Counterpoint The State News Magazine Tuesday May 6,1975 Glad this is over By G.F. KORRECK Death. The last reward. The wages of sin. Death is the man in the white nightgown. I can tell you, I don't mind telling you (I can't wait, in fact), that I've been going nuts these past few weeks. I realize there are maybe two or three of you out there reading this but that's enough. Because I've been going stark raving nuts. It's the time, the season. It's the way things have been going lately. And, it's this magazine . It all seemed so innocent at first. Two guys come in with stories for the magazine and, by coincidence, there is an available motif, death. Great. Put them together. Do a whole magazine on death. Yeah, do a whole magazine on it. It was innocent at first, the usual jokes and some bizarre art ideas but it gets to you after awhile. It's not that it is so difficult to talk about, or look at (anyone who has seen pictures of hunger victims or the recent condition of Vietnam has to have some feeling on what it's all about). It's not that it's inordinately depressing. And yet, it's all of those. There's something about it that grows, that has teeth and constantly gnaws away until all you have left is this picture of yourself, a white, incredibly white, lump of flesh stretched on a slab of marble and a couple of guys in white suits poking and jabbing you. It's that, and it's the grandfather who used to feed me strawberries and sugar and stick his false teeth out to Art/Bill Bradsher frighten me; the uncle who tickled me until my stomach hurt; my mother's uncle, who used to give us a new dollar bill in an envelope with a window each Christmas, and how, when he was lying there yellow and frowning, a half - shaven man half his age, throwing him a tear - filled kiss and saying- "So long, Willie, this is it." memories of I thought of Hemingway, who blew his brains out he could not longer be what because everyone, including himself, thought Ernest Hemingway should be; of Nijinsky, who could no longer bring himself to do the only thing that kept him Room lO from death. And of Latrec's uncle, who while the lying on his death bed, was in the back yard shooting at bats with a blunderbuss — painter was coming inside just before death to snap his suspenders at flies and complain about how Latrec was taking too long. By PETE DALY near the cafeteria. He was still on the operating It can drive you nuts. It will, if you think about it too much. Death is an ogre that most I don't know what kind of reaction this people try to bury. cart, a gory mess of spattered blood and clotted magazine will get. Not literally, but in the recesses of hair. The upper half of his head was The stories are as dissimilar as their mind. In the hospital where I wrapped people's attitudes towards worked, even official with blood soaked gauze, and his closed death. Jerry McGuire, whose policy was to deny the ever-present existence of eyes story account of working as an were bulging apprentice in funeral home begins death. The "morgue carts," for purple with blood. A small scarlet a on the next page, may example, is an stream trickled from his nose. seem callous to some. But he was involved with a element of the anti-death business, a mentality. Before started that long lucrative one, and later worked for a fast food chain. It The morgue cart is like a stretcher on trip down the may wheels, corridors and elevator, I looked around the room have had some effect. with a big sheet on the flat top, dropping down for a sheet to cover him with. Mark Dixon spent a day with some men few almost to the little wheels on all four sides. The people would "Your can't probably spend a day with. They, too, are involved in a morgue cart's purpose is to look cover him. He's scheduled for business. They have a job to do it seems best empty at all an times. See? No one is lying on it. That autopsy, and he's not to be touched in any way," that they keep it in one would get upset when an way, no an agitated nurse perspective. ominous form, told me. I replied that he Pete would not present Daly worked at a hospital. He saw death firsthand, wrapped from head to feet in a plastic, disposable a very pretty sight moving sheet, came rolling down a every day. hospital corridor, through the hustle and bustle of the hospital. As for me, I'll be "No, no! Take him down uncovered. If glad when this is done with. Reading, and propelled by an anonymous orderly dressed in you working on, these stories was an experience I am not white. cover him people w ill know he's dead. It would likely to forget. I had hopes this would be, rather than a column, a It looks upset people more" she insisted. The nurses (and coherent discussion with some empty, but if I were to lift that sheet people on campus who have everyone else) were disturbed over the hanging down almost to the floor on each side... very done research into the psychology of death—two of the