Movie Tuesdays

Okay, youngsters, this movie is called "Terms of Endearment," and it was probably the first movie I remember that addressed death.  Okay, I take that back.  "Bambi" was my first experience of death in a movie, but we're going to pretend that didn't happen. I want you to watch the clip.  I dare you. Go ahead, do it right now.

Sweet, huh?

"Terms of Endearment" came out in 1983 when I was 13 and I went to see it with my mom.  I remember  being rather embarrassed by the sexy parts but I also remember sitting in the darkened movie theater sobbing during this scene.  Even though I'd seen Bambi as a kid and cried about his mom, as a teenager I was so embarrassed by showing sadness or grief, especially in a room full of strangers.  Granted, I wasn't alone in my weepiness, but I still felt weird when the lights came up.  When you're a teen, you're a little more aware that people might look at you and judge the streams of mascara and bright blue eye shadow running down your face.  Now I don't give a fudge.

Why?

Well, for one, it feels pretty darn cathartic to cry.  Let's take a look at another scene from a different movie to see how it's done.  This one's from 1989, "Steel Magnolias," a pretty good chick flick where they manage to make Julia Roberts look bad with the magic of a short wig.

People made fun of Sally Field for this scene, but I think her performance was awesome.  And "Hit Ouiser" is one of the best comic lines of all times.

So, that's all I've got for today boys and girls.  So, do you like to cry at the movies?  What films have made you cry?

Z is for...

I am so saddened that this A to Z challenge is coming to an end.  My life had purpose and direction in April. Okay, I wouldn't go so far to say that my life lacks purpose and direction, but sadly, most days I don't do a lot of writing.  And I'm a writer.  So what's the problem? It's not writer's block; it's more like, what's the freakin' point block?  On April 1, 2012 I had like 24 followers and very few of them ever commented on my blog.  It's really difficult to put words out there when you know no one is going to read them or comment about a post.  Most days I'm like, hey, I've got laundry to do and groceries to buy and kids to entertain, so why write? Especially about death? It makes most people uncomfortable.  But through this challenge, I have found a few people who actually appreciate my effort.  And that makes me INCREDIBLY HAPPY!
My plan for May is to market this here death blog.  I want guest posters.  I want to do Q&A.  I want to promote others who are also writers.  I want to capture that excited feeling I had each morning when I saw that I had comments.  (If only I could sell that feeling I'd be a bazillionaire!)
Okay, so now the fun of April is over.  For everyone who stopped by and said hello, even the quiet stalkers, I appreciate you.

So what's my Z?

Bear with me a moment while I tell you a story...

Halloween is my favorite holiday.  Always has been.  It probably has to do with the fact that I spent most of my life as the girl who sat in the back row of class hiding behind a wall of frizzy hair or eating my lunch in the library because I felt weird and uncomfortable eating alone in the cafeteria.  Halloween is that one glorious day when the socially awkward get their chance to be someone else for a night.  And to top it all off, there's like a ton of FREE candy.  So, what's not to love?
For most of my life, my once yearly Halloween costume involved dressing up in a sexy costume.  (Yes, I'm one of those women. I know, I know.)  I could go into a full psychological profile of why I went that route, but I don't want to go way off topic here.

Z is for ZOMBIES!

This year I decided to embrace the fact that I was not the cute young thing that I used to be.  My Halloween plans involved trick-or-treating with my two kids and I didn't feel like being the pathetic mom in a bunny suit wandering the streets of suburban Texas with her offspring.  So, I went full on scary and had a blast.  I scared children.  I scared a few adults.  And best of all, at the end of the night as I was taking out the trash and two costume-less teenage boys were wandering past my house with pillowcases clutched in their grubby teenage hands, I growled "Want some Candy?"

And they said, "No, thanks."  But I lumbered towards them with my bowl of M&M snack packs and made them take it.

So, what's the moral of that story?

Everyone is afraid of death (zombies) but the sooner you embrace it, life becomes a lot more fun!

Y is for...

YUCKY!

I'll be honest.  I am writing this post sort of late in the day under the influence of a few drinks.  It is Friday, after all!  And it's after five-o'clock, so it's all good.  Y is a challenging one for me.  I was just going to write "You are going to die one day."  And that was going to be the whole post, but I had a feeling that that might be perceived as rather cold and that isn't the impression I want to leave you with when we're almost done with the challenge.

So, then I pulled out my trusty dictionary and started perusing through the words and "yucky" stuck out.  Why?  Well, sometimes death can be yucky, especially for the ones who have to deal with the aftermath.  I followed a crew of firefighters for about three months (only went on three calls because I am the white cloud) and I heard tales of "stinkers," or people who have died and nobody finds them for awhile. I hate to break it to you, but after we die, we smell REALLY BAD after a few days of decomposition. Not even a "stick up" is going to help.

I also interviewed a bio-hazard cleaner.  He showed me the difference between a hand gun and a shotgun and what it did to a room.  He didn't want anyone to end their life, but if they did, he would prefer that they use a handgun.  I saw the difference.  One room maintained an air of tidiness, while the other looked like Jackson Pollock had a can of red paint and went nuts on it.

Okay, enjoy your breakfast or lunch or dinner or whatever.  Take time to smell the roses.  And have a bitchin' summer!

And this is why Pamela shouldn't drink and blog.

X is for...

I think everyone participating in this blog challenge will agree, "X" is the most difficult letter.  I seriously looked in the dictionary to see if any word connected to death.  There was X-Ray, but I don't really want to talk about that.  Heck, I don't even really want to talk about an X over someone's eyes to indicate death.  (Thanks Claire, or was it Jill, who offered that idea up a month ago.)

