A little gross

I'm wondering if I should put in the title a warning when something's icky. Not like I've been writing much of the icky stuff here. Somehow I can't. Somehow I've joined a club, one where the things that happen in the arts and crafts room aren't discussed with people outside the industry. People just don't really want to know, I'm sure of it. I wouldn't want to know. Some of it's too weird.
So, that said, I'll try not to be too gross. I saw two new things. First is that a mormon lady died, and I guess they dress their own dead. Four women came in and dressed the lady in temple clothes, which, not being Mormon, I'd never seen. The outfit was weird. A little green apron, white peasant dress. White veil. Kind of like a shephard girl outfit, it was pretty bizarre.
On their way out, the ladies said that she was leaking a little. Leaking? What the heck does that mean?
I helped Tom move her from the guerney back into the cooler. She had to go in there because she hadn't been embalmed. Ok, side note. Embalmed: don't have to go in the cooler, no bodily fluids leak, body looks fresh (Steve says I shouldn't call them "fresh", it freaks him out). Refrigerated: No family/friend viewing. Body deteriorates more quickly, hence "leaking" occurs.
So, I don a pair of gloves, he doesn't, this is old hat to him. I grab her legs, he grabs under her shoulders. It's awkward as the guerney she's on is between me and where she's going, so I'm trying to lift and reach over. I end up not helping much and she's too heavy for Tom to move alone, so I'm really trying. He lifts her head. Yellow green liquid runs out her nose. Not a little. It streams down her face. He's grossed out. I'm severly grossed out. Her legs are so heavy, dead weight, hmm. So dead. He gets a towel and cleans her up. Her veil slipped over her face while he was wiping her chin. He's so gentle, i'm so nauseous. The veil, Tom, put back up the veil. It doesn't go on her face, it needs to cover her hair.

I've kept this post as a draft. It's been a few weeks. Last weekend, at home, Steve is looking through the fridge for something to eat. It's not hard to look through cuz I dont' shop as much as I should. He laughs as he comes out with egg nog from last Christmas. He laughs even harder as he turns back to the fridge to put it back in for the next lucky contestant. I say hand it over buddy, I'll get rid of it. It's five or so months old, seperated, pure liquid on one hand, chunky blobs on the other. I'm pouring it down the garbage disposal, when I lose it. I'm crying and laughing, both hysterically, both at the same time. I hold my mouth to stop the giggling while the tears stream down my face. I'm gagging and disgusted and maniacly laughing. He's scared for me and of me. I say "her veil was covering her face, it doesn't go there". He only knows a little about "the mormon lady", right now it's way too much. He says that sometimes my inappropriate reactions tell him way more about my job than my words. Well, those aren't his exact words, but it's what he means.