people The payload, you see, is tragic murder, the most repugnant of all images I spoke to. Dr. Norbert actually underneath of death. I ignored the Enzer, chairman of the MSU's the frame. A large, stainless steel receptacle illogical order and psychiatry department and Elizabeth Seagull, a clinical covered the man with a sheet. If undeneath is where the just the shape psychologist specializing in coping with child death get special passenger rides in of death is stately privacy. Out of sight, going to freak someone out, I thought, thanks. out of mind, they say. they should see the real thing... Mrs. Seagull, who was surprised I did not know where the As an orderly I became used to death. We Life Sciences building is, admits it is a The morgue cart illustrates our sad commentary on our society's great were to wash, time that professionals need to fear of the image of death, more so than tag the big toe and wrap the step in in moments of personal the actual result. One gruesome "expiration," which is official hospital jargon for crisis. episode reflected the unofficial event called death. We "It is a demise of the extension that mentality exercized to the absurd. worked of families," she with the raw material and that leads to an "We live in nuclear families and suggests. A there is a mom-and-pop store in Lansing had been held intimate and even casual scattering of the up, and the two vermin involved casually shot understanding of it. I support system that has created a void." don't think of that attitude as That means the gap has to be filled both the old man and his wife in the callousness, but and, somehow, life has head, almost rather unemotional to as an afterthought. They got $40 in the robbery. familiarity. A dead person is go on. The wife lived, but the old man was doomed. no longer a person. When life leaves, only a cold And it will. mound of After a cursory examination the doctors decaying matter is left, and that is Tuesday afternoon, this magazine will be in easily disposed of. down the streets, its winding its way surgery shuffled the wasted old storekeeper into pages fluttering in the breeze, or It would hurt us to lose a under a footprint in a half - filled lying the hospital bureacracy. He was sent patient we had classroom. I will no longer be up to a become attached to, but death is ward to be admitted, but died enroute. So I was only for an going nuts and everything will be as before. instant. After our friend was For most of ordered to trundle the man back down to the gone, we returned us. to our job of disposing of the leftovers. Business hospital morgue, deep in the basement and right as usual, while life goes on... I was a bicycling mortician "I had the feeling that, for awhile, I had the inside track on death," says free-lance writer Jerome McGuire. Desperate for work, McGuire answered an advertisement for a funeral director's assistant tho.t ke saw in the placement employment office. What follows is an account of the four weeks he spent learning the business, as well as a few other things. By JEROME McGUIRE My jeans torn at the seams, I am riding my bicycle through the sunlight, a dark suit hung over my back. I am on my way to work, an apprentice at a major midwestern funeral home. Becoming an apprentice wasn't all that difficult I had to know — a lot of priests to get hired initially, but once I told them I could work full-time I was in. "If you are going to work full time, you will need apprentice papers — it's really just a formality but you will be assisting in the prep and state regulations . . . would that be all right?" "Yes I would be . . . assisting the embalmings then. I would be interested in that, I'd like to try the profession," I said gamely. We would like you to live in the apartment, there is no rent, a color T.V., kitchen ... The apprentices take their breaks there in the day and Doug, a student apprentice lives up there, and one of the licensed men (a mortician) who is a State Policeman lives there, too." "No," I said quickly, "that's quite alright, I can live at home." He filled my schedule out and quickly explained it "off every other weekend, blah blah." I stuffed the paper in my pocket as I left. Later, I discovered that I had only two days off every two weeks and that I worked 13 hours one day and ten the next with every fourth night on call for odd hour deaths. — If someone dies at four a.m., the funeral home handles it right then. I began to realize I was in for much more than I had thought. "Hey sport," Dan, one of three other apprentices, yells as I wheel into the driveway at 8 a.m. "Yep, its the bicycling mortician" I reply as I slide in through the back door to what I call the backstage area; a small room with a bulletin board, a couple of folding chairs, some yet to be distributed sympathy flowers and, most prominent, a large mirror so you can check out your costume. The room is where you prepare to go on during