Wake up. Chest pain.
Eat breakfast. Shortness of breath.
Go to work. Weakness.
Bedtime. Fear of not waking up.
Living with a heart condition was already bad enough. Living with a heart condition and not having the proper funds to cover it was the ab...
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Ashford, South Maddison ||Monday||
Being in the military came with a lengthy list of difficult tasks one must complete. It was cool if they were simply a solider in combat or doing their military occupational specialty, MOS. It was different when they were like me. Someone with authority and in a high position who had to wake up early and deliver the worst kind of news to a person. I removed my hat and held it in front of my body when the door opened, a woman in a nightgown and head scarf peeking behind it. I saw the bewilderment she expressed as she looked from me to the chaplain beside me.
"Umm, hello," she nervously said, opening the door wider and showing her entirely. "How may I help you?"
I cleared my throat and put aside any emotions just so I could tell her, "Are you the mother of Joshua Harris?"
She looked between me and the chaplain again then met my eyes. "I am, yes. What is going on?"
"I'm Sergeant First Class Sinclair and this is Chaplain Smith. The commandant of the Army has entrusted me to express deep regret that your son, Joshua Harris, was killed in action-"
Her screaming overpowered my sentence. She dropped down to her knees and cried loudly. I stepped back and allowed the chaplain to take over, kneeling in front of and consoling her. I watched, feeling saddened that I had to break the news like this, but it was protocol. I lifted my head up when I saw a figure, a little girl coming down the hall and confusedly stared at the woman. I assumed the woman was her mother, which made this situation even harder. I stayed around for a couple more minutes, ensuring the chaplain could handle it, and headed to my car.
I sighed tiredly as I sat in the car, taking a few deep breaths to relax myself. I didn't have time to sit in guilt because I had work to do. Starting my car, I pulled away from the house and went on my way, back to base. The sun hasn't yet risen, and I was up moving around working. This wasn't new to the military lifestyle and I've been used to it for seven and a half years now. That was almost eight years of combat, basic training, casualties, weapon training, leading platoons. And going into operations, losing soldiers, and breaking the news to their families never got easier for me. I don't think they will.
It'll always be hard because I was usually the one who were leading these groups of soldiers into combat. So, when they were killed during action under my supervision, it was tough to tell their families about it. Some of my other higher-ups tell me that it isn't my fault and I was just doing my job. Sometimes I like to think they're right. Then again, I get that haunting dark cloud over me as time settle in, and I feel guilty all over again. It doesn't make it any better that I'll eventually be attending these soldiers funerals and sit face to face with their families, all while believing the ghosts of those dead soldiers surround me.
