watch alarms

There was a nicely attended service a couple weeks ago. Rather formal, a little stodgy. About halfway through, someone's watch alarm starts going off. The FD looks down in a panick that it's his watch. Whew, it's not. The chaplain glances down at his, nope not him either. The FD is a little annoyed that whoever's it is, they aren't shutting it off. I know, I know, you can see where this is going... Yep, the watch was right up front, in the casket. It just kept going all through the service. Afterwards the FD checks the guy's arms. No watch. Checks his pockets. No watch. Which can only mean one thing. Someone tucked it under him during the viewing. The pall bearers are waiting at the back of the chapel, so FD can't just pull the guy towards him and get the watch out from under him. So, he does what anyone would do. He closed the casket, called the pall bearers forward, and they carried out the casket, alarm and all.
Someone got a private chuckle out of their little joke. It made me happy for the dead guy, well, I'm assuming that it was done in fun, and that were he alive, he'd get the biggest kick of all out of it. I imagine him smiling to himself. Pleased that he'd passed on a little happiness.

bla bla blog 2

I forgot one "award". Dang it. Although you could have seen the link on the side. Sheri of Days of Deerledge entertains me. I have a favorite Sheri quote, which I shared with Steve and we both had a great laugh as it fits us too. Sheri and her husband were adding a closet to their home: "We come home and get to work. I play the usual role: Gopher Gal. He plays his usual role: Lord of I Know It All. They are roles we both are very good at from many, many years of practice and perfection. " This is so us. Funny how men and women, husbands and wives, all of us, we're more alike than we are different. Thanks for the fun reading, Sheri.

bla bla blog

hmm, so I think i'm almost an official blogger, except that I haven't really figured out much about how to add pictures or fancy stuff and I doubt I'll take the time to learn, so maybe I'm not a real blogger after all. If blogger is even a real term, not some stupid thing that I just wrote. One psychiatrist in my past labeled me a narcissist. What did he know? Perhaps though, in the blogging world, it may be true as I've only recently discovered that anyone besides me writes about their lives. I was fairly certain that google set up this whole website so I'd have a place to record my thoughts, it didn't really occur to me that the rest of you were out there doing the same thing. I think I've figured out that blogger may be the equivalent of the prepubescent myspace. It seems to me that 90% of (the 15 or so) blogs I've read are written by women around my age.

Yesterday I sent an email to my sister at the exact same time that she was sending an email to me asking the same thing, "are we still on for dinner tomorrow?". It was weird, like our sister-esp was working.

That thing about my sister had nothing to do with anything, it just popped into my head. So back to the blogging thing. Catch from A Penny for My Thoughts (see the sidebar link) was very complimentary about my pencil scratchings. It's fun. So, since I'm not so sure how to add links here and even less sure that I care to take the time to learn, I'll just say that the links in my sidebar are the blogs I read. I'm not so great at commenting, but I read them and enjoy them immensely. Not all of them make me think... like Just for Humor, that's for plain old fun. It makes me laugh. But Snickollet (i could be spelling it wrong) makes me think alot. Catch makes me laugh quite a bit. I really enjoy her mix of humor and daily reality. I love how Sayre of Sayre Smiles examines herself. I especially liked her post about her stride. Having worked in a clean room in the semiconductor industry for years, I recognize many people by the way they walk. Her post reminded me of what our walks say about us.

So that's about as close as I get to an award ceremony. It's not technically pretty, but in the spirit of the blogging community, it's my stab at participation. :) So maybe I am a narcissist. Maybe.

quiet end to the week

The week ends quietly. Whew. I'm thinking of getting a little bistro set to put on the front porch. I could sit out there with my laptop and a diet coke. I mentioned to my manager that I need a wireless connection. He laughed and said "uh-huh". This was mentioned after I called to see if I could lock the front door, turn the phones over to the answering service and go get some lunch with one of my coworkers. He really laughed and said he wouldn't care. Somehow I think if i actually did it, he would. The DC courier (guy who gets death certificates from me, takes em to a doctor for signing, then picks them up once signed and takes them to the health department for filing) said I could sit on the porch in shorts and tshirt. When a family comes up, I tell them to go right in, then I run around the building as fast as I can; sneak in the back door; pull a black dress over my head; kick off my flip flops and jump into some heels; pull my hair into a bun and then walk into the arrangement office like I've been there all along. It sounds like a good plan to me. I think it could work. Maybe I could set up a walk-through perfume mister for right after i slip into the dress.
Skip and I were talking about getting a bbq in the back. There's no shortage of fresh meat.