a funeral and has all the feeling backstage opening night. The body preparation room (prep room) lies next to it and the scene is equivalent to a vintage Frankenstein movie. White-clad men in gloves pop in and out of white tile and porcelain setting while dark-suited men pace outside, awaiting the final result. I hang my suit on a rack and head for the garage where my day begins. The limousines, hearses — and sometimes the owner's cars — have to be washed. It gets boring but it is one of the less intense duties of the day. The radio plays Ray Stevens and "The Streak" as we play with the hoses. Two of the other apprentices are Vietnam veterans. Medics during their tour of duty, they considered themselves too old for med school when they got out and came here. Our status as glorified lawn boys gives us a common meeting ground and a vehicle to come down on Milt, the tire-waisted caretaker who has a terminal love affair with lethargy. Milt, despite the nature, or intent, of his work is close to being our equal on the status ladder. The owners, there are four of them, coexist similar to feudal lords theirs is a big business and on certain — days they seem barely able to tolerate each other. After washing the cars, we all head downstairs for coffee. Gregg is sent for rolls, another apprentice job, and he usually gets tasty ones. He considers himself a man with a touch of class. "I want a funeral home all done in burgundy — * burgundy suits, white shoes and white carnation. Hearses, too," he says. East Lansing resident, Jerome Three of the guys have motorcycles and conversation shifts to McGuire, spent a great deal of his time in them, then to other areas of mutual interest. places like this one as a mortician's apprentice. The hours were "Who was that cookie I saw you with Doug? Good stuff." the work, well... the work long and spoke for itself. Actually, it didn't speak for "Hey Jerry, how does your girlfriend like your new job?" itself and that was one of the reasons Only one of the owners comes to the break room for donuts. It's McGuire, who later worked at a Bill, whose own funeral homes was bought out by the parent hamburger stand, gave for hanging up his flags. company a few years back. Though financially well off, Bill seems obsessed with the details of monitoring a funeral. Today, he comes in upset as usual. "What the hell is Jerry doing on flowers?" "It's all right, Bill... he can handle it," Dan tells him. And Dan tells me "He always gets pissed off before a funeral — too nervous." I am listed for the ten and two o'clock funerals. There are also funerals at 11:30 and 1:00. One is at the suburban chapel and another at a small branch chapel outside town. This is a typical day. I am assigned to flowers this morning. My job is to run into the chapel when the service is over and help load the flowers into a photos by (continued on page 7) Dale Atkins Walking through a small town cemetery gives you a feeling different than you might get elsewhere. There is the feeling that you know everyone here, and you probably do. There is history engraved in each stone and sometimes in places where there are no stones. Gardeners will tell you about the family that was lost in a fire and, too poor to afford a stone, they are "somewhere over there... the markers rotted away a few years back." Most of the founding fathers are found here — who they are is readily evident by checking the names and seeing how many there are of each. Often, entire sections of the grounds — which are not large to begin with — belong to members of a single family. Friends are revisited here, too. Someone who put you and your family up during the flood or who helped build the addition your house needed when an unexpected child came. It is unlike a metropolitan cemetery, where you can walk for what seems like miles and see only tombstones and hear cars and trucks winding by — it is surrounded by silence, except for an occasional bird, and by small forests where the people buried here grew up and built their homes. State News photographer Pete Daly recently spent a morning in such a place and the photographs on these pages are a few of the endless impressions he received. It seems unlike a place where people would be brought after they die. The air is fresh and noiseless — the setting more one you might expect to enjoy, rather than study the designs of death. S f||| f|S3ig •Infill Ifltfl As in life, each family has a singular image about itself. The size, or ornateness, of a stone does not always suggest wealth — it may just mean the person was a highly-regarded member of the community. .M b mpt* ..