gratitude. A respectful acknowledgment of suffering brings irrefutable calm to my spirit.

As others live a moment away from, or in the wake of tragedy, each of us lives in seconds and minutes, filled with beauty that flits about us unseen.

Tomorrow, the next day, maybe next week, next month, a man will walk down a driveway, and with all the love in his heart, ruin someone’s life.

Today, you have your breath. And with it, everything. All things, good, bad, or neutral, are but temporary. Your mind decides how long each will stay, and how loud their voices will speak.