Ha! Gross! Yuck! and all that. It sure made me laugh when he said it.

A guy from a competitor funeral home came over yesterday to get some prayer cards. I showed him around, he was pleased with how things looked. I guess he did an internship here many years ago. It was fun to meet someone new and also good for the networking portion of my job in case i wanna work somewhere else. Plus I'm awful curious about the type of people who work in this field. Mostly they are surprisingly not what I thought they'd be. He was. There was a young funeral director on "Six Feet Under" (HBO) who had a crush on Ruth. He was weird and awkward and a little frightening. This was the guy I met yesterday with about twenty years and twenty pounds added. I was greatly entertained.

guess i better finish up this Good Friday. I'm so ready to go home and it's not even quite lunchtime yet. Dyed Easter eggs with my oldest grandson last night. His hands were pink up to his wrists. What a riot.

april 4

how's that for a title "April 4", you can see my originality shining through. Today is better than yesterday. Today i'm back to hating stupid people. It's an easier place to be. Thanks for the kind thoughts shared with me. I have to say again, it's really weird to me that anyone besides my husband reads this. Brianaldo, you make me smile, thank you for making today better for me.

So, I may have lost two preneeds and I say "Good for Noelle". My manager told me to send em to someone else closer to them anyway. It's a man who has power of attorney for his parents and he wants to do everything by phone, fax, mail. That's okay if he'd do what i tell him to do or if he'd read what i send him, which he doesn't. So everytime I talk to him (which has been about ten times since the 11th of January) we start over fresh. Today I wasn't playing well with others. I said he just needed to come in, we'd go over the paperwork, we'd be finished in 20 minutes and it wouldn't have to drag out any longer. I hope they go somewhere else. I'm tired of playing around. It's his parents. I'm sorry if he thinks he can't spend an hour and a half including drive time to take care of this. I'm also sorry that he and his wife don't communicate as i've explained the whole process to her about four times. He thanked me for the evaluation of his family situation. I don't know if I'll hear from him again. Good for Noelle. Very good for Noelle.

tuesday

I am unable to stop crying and i don't know why. It's noon. I'm at work. I have a lot of work to do. I don't know what the heck is going on. Two families were waiting for me when I got here. One young man to pick up his mom's urn, she was only 54, cancer. His dad died earlier in the year, also cancer. I don't know how old the son is, but he seems to be late 20s. I can not fathom how hard this year has been for him.
Another lady was here to choose a marker for her mother. She was a JERK when she was here before for the arrangement conference. The new FD and I analyzed her after she left, did she love her mother at all or was she overwrought? We judged and found her lacking. Today she was humble and appreciative, just a daughter who lost her mother and for a little while has lost her own way. She gave me a hug when she left.
A viewing for a veteran, his family was here all morning. Also a young-ish guy, 62, very handsome. His wife is so kind and so very gentle. His children are in their 20s and also obviously well-bred, that sounds odd, i don't know how to say it. I stand at the door to my office as they wheel his flag-draped casket to the front door. I always stand as they go by, how could I not. The pall bearers take him off the church truck (new word of the day for you, it's what the rolling stand is called under caskets) and place him into the coach (remember, we don't say hearse). His family is gathered around. It's the saddest part for me, the placing of the casket into the coach. It gets me everytime.
Then I have to hurry in and fill three necklace pendants with remains for a woman who'll be here soon. I hate those darn things. I still need a sieve. I don't have one. The ash is all over me and i can't wash it off. It's in the curves of my fingerprints, even though I've scrubbed. I can look down and see it. I can smell it. It clings to me, super glued to my fingertips. I used the metal polish to buff the pendants. The company sent the polish with them. It etched them and now they look horrible. I've tried to buff them back to a shine. I can't. I got a little glue on the top of one and i try to scrape it off with my fingertip. It seems that the ash is stuck in the grooves of the pendant and it won't come out of there either. I know I'm freaking out and i can't stop. Realistically the ash is gone but i can see it and smell it and I really need it to go away right now.