• i* '& * *a.iojaq s"B aq \\iiw 9\\\ 3A^H cn pred pine "vods a\\-\ MAO MOJ3 SS^O3 am 'xiosdo^ U3A8 aqg -aa^idauios XT2AVB IfvreA aifi uo saiquinjD puB Xissajpunos sjicj paao^s ^\niBA puB UIJJOD jl&\\ puB auoisp^aq ^1 a8pa ai^ jsao q^a amyean ^ans\q 'H^V1 « H^IMW ISAOO pus i b uo jo pojo b sjioj 8uno^ auiiBU jaq ^nd '3abj3 b }\asaaq ^i\3noq aqg„ but.. .gravemakers By MARK E. DIXON And they are finished for now. One pulls some rough planks that were once painted green over A few friendly hands the hold. of poker end. in a shooting match. Two are dead. A "That's to keep people from falling in," he day later, it is three. A freckle-faced third grader was explains. "There are always people running flattening around in a cemetery. pennies on the tracks. He slipped, or tripped, or did not hear, or, well, nobody really knows. He "Especially when it's warm out, you'll have was seven. lovers coming back in here to park." She was 92 and alone. The They withdraw to dig elsewhere and, like the cops said she had been dead a few days, newly dug grave, to wait. maybe a week when the "Some of these guys will read the obituaries," meter reader found her. says Walter Ransom, "and then talk about the The gravediggers, shod in rubber work boots people while we're working: who they were, and wrapped in several layers of worn, woolen what they did, how they died." clothing, stand and silently curse the earth- A man reaches a gloved hand under the rack hardening cold that came during the night. cradling a coffin. A light touch sends it into the The machine graps for a handhold, earth with a whir and it settles with a a way in. It jolt on the scrapes away a few inches of topsoil, concrete slab below. then a few inches more until the forzen surface is "I don't read 'em as a rule," he adds. "I turned past and it plunges into the soft earth beneath. to it by chance one evening and there was a Five graves will be dug picture of a girl I went to high school with staring today. Each will be carefully measured so they do not disturb the me in the face. Car accident. next grave, a foot or so away. The standard size "I haven't looked at the obituaries since." is four feet by eight feet and six feet The straps are released and the rack lifted deep. The earth is scooped up and away. dropped into a waiting truck. It is surprising how much dirt the "Actually, we almost never see a body," hole yields. The mound of earth is Ransom says. "It's just a box. That's all. overflowing the truck by the time the grave is "One time, though, they shipped an old rabbi deep enough. Bending, the gravedigger puts a gloved hand here from California. One of the pallbearers on each side of the hold, swings into mid - air and dropped his corner. Damn thing broke right drops neatly to the floor below. open." With shovel and boot, the brittle The earth mover moves forward, then back, pieces of earth are broken down, spread about and maneuvering. The vault twists clockwise, then stamped smooth. counter - clockwise on its chain. A faint shadow One of the clods will not be flattened. The moves across the snow, creeping toward the gravedigger frowns and bends from view. A grave, casting itself over the box below. moment later, a stone the size of a softball arches "You have to use a vault," Iwan Starobranski over the rim and nestles in the growing mound of explains. "These boxes won't last forever by displaced earth. themselves. "Without it, the box will collapse in a couple years and Whoosh! you'll have the ground sinking under your feet." The claw drops lower, depositing its burden. It scrapes down one wall, sending a shower of dirt and new snow cascading into the pit below. One of the men grabs a pole and pries it away from the wall. It sinks once more. "Vaults also makes it a lot easier if somebody comes back later and wants to move the grave," Ransom says. "That happens about six or seven times a year. "A couple years ago they had us open up one Though the se¬ from 1910 with no vault. Wasn't much left but a few bones. You could have quences in this story put it all in a coffee can." were shot during late The coffin is gone from sight as the concrete winter, the job does housing comes down around it with a thud. The not change much over chain is released and swung away. the course of the "Usually it doesn't bother me," says John year. Gravediggers Young, "especially if it's an old person. I mean, if at this they're 80 or 90 years old, I figure they were cemetery bury pretty lucky to have such a long life. close to 700 coffins "I guess you get a little callous after awhile." each year and most of But it does bother them sometimes. The them say they are not children, the old people who have no one and the soldiers all have an effect and the men work a going to end this way little more quietly as they remember. — calling cremation a "A couple years ago, a little boy drowned more sensible solu¬ up in the river," says Howard Cannady, superinten¬ tion. "It's too cold in dent. "His mother just wouldn't leave. the ground," one of "The men would come down off the hill at night them says. and tell me she was up there again. I'd call the funeral home and they'd have her husband come photos by out and get her." MarkE. Dixon And there are