Heart Of A Hawk: One Family's Sacrifice and Journey Toward Healing

The notification officer continued with, "I'm so sorry," finally breaking the insane moments by asking, gently, if he and the chaplain could possibly come in.

Dave reached his hand to Deborah's, lifting her from her knees. Looking up to see her husband's face white as chalk, she grabbed his arm. Finally finding the words, she said, "I'm sorry, please come inside."

Dave stretched the door open.

"We knew why you were here the moment we saw you," Deborah said.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. This is the most difficult part of my job."

The subdued chaplain and the notification officer, a young sergeant, removed their garrison caps, entered the foyer, and walked toward the family room. Deborah felt as though she and Dave were floating inside a bubble that would pop any moment, and the clock's hands would spin backwards. She examined her husband's chalky face, looking for signs of chest pains. After he and the two other men finally took seats, all she could think to do was make coffee for the three of them.

Wiping her swollen eyes and moving like a robot toward the kitchen, she knew she had to call Jason. After starting the coffee, she picked up the portable phone from the counter to dial his number. While watching the steady drip of coffee, she listened to several rings before her son answered his phone.

"We need you here at the house. It's Patrick." She said as calmly as possible.

"Mama, what's wrong?' Jason said in his raspy, early morning voice.

"Just come over, and drive careful."

After placing the receiver back in its cradle, Deborah returned to the family room.

From his seat in the corner of the sofa, Dave finally found his voice. "What happened? And when?"

The chaplain, seated in the chair at the corner of the sofa where Dave sat, played nervously with his garrison cap. In the chair at the opposite end of the sofa, the young sergeant sat holding a manila folder.

The chaplain spoke. "It was an IED, sir, a roadside bomb. The unit was in convoy on a patrol in western Baghdad. We were told it occurred about twenty-two hundred hours, or ten p.m., last night."

"He wasn't supposed to be on more patrols. He was getting ready to come home." Dave gazed at the floor, disbelieving the words he heard.

"Sir, I'm so sorry," the chaplain said, with the soft voice of a man of the cloth.

For some reason, Deborah figured the time difference. It would have been around two p.m. at home. While she read to children at one of the schools, while Dave took in Fox News, their son had taken his last breaths. At some point in time before this morning, a banner had probably run at the bottom of the television saying, "Two soldiers killed today in western Baghdad, names withheld until notification of next of kin."

Deborah watched her husband, fearing where his state of mind might lead as he continued staring into the floor, as though burning a hole through it. She remembered the gun he had brought to the door. She walked to the dining room and found it on the chair where he had left it. Placing a throw blanket over the pistol, she took it to the back of the house and hid it in her closet. She returned to the family room, knowing it was up to her to get her husband through this.

With only dull lamp light in the large room and the sun still below the horizon, there was a thick oozing ugliness that couldn't be touched, only felt, draped heavily inside the room, consuming the bodies searching for words that didn't exist to answer questions or bring comfort. Deborah didn't know what a stun gun felt like, but nothing could be worse than the feeling that hovered in this room.

The sergeant finally spoke. The papers he held shook in his hands. "Sir, I understand you're Sergeant Tainsh's sole beneficiary, that his mother is deceased."

"Yes. She died when he was young," Dave responded, meeting the young man's eyes.

"Sir, then, if I could have you confirm the names and spelling on these forms and sign them, we can begin working on the death and burial benefits."

This can't be happening, Deborah kept thinking as she handed her husband his glasses. She watched the paper shake in Dave's hands. If there were ever a moment in her life where she felt outside her body, watching the most horrible scene that could ever occur involving those she loved, this was it.

She watched her husband force the black government pen across the designated lines, leaving his signature in small jerky cursive that resembled a child's.

With the forms completed, Deborah called Rose Hendrix. "Rose, this is Deborah Tainsh. I think we need you. We lost Patrick last night."

Rose hesitated a moment as though she hadn't heard correctly. Then she spoke.