Skip just got here. With the baby. Her parents will be back anytime, they've gone over to the big funeral home but are coming back here. The baby is tiny on the prep room table. The mom wanted to bring her here from the hospital. She couldn't bear to part with her precious little girl. The mom and the grandma both are beside themselves. I cried with them yesterday. Today, I will try not to. Although i don't know how i won't as i can't stop already. I must look a fright, as Skip just stared at me with his silent appraisal. Did I say yesterday was his first day back? He had a heart attack two weeks ago. He's not supposed to be embalming, cuz he shouldn't be lifting anyone, but he's stubborn and he refuses to stand around "just doing services". It's probably less stressful to be in the prep room anyway. Although I don't think it's the stress his doctor's worried about, but the healing incision where they went into his femoral artery to give him a stint in a heart artery, how's that for technical? I'm glad he's back. I missed him more than i'd realized.

Dang, the baby's family just walked in. What in the world am I doing here?

boredom

I don't think i ever said that Schewan quit. She and her husband had been living in different states, and she decided to go home and focus on her marriage rather than her career. I was just talking to her on the phone. She's thinking about becoming an optician. Mortician/optician, just move some letters around and it'll be a whole new career. So i got a new funeral director, but he only comes over here from the main funeral home to make arrangements or to do funerals, he doesn't stay over here. I get pretty bored trying to entertain myself sometimes. You can only search the web so much. This chapel is such the red-headed stepchild. While i was eating lunch, I scanned the newspaper and there was an article about pre-planning funerals, with a huge full page ad for the other funeral home. One tiny sentence that they also own this one. Hey, what about getting me some business??? We get a business card size ad in the thrify nickel. What the heck kind of advertising is that? Of course i'm gonna get the bottom of the barrel clientell if they only advertise once in a great while and i'm right next to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet coupon. Get a buck off your lunch and then call for a low-cost cremation. If you turn the page you could get your gutters cleaned at a discount as well. Give me some work!

travels

Steve leaves again this morning to go to his office. He has about a three hour commute from our home to the airport to another airport to his offfice. Generally he's gone M-F, but I got to see him for an extra day this weekend and he's not leaving till this morning. I hate it when he leaves. I'm okay once he's gone and arrived there safely, but i hate the saying goodbye part. Probably even more because of my job, but I always worry a little, what if this is the last time i see you. What if you don't come home for some horrible reason. I can picture his funeral, of course I'd have it here, at my work. I picture who would come from which different walk of our life together. I feel the loss as if it's already happened. All this occurs in the ten minute drive to the funeral home after saying goodbye. I have to shake myself out of it, remind myself that he's made this trip hundreds of times, and that even if he were home with me tonight, I still wouldn't be guaranteed tomorrow with him. It's not that i think these thoughts everytime he leaves, only once in a while, thankfully. Only today I wondered, what if it's me who doesn't go home? Weird. We have all these plans and all these ideas about how we'd like to spend the next few months, years, decades, but i guess everyday i'm faced with people who had those same plans. Grrr. Today is a rainy GRAY day and i'm ready to go back home and crawl under the covers.