the old ones who die alone. No relative, no friend, no neighbor comes to grieve or say goodbye. "You'd like to do something for them but what can you do?" Cannady asks. "When nobody comes to the funeral, all we can do is take the box out and dump it in." And the soldiers. Gerald Starr did not see the honor guards, the snapping flags or hear the rifle volleys. He remembered the gun - metal GI coffins. "Back during the war," Starr drawls, "we'd get kids in here. Just kids. Some of 'em 18, 19, 20 years old. All shot to hell. Made you want to "She bought, herself a. grave, put her name on a will return and cover it. with a rich, black Young rolls a clod of earth over the edge. It headstone and has her coffin and vault stored heating falls topsoil. The grass wUl grow over the spot and it soundlessly and crumbles on the vault away someplace. She even paid to have the will be as before. below. Dirt rains down the sides and disappears. grave opened and closed. They pick up their tools and stomp the mud The sea of graves spreads all around. Some "In the spring and summer she's out here all from their boots. stir memories, like yellowed photographs in an the time: weeding, trimming the grass, planting "What did you bring for break?" they ask each album, t11"1" •>»■■■•« —i —4i. i flowers. She just can't wait to use it." other. But gravediggers, too, are mortal. Many have "Couple apples." determined not to follow the 700 or so people "Popcorn." they bury every year. "Cheese popcorn?" "Nobody's going to do this to me," says "Yeah." Ransom. "Cremation. That's the way I'm going. Starr lifts a bundle of flowers from behind a My wife, too, if she goes first. bush and drops it on the heaped earth. A card "Besides," he says, "by the time you've bought dangles from the yellow lilies. "All our love. The the plot, the coffin, the vault and Kids." everything else, that's a lot of money and it's not going to do you "Anybody feel like a game of euchre?" any good. Somebody else could make a lot better "Yeah. OK." use of the money." "Not me. You guys are cheaters," The hooded heads nod assent. Smitherman, complains Starobranski and they clamber into the truck, fist on his hip, leans on the handle of the broad - laughing. bladed shovel and adds, "It's too cold in the "Hell, you say that every time you lose." ground." The battered old pickup drifts slowly down the The final few shovelfuls are dumped in. The rutted road and fades from sight in the driving grave is sunken and uneven. In the spring they snow that will cover the newly turned earth. "Back in '70 or '71, some guy went into a jewelry store downtown, hit an old woman over the head and took the salesgirl hostage. "About four days later they found her body down near Mason. , She's over in there someplace." They push the shovels deep in the pile of soft, loose earth next to the grave, turn and empty them. "Then there was the time they found two babies in the river. 'Never did find out who they were. "They've got 'em over there. All the stones say is 'Baby X."' The earth mounts around the burial chamber and, bit by bit, it disappears from view. "See that plot over there?" says Ransom, pointing off to the northeast. "I met the woman who owns it and she is absolutely nuts. (continued from page 3) papers. The scene was something like this: waiting van. Then I drive (quickly if it's close by) to the cemetery I am jarred from an exhausted sleep. and follow the markers to our grave site. Each funeral home has its "Good morning Jerry, this is Jack. Can you be down at the own color marker. I arrange the flowers around the grave as if chapel right away? George will meet you." they had dropped from heaven, hide the truck and stand by the "Uh, huh, I'll be right there," I reply, sounding like a football grave like the eternal guard. When the procession comes by I give player to his coach. a signal designating how to bring the body up. The head must be And so, at 2:15 a.m., dressed in my gray suit, I am standing placed in a certain direction in the grave (either north or west.) outside the funeral home as George stalks up the driveway Strick order is kept in parking the cars, closest family next to shiver in the cool spring breeze and feel more like Florence the procession, lesser relatives and friends behind. Nightingale than the all night disposal service I've been seeing People get upset if they feel slighted in the procession. Explicit myself as. directions are left on how to park each funeral. It is important to "Good morning", George croons with a big smile (too big move the cars out smoothly, both because the people pay for it and think). George is in his mid-thirties with hair that creeps away it saves problems at consecutive funerals. from his forhead. He is usually quite pleasant and honestly caln My parking partner this morning is Greg, a college non-grad a welcome change from the owners. with 180 credits. He looks like grave Mafia hit in