What I've learned in a year

1. Sitting at a desk all day adds inches to my butt.
2. I hate having to check a person in the morning of their second day of viewing to be sure their eyes and mouth are still closed and to be sure no liquid has escaped their lips or nose.
3. I really hate having to then close their eyes or mouth.
4. I really, really hate having to then wipe up any liquids.
5. Mean people do suck.
6. There's a difference between grief and just plain butthead. I don't mind when someone isn't at their best and is forgetful or a little short and it's obvious that they are in pain. I do mind when someone uses death as an excuse to be the angry jerks that they already are.
7. I don't like smelling like a dead person. It sometimes sticks in my nose even after i go home and change clothes.
8. I feel tired alot and it's not so much physical.
9. I feel immensely satisfied that my tiredness may have just helped someone else be less tired themselves.
10. I'm still learning. Every day.
11. Fighting siblings should be shot, no matter their age.
12. EVERYONE thinks funerals should be free.
13. My husband is amazingly patient and supportive, allowing me to yak for hours when a family has really gotten to me or just holding me and letting me "be" when I'm sad or laughing with me at some stupid stuff that goes on here.
14. Every piece of paper in every archive file cabinet, book, or box represents a human life and I am awed by the numbers of pages.
15. We each face our maker after this. Doesn't really matter if we believe it or not. We still meet Him.
16. All military wives KNOW their husbands can still fit into their service uniforms, which they wore when they were 20.
17. Doors do open by themselves.
18. Occassionally someone listens in on my phone calls (I see the line light up from the other -empty- office), has called one particular lady at least twice (she's starting to get a little freaked out), and answers the phone when i'm talking on the first line but doesn't speak to the caller.
19. People in this industry are a little twisted (myself included??).
20. This is my second career. I still don't know what my third will be.

old men

His wife died on the way to the hospital. Heart attack, probably. Undetermined natural causes officially. I called the doctor's office to get them to sign the death certificate. The nurse couldn't believe she was dead, woman was in two weeks ago for annual physical and very healthy. Just a little hypertension, not even very high. She called me back to verify i had the right woman, she just couldn't believe it. Well, her disbelief was nothing compared to his. He could barely walk, barely talk, barely move. He was so overwhelmed with grief. His (grown) children came with him to make her arrangements. The children were more worried about him than about her, they couldn't help her and it seemed they may not be able to help him either. It broke my heart, I couldn't keep from crying everytime I was with them. Schewan either. Aaay.

Little boys

He was five years old. Died of aspiration (the entry of secretions or foreign material into the trachea and lungs ) after vomiting in the night. He was a mouth breather, maybe his nasal passages weren't fully formed, i don't know. Been in and out of foster care all of his life. Mom hadn't seen him the past couple years, busy working and drugging. I tried to dislike her, I really did. The social worker found her almost a week after he died after going from place to place and asking if she worked there. His was the stripper funeral. The boy was the victim. The mom was the stripper. His brain never fully formed due to the drugs while in utero. Schewan and I were so angry with her. What kind of person could this woman be. Obviously a monster. The anger was short lived. Mom's been on her own since she was 12, eeking out a living however she could. Her mother is a mental patient herself due to her own overdose. It's overwhelmingly sad and the anger (sort of) dissipated. Still anger for the boy, but not so much directed towards the mom. The social worker fought like you wouldn't believe for funding for the boy's service and burial. We've yet to see the money, but we did get a fax that the state is paying. It's weird. I feel like I'm rambling. I had to measure him for the casket. Schewan was out, so Skip helped me. He was the same size as my 3 year old grandson. Thick curly hair and eyelashes to die for. I wanted to hug him. Instead I measured him, then left his face uncovered, and we pushed his shelf back into the fridge. Babies don't belong on refrigerator shelves.
She wore a long black dress to the funeral. She came early, right when we opened. Going back and forth about whether she wanted to view him. Schewan made her. Well, she didn't make her, just explained how beneficial it would be, if she even just saw his hand, something so that her eyes could tell her heart that he was gone. She brought in a carload of teddy bears. We put them all around the casket. It was only us in the building, Schewan, me, Mom, and social worker. I wanted to leave the building myself. She went into the chapel and Schewan went with her to the front. Schewan held her for awhile until Mom had the courage to stand by herself. Then Schewan came out and the wailing began. Deep gutteral grief. Keening is the word that keeps coming into my mind. I can hear it still as if it were happening as I type. I can't erase the sound. It's inside me and it keeps replaying and i can't make it stop. It's not my grief, I keep reminding myself. Let go of it. The service went well. Odd and sometimes inappropriate, but well. Everyone left except the social worker, who was helping us pick up all the bears, everyone brought one. Schewan couldn't make the toy work. It was a musical thing and Mom wanted us to put it in the casket, so that when he was buried, the music would still be playing. We couldn't make it work, so i found a screw driver, removed the battery cover and put in new batteries. I turned it on and music finally played. I was trying so hard to put the cover back on, but my hands were shaking and I started sobbing. The social worker had stepped into my office, but then didn't know what to say, so she apologized and stepped back out. The mother's keening mixed with the music box "twinkle, twinkle little star" in my head and I couldn't make it stop. Apparently, I wasn't the only one struggling, cuz Schewan was teary as well. I put the toy in his casket and we pushed him out to the coach (hearse). The social worker thanked me. I told her to fight for the live ones as hard as she's fought for this one. She promised she would. Schewan drove him to the cemetery. The music played as the dirt dropped down.