his dark suit, "Have you been out yet?" he asks. over a man style sunglasses (everyone here has style sunglasses) and icy I mumble "no", starting to feel nervous and morbidly fascinated expression. I walk towards him carrying up the flags for the cars in By "out" he means to pick up a body and embalm it with only the the procession. He tells me these people didn't have many people mortician and myself. I have assisted at embalmings before but it maker's view the body and laughs. He has a strange sense of humor. This funeral is one of about 700 the company will handle this year at two locations, one downtown and the other in the suburbs. was mainly to learn the procedures and observe. "Well, you will learn from the best," he says chuckling. And I am thinking that I had to drop biology last term because of the labs The ten o'clock funeral was small — a retired Bell Telephone "We're going to General Hospital," George says as The Cadilac worker — and it is typical of a midtown service. The people drive a hums along, the cops waving to us. appren¬ variety of beat-up cars and seem quiet and self-conscious around us, letting the minister handle the spiritual details and thanking me politely for my parking directions. For "Who is it," I ask. "An older woman — 77. The family has made prior arrange¬ many of these-people it ments." will be their first ride in a limousine. "Oh, how did get in this business anyway," I ask, changing tice Occassionally, a large funeral is set up downtown and these clients are also characteristically poor. They seem to want only to the subject. you "Well, I remember meeting the undertaker at home when I was be accomodating and often the services run up an extravagant little. It may have been my uncle's funeral. I can't remember price tag. wanting to be anything else." By contrast, services at the suburban chapel tend to be less At the hospital we park at the emergency entrance. It is a new involved and less expensive. Clients here are usually more affluent building — all flourescent and light, square, brick. I follow George and do not walk in awe of either the ceremony or us. They through the corridors that look like the Hubbard Hall lobby and sometimes seem annoyed with parking instructions, one woman keep running the stretcher into the walls. nearly cost me a limb as she sped off while I was trying to attach a "Jesus, no wonder you took the mirror off (referring to my flag to her car. running the van into the garage door this afternoon), just park it After a performance, we all let off a little steam in the break there." room the tension of trying to maintain perfection having worn bright-eyed woman asks "are you — He steps to a window where a down everyone's nerves. here for Mrs. Johnson?" I am tempted to say "no, you lady." A less typical day, or night, goes back to the initial coversation I George signs a few forms and gives the latest news of his dog. had with one of the owners when I signed my apprenticeship (continued on page 8) (continued from page 7) Generally, licensed men see the embalming process as a waste of The body is in the intensive care unit. We got here fast. Usually time and money — most say they will be cremated, that it is more the bodies are moved to the morgue where a name tag is placed economical and makes more sense. around a toe. The nurse is very quick and quiet as she shows us to The next step is to drain the blood and inject the embalming the body. The door is closed and the mood is somber as George fluids. The capillary wash opens the blood vessels and the blood pours into the toilet. Following strict procedure I move the stretcher up alongside the While George washes the table down I am busy mixing up a few bed. There is a vinyl case, zipped along the top attached to the top gallons of Flextone, a formal dehyde based embalming fluid, and of the stretcher. some warm water. "O.K. open the bag and spread the flap back and come beside the "Get that cream and rub it on the arms, massage the arms and bed. Get under her lower back and legs and then lift her up with legs, that will help this circulate. See all the solid junk in the blood? me." It happens a lot with arteriol cases — especially old people. Push She is a small woman with white curly hair and very thin legs. the legs right up. That's it. She is still warm and her face has that "straining for a last breath After the blood is drained the fluids injected, the internal organs look", and the unmistakable odor that says dead. I zip the bag over are embalmed with a trocar: a long hollow tube with a sharp end. her head and fold it just so and then secure the belts that hold the It is jabbed into the abdomen just above the navel and the organs body the stretcher. are lanced and the fluid drains. The sound is atrocious: on glub, We bring the body right back to the funeral home to embalm thunk, schlup. (some mortuaries won't embalm until morning when they have an "How