things that make you (ok maybe just me) go hmmm...

1. Why autopsy someone who died after being hit by a log truck?
2. Can some people really see dead people?
3. Why is it so dang cold in here today when the heat is cranked up and the sun is shining?
4. Why do people assume we should cremate/bury/etc their family member for free? It's your brother! Pay the dang bill!
5. Do dogs really need headstones?
6. Even though it's not my grief, how come I'm still so sad?

stripper funeral

One small coffin.
Many semi-clad, inappropriately dressed women.
Strung out.
Loaded.
Tight butts.
Awesome guitar playing.
Uncomfortable.
Spike heels with red soles.
Disgust.
Sympathy.
Rap music.
Surprising empathy.
Wailing.
Keening.
Cigarette smoke.

Native American funeral

He doesn't look like a Native American to me. He looks Italian. Later I find out I'm right. His father-in-law came through here about three weeks ago. His wife is a basket case. Losing her dad and her husband within such a short time. I wonder if she's not a basket case on a good day though. She's not very nice. Plus she doesn't want to pay. I don't get that. He's got $50,000 life insurance policy, plus a 401k and she still doesn't want to pay. The insurance is unassignable, which means I have to wait for her to get paid and then hope she pays us. She owes less than two grand, cheapskate. So cheap that they said they only wanted a viewing. Funny that everyone showed up to "view" at the same time. Maybe fifty, maybe seventy-five people all show up at the same time. It was so weird. I think Schewan and I got a little stoned, just enough to be giggly, which is not how our relationship is at all. They were smoking pot in the chapel, I know they were, but I couldn't catch them. Not that I tried very hard, but it was just all so weird. Ok, let me start right. 55, male, Italian, married to a woman who may at sometime have been related to someone who may have possibly been Native American, cause of death is pending toxicology reports. So the wife wouldn't come in to make arrangements and wouldn't return our calls. The deceased's brother made initial contact with us and said they wanted viewing, no service, followed by cremation. Schewan talked to the wife on the day he died and she agreed, but then she never called back or brought in clothes or anything till the day before the viewing. Of course, that was Schewan's day off, so i had to deal with the woman. Did I say she wasn't nice? Her friend wasn't either. Only one of the three women who came in was nice. Grief is one thing, but manners are just plain required. So they asked me to braid his hair in a warrior braid. What? Part down the middle, two braids like an Indian Chief, take a little hair from both braids at the crown of the head and braid it, then pull it forward to lay over his shoulder atop one of the regular braids. I'm not describing that well. The warrior braid isn't tied off at the bottom because that would somehow inhibit his warrior-ness. Anyway. I braided his hair after Skip did the rest. The next morning Schewan and I were trying to put his shirt on him. She didn't want to cut the back of it, I don't know why, well i do but it's a story in itself and not all that interesting. Maybe it is, but i'm not gonna tell it. So it's a pullover, he's a big (BIG) guy and he's been dead for a week. He's not all that helpful, mostly just lays there being completely UNhelpful and non-flexible. We finally get it on him, amid much shoving, tugging, swearing, and laughter. It's a wannabe Indian shirt. Weird. Schewan puts some rubber nickers on him, cuz they didn't bring him any pants or underwear, just a shirt. He's a table view, so no casket, just nice blankets and a pillow under his head. It's not real common to do it that way, but it saves a family money and we don't care, it still looks nice. Well, unless someone lifts the blanket and sees that he's got no pants on. I'm making this too long and drawn out, yawn. He's on the table, in the chapel, there's a lot of peace pipe passing, and then the drums start. One solid hour of drumming and chanting and sort of like singing. It was very cool. I called Steve and held the phone out, so he could hear. He couldn't, but he did say Schewan and i were kinda giggly. ;) I don't know if there was any true Native American in the bunch, but they sure did respect the culture and it sounded awesome. I saw a commotion in the lobby and looked out of my office door. A young woman was crying, wailing really, over the drumming. Another young woman was trying to get to her to calm her down. Suddenly she yells out, "They all think he was such a good guy, but he wasn't, it's not true!" The other gal says, "Let it go, honey, he's dead now, he can't hurt you any more." A little more wailing, people start staring. A little louder..."he can't hurt you again", just as the drumming stops. The whole place went silent in response to this young lady freaking out about a dad who can no longer do to her whatever he has done to her. I wonder how she fits in the picture, first marriage? I don't think his wife is her mom. Family dynamics, ain't they grand. Crematory guy gets here and he's supposed to help me get the guy out of the chapel, he's supposed to be taking him with him, but he's got a full van, so will have to come back. Of course, we don't tell the family that, they think he's going now. We open the office door to go get him, the young woman comes in, "Can I have a pair of scissors to cut a lock of my dad's hair?" I look at Crematory Guy, he looks at me. What can I do? I give her the scissors. She opens her jacket and puts them in an inside pocket. Crap. I ask her why doesn't she wait and cut his hair in the back hallway with us, if she doesn't want anyone to see her. She says okay and I say I'll give you the sign of when. She goes in the main door of the chapel, we go to the back door. Someone says, don't take him yet, his daughter needs a moment alone with him. We look up and sure enough he means the daughter with the scissors. They send everyone out of the chapel except her. I was terrified and wanted to remind her that she can be charged with mutilation of a corpse. I pull Schewan out of the arrangement room where she's meeting with another family and ask her what to do. She says there's nothing we can do, just let her do what she's gonna. Crematory Guy and I wait five minutes, then we go back in. We're taking him, we don't care what they say. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I saw that his braids were still there and there weren't any gaping wounds on his chest with scissors sticking out. We begin to push him out, I meet the daughter's eyes, she shakes her head no, she won't meet us in the back hall. We shove him in the back room. I see that someone has given him two packs of Camels and a lighter. I think to myself how he'll never know if I take them. I haven't smoked in 15 years and today, right now, I want a cigarette so badly I'm willing to steal them from a dead guy! I left them. Crematory Guy snuck out the back. Schewan finished with her new family. I (graciously) kicked out the Indian tribe. And then we began the glamorous job of vaccuming. oh boy.

Grandson

My son and his wife and their two boys were here today. Only my daughter-n-law had been here before, not the others. Their oldest boy was two last September. He's been a story teller for about a month now. Able to string several sentences together to get his point across. Usually it's stories about motorcross racing. "My daddy racing motorcycles. I racing. I fall down. I crying." Or my daddy falls down and he's crying, some variation of this story is what I've heard him say before. Today he wasn't here but a couple minutes before he started asking about the baby crying. Why is the baby crying. We were in the hospitality room eating crackers and cheese. He looked up towards the ceiling, smiled, and said, "He's smiling at me." Then he became obsessed with the baby who was crying. He went out of the hospitality room, straight down the hall, and to the door to the back, which was locked. He was mad cuz his mom wouldn't let him in. He came back to the hospitality room, but still wouldn't let it go. He kept saying the baby was crying, then he went to the door at the back of the hospitality and tried to get in the back area. Finally I said I would take him back there because he was getting upset at the baby crying. His mom told him the baby's mom would take care of him. I told him Jesus was taking care of the baby. He didn't care, he wanted to see the baby himself, so it could stop crying. He wanted to hold it, like he holds his baby brother. It was weird. We went in the back and he stood by the refrigerator and pointed to the top of it. He was saying baby up there. Then he ran to the outside back door and said the baby went out it. All from a two year old perspective, all freaking my son out completely. My daughter-in-law didn't seem to mind, she believed he was really hearing a baby. I have no reason to doubt it. I told my manager about it when he came over to bring me a Christmas ham. He thought it was very interesting and he right away thought of the urn I found back there of a baby who died in the early 1900s and we just recently had it buried. I hadn't even thought of that baby. My manager said that the first time he sees something, he's done with this industry. It made me laugh. The whole incident made me curious.