do you know what your hitting?", I ask as George moves ambulance service pick the corpses up.) quickly around the table, making very vigorous thrusts. L I wheel the stretcher into prep room: white tile walls, terrazo "It just takes practice. Get a trocar button and the needle and "I floors, two autopsy tables sloping down into large toilets, cabinets full of chemical supplies and quasi-surgical instruments, a sink and you can suture her up." The trocar button is a little "plastic screw that seals the trdcar j a cosmetic counter. puncture. It is twisted in with a little tool. don't Once inside the prep room I take my coat off, roll my sleeves up and nervously go to work. George calls "one, two, three, ho" as we "Now, get some compound (a powder that looks like lye that dries the incision) and suture it up. Make the first stitch right put the corpse on the table. above it." even "Lets give her a change of clothes," he says as he pulls her gown off. "First thing we do is cover her tu-tu." "Shit, I keep sticking myself! Am I doing this right? I never #as any good at stuff like this". We both have hospital gowns on that tie in the back — with the "No, look, you're pulling too hard. Start over. You pulled the help blue stripes of course. George hums along with Buddy Rich on the radio. I wash the stretcher out and mix two cups of pre-capillary wash into a gallon of water. I pour the mixture into the pumping string out. And don't make the stitches so close together". The needle feels clumsy in my hand but I start to get more adept. The second incision is much easier (maybe I should try machine on a stand adjacent to the embalming table. pre-med). The corpse has rubber blocks placed under the head and elbows George inspects the work." You're a good man Jerome. You've to facilitate the embalming fluid circulation and prevent damage to got the makings of a first class mortician." mother the head. The blood becomes more purple and settles in splotches at the bottom of the corpse. The skin is easily impressioned and wrinkled — waxlike — especially at the back (but nobody sees We clean the body off, trim the fingernails, put cream on the skin and cover it (except the head). Of course we took care to rest the hands in the traditional manner — which is often rather that). difficult. The look of peaceful repose is a lot of work. cut "You've never done this before?" George asks, referring to the apprentice's job of making the incisions. me, I clean all the instruments and rinse off the gloves. Daniel told "gloves are just for convenience; there is really no danger of "Nope, but there is always a first time." infection — just messes." chicken." "Well, we will use the carotid and the femoral (artery and vein respectively). The carotid is next to the jugular vein at the base of "Well, three o'clock, less than an hour — not too bad. Lucky it wasn't a post," (post-mortem autopsy), George says as we turn off the neck and the femoral is at the inside point above where the leg the lights. meets the trunk. "Here," he says taking my hand, you can feel the An autopsy case is much more work to embalm — the internal ridge right there where the femoral runs, cut right there. Feel organs have to be embalmed seperately. Organs are all cut up even that?" the brain missing. The body cavity looks like a macabre punch I take the scalpel and make a light mark on the skin, afraid to bowl into which a trash bag full of the organs is trown back into mutilate the body. My courage mounting, I manage to cut through and the skull stuffed with material. Autopsies are a real anotomy the skin and into a layer of fat below. George is busy wiring the lesson. jaws shut and putting caps and glue on the eyes. He stops, leaving One mortician told me: "Doctors like to press the autopsies. It's the wire dangling like a fish hook and supervises: hospital policy — autopsies are important to their reputation. Hell, "Go ahead, cut right through, just don't cut the vein." they usually know the cause of death, especially on old people, With another tool I scrape away the fat and muscle fiber, looking they just like to practice." for "a flat-tube-thing." It is a source of friction between doctors and the funeral "Just get your fingers right in there and dig." business, although autopsies have been performed by doctors at "Uuchh, I won't even help my mother cut the chicken, Is this it?" the funeral home where I worked. "Nope." As I left the funeral home that night I said, "See you tomorrow "This?" George, eight o'clock." He replied "nope, I am off — going to Rose "Yeah, that's it, now just clean it and tie it off." Lake with my kids." I have less trouble with the carotid and I am starting to feel like I had worked seventy hours that week. Soon I became one of 50 Ben Casey. apprentices that came and went during the course of a year. I "Its lucky she's thin, the fat ones are a greasy mess." stayed a month, others lasted less.