power outage in a funeral parlour

I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. Losing power in here is not fun. It is completely unnecessary and need not happen again. Huge storm today. Lights flashed once, then again, then finally went out. It was DARK in here. Phones didn't work either. I locked the front door and was walking to the back (thru the DARK) to get to the flashlight (DUH, why do we keep it back there???) when the door between the hospitality room and the back room closed. What??? No one's here but me, so moments before i was just annoyed at the darkness, only now my heart is pounding and my mind is racing and it's all I can do to open the door. The alarm is beeping, so I gotta go back there, stop the beeping and call the company before they send out the calvary. I was a little shaky, ok very shaky, but mostly pissed with myself for reacting so immaturely. I doubt that dead people care if lights are on or off and I really doubt that spirits have been waiting the whole time I've worked here for a power outage so they could finally get me! But still, I was shaking. I go in the back and there stands Skip in his finest embalming regalia cussing the alarm and trying to make it hush. I was startled and very pleased to see him there. We silenced the alarm. Got the flashlight, lit some candles (it's a funeral home, we do have plenty candles) and had a seance. Not really, no seance. Just hung out for forty-five minutes till the lights came back on. We sat in my office and both could have easily dozed off. I know I'm still having a hard time staying awake. It wasn't so bad with the lights off in here. I'm glad there were no families in here at the time. I could imagine how that would freak them out entirely! Guess I better get a little work done!

Party, the day after

The party was fine. Bearable. I panicked at the last minute and stopped to buy a new jacket on the way home from work. Absolute last minute, I decide I have nothing to wear. Why did I care and why did I wait till the last minute to care? I brought home two jackets and told Steve to pick one. He was mildly amused, I think.
I have a bit of a headache. Only two drinks, but I didn't specify a brand, so I'm sure I got the cheap vodka. My system is not used to drinking, much less drinking cheap alcohol. Sigh.
I think Steve was disappointed to not hear any shop talk. There was some at the other end of our table, but he was engaged in another conversation and I don't believe he heard it. i'm glad, cuz it was the re-hashing of yesterday's service, which was for the mom and two sons. I guess it was one of the worst Schewan has ever been to and apparently the other directors felt the same.
Anyway, the party is over. The thanks have been said and only a slight headache remains.

company Christmas parties

Our Christmas party is tonight. Steve only wants to go so he can tell his coworkers about it. He's hoping for good stories, I know he is. Skip was sitting across the desk from me cleaning his fingernails with a paperclip. He looked up and without even the hint of a smile said, "Gotta clean the blood out before the party, it upsets some people when they're eating." It dawned on me that he sits there often, cleaning his nails. It also dawned on me that even though no one wants to go to this party, they all are getting pretty excited about it. I don't even know what i'm wearing yet, guess i should have given it some thought, especially since the owner's wife was a Nordstrom buyer before she came to the funeral home. Skip says we have to go cuz the owner takes it personally if anyone doesn't attend. He said you don't get your ham if you don't go. He was laughing, but he said it's true, they won't give you any gift at all if you don't go. Small companies, grr. The part i'm looking least forward to is the gift exchange. It's where you take some stupide gift and then everyone picks from under the tree or else they take someone's gift who already took from under the tree. I don't want to have to go up to the tree and I don't want to take anyone else's gift. I hate that part. I just don't want to go, period.

First calls

I had a doctor's appt, an annual. I joined the mamogram-a-year club, boy when did I get this old? Steve thinks it's funny. I think he's past due for a prostate exam. My appointment wasn't far from a hospital where we had a first call. So we decided, Schewan and I, that I would go on the first call after my appointment. I was brave, it'd be okay. After my appointment, I called her to see if he was released yet and if I could pick him up. She checked. I hoped he wouldn't be ready. She called me back. He was. My heart was racing. She said she told them it was my first time and that I might be a little emotional. I was supposed to go to the floor he was on instead of to the morgue, they thought it'd be easier for me. I picked up the phone for admittance to the ward. I could barely say who I was and why I was there. I was okay again once they let me in. I waited for the Decedent Affairs Coordinator to arrive. She said she didn't want me to have to take him throught the hospital, so he was going to the morgue afterall and she would go with me and we'd pick him up there together. "Noelle," she said, "he was very sick and he's so much better off right now. He was born with all his organs on the outside." He was only a month old and I never actually saw him. We went to the morgue. I was shaky and hoping to not pass out. She was calm but chatty so that I would be more comfortable. I could smell the morgue as soon as we stepped out of the elevator. I never knew this scent before and probably regular people would never recognize it. Does that mean I'm not a regular person now? Two young men from the transportation department were there, but they forgot to bring the baby and I didn't understand for a moment why two of them came and the bassinet was empty. Couldn't together they figure out to bring the baby with them. Then she opend the cabinet underneath the bed and took him out. He was, of course, in a plastic bag, not just in a baby blanket burrito like I was somehow expecting. I opened my little blanket and she put him in. I wrapped him up. I didn't know which end was his head and which was his foot. It didn't matter, as i covered the plastic, wrapped him like a Christmas present, and called him by name as I pulled him to my chest. It wasn't until we were in the elevator that I realized I hadn't checked his toe tag. What if I had the wrong baby? I had to open the blanket. Luckily, he had a tag on the outside of his bag and it was him, the right dead baby. I buckled him into the front seat of my car. As much as you can buckle in a 2 pound baby in a plastic bag, wrapped up like a Christmas present on the way to the funeral home. I drove so carefully on my way back to work. I couldn't imagine getting into a wreck and having him go flying. I didn't sing to him or talk to him, well only once to say we were going now. I carried him into the building. I put him in the refrigerator. Wrote his name on the log and came back up front to my desk. Schewan asked how I was and I was okay.

I was waiting and waiting and waiting for Logan to get home from daycare that night. And when Danielle brought him in, I hugged him. And then the tears came.

Family deaths

Brother, 63, heart attack. Sister, 59, cancer. Died within three days of each other. Mother is 87, poor dear. Double memorial service coming up this weekend, yuck.

I went into the prep room yesterday to get the dirty laundry for the cleaning service. Aargh. Mom is early 30s, son 11ish, and younger son 6ish. Skip embalmed them the day before, so they were just laying on tables waiting to be casketed. Car wreck took them all. Huge services for them in a couple days.

My daughter is mad at me. She sort of moved back out. I'm glad, I wanted her to move out, she's 22 with an almost 3 year old, she needs to move out. But not when she's mad and pouting and running away. She just doesn't get that this is a temporary gig. We don't know how long we have, and she's gonna piss it away cuz I don't like her boyfriend? She's so spoiled, thinking the world revolves only around her, my goodness, doesn't she get that today, right here, right now, that's all we're guaranteed? Most people don't get it. Half the time I don't get it. But the other half, man, there's an urgency which I never experienced before this job. An urgency not for things, but for relationships. I want my children to know how much I love them. How amazing each of them is. I don't want to die and leave any of them wondering if they were acceptable to me. I don't want them sad at my funeral because I left unsaid anything I should've said. I want them to know my heart and my happiness in them. I want them to live each day knowing they are my best contribution to this world, all five of them. My daughter is mad and I don't know how to fix it yet and it feels so empty not connecting with her right now.

If you're reading this and you know me, then you're reading it because I care about you. There's only a handful of you who I sent the link to, so I can picture each of you now. You are important to me. You have offered me your friendship and I'm so glad to share a part of your lives. Even if life has taken us on different paths, we're still sharing a part of ourselves, and I'm glad for it. My life is richer because of each of you. Thank you for listening to my ramblings, even when they take a somewhat odd turn as they have today.

I've never seen a momma and her boys on cold steel tables before. It's made me a little mushy.