Okay, but how short would this post be if I just wrote that?  I want to exercise my mad blogging skills now that I've got some people who actually read this damn thing and say nice stuff about it. So, I'm gonna go all weird and stretch that X into a post about something else.

Pick up your cell phone.  That's right.  The one that's glued to your hand, or your hip, or maybe it's lost in the bowels of your over sized purse.  Found it?  Cool. Now look at the dialer.  What letters coincide with WXYZ?  The number...

The number 9 is in probably my least favorite Beatle's song, Revolution 9.  Charles Manson liked this song.  A lot.

It was a movie.

There are three 9's in my anniversary date--9/11/99.  Yes, yes, I know.  Believe me, I know.

And if you look at the first three numbers of my anniversary date, what do you get? 

911!!!

Hello, 911? McDonald’s is Out of McNuggets! (Hear the Actual Audio Here)

Whatever you do, please don't call 911 if McDonald's is out of Chicken McNuggets.  When should you call?

When there is an emergency.  When lives are in danger.  When there is a serious injury or medical condition.  Or when there is a crime in progress.  Do not call to ask how to bake a turkey.  Yes, this can sometimes be an emergency, but that's what google is for. 

Want some advice about how to be a good 911 caller?  Remember, when you are on your cell phone, you need to know where you are calling from. Are you one of those rare people who don't use cell phones?  Guess what?  An inactive cell phone can still call 911. It's a good idea to have a cell phone in your car with a charger, even if you don't have a cell phone provider.

So that's my super stretch X post.  I hope you learned something.  If you liked it, call your friends, call your mom, but whatever you do, don't call 911.

W is for...

WHEN?

As in the big when. (You know.  When you, yes you, are going to die.) I'd bet a dollar that if you are relatively healthy and under forty you haven't given your own personal "when" much thought.  If you're anything like me, you think your when will happen way off in the future, like at the age of ninety-nine-and-a-half.  We've all seen the t-shirt or the card or the saying...

 

But really, how many of us actually do that?  I don't know about you, but if it really was my last day, I would  go do something totally kick ass.  So what is preventing me from donning a superhero outfit and fighting crime  for a day or bungee jumping off a really tall bridge?

Fear.

Yep, fear.  Because what if it really wasn't my last day?  What if I get thrown in the slammer doing something stupid like wearing a superhero costume outside of the Wells Fargo waiting for someone to rob it?  Or for bungee jumping off that really tall bridge and I break my leg and I've got a $5000 deductible on my insurance and no money to pay for the emergency room visit?  Then what?

I'll tell you what.  You'll have fun and you'll have a story to tell.  (Speaking of stories to tell, have you heard of Story Corps? Check it out!) Some of my best experiences have come out of facing a fear.  And if you quiet your mind and think about it for a moment, I know you are afraid of something.  It could be flying, talking to that one person who really makes your heart race or going to the movies alone.  But there's something.  The only way to get over a fear is to go through it.

Okay, okay, maybe your not a total wimp like me.  Maybe you're one of those super brave types who is over forty and has no fear of attending a movie like Twilight by themselves among mostly squealing teenage girls.  

So, what haven't you done that you're dying to do? 

Jump out of a plane?  Run with the bulls?  Cage dive with sharks?  Eat pastries in Paris?  Audition for American Idol?  Whatever it is, write it down, or better yet go here and do it online.

Or share it here.  I love to see what people are dying to do.

I'll start.  I want to jump on Oprah Winfrey's couch.

Okay, now you go.

V is for...

VANISHED

For the letter V, I have invited my friend and Goucher College classmate to write a wee bit about vanishing.  Carrie knows a lot about this subject as she is the author of we is got him (The Overlook Press, 2011), the narrative nonfiction account of the first recorded ransom kidnapping in American history.  Not only is Carrie  a kick butt writer and researcher, she has been a wonderful support person for me.  (Writers sometimes need cheerleaders, and on occasion, Carrie waves the pom-poms for me when I want to throw in the towel.)

So, without further babbling on my part, here's Carrie...

Photo pulled from philly.com

Our collective pulse rises when we hear about a missing child. We are desensitized, many of us, to news of crimes against adults. But word of a missing child – anybody’s child – brings us pain. Why else do we look away from the faces posted on bulletin boards, containers or telephone poles?

When we see the word “Missing” on a flyer, we know that a picture will haunt us if we choose to look. Because a disappearance isn’t a death – it could be, but it might not be. Fiction is full of characters whose disappearances involve pilgrimages and quests for truth and justice. But as much as our culture is obsessed with the intersection of fantasy and reality, we know that sometimes the Dark Lord wins. Fearing the worst, we try our best to believe in fairy godmothers.

Faith in life, however, doesn’t offer the closure that death does. In 2001, a judge gave Stanley Patz that closure when he declared his son Etan, missing since 1979, legally dead. The re-emergence of Etan’s story in the press this week has sparked renewed interest in his family, who live in the same SoHo neighborhood as they did when their little boy disappeared. Eleven years after a judge pronounced Etan Patz legally dead, reporters are asking his parents to comment on new investigative leads. It seems to me that such public interest threatens any closure that the family has found. But that’s really none of my business, is it? Certainly the Patzes are defined by more than Etan’s death and stronger than society’s narrative gives them credit for.

What is my concern is my response to Etan’s legacy, the faces below signs of the “Missing.” If I vanish before their pictures, I am denying them my observations, my prayers, my faith in a closure to their stories.

Thanks Carrie!

Typically it is seven years before a missing person can legally be pronounced dead.  You can read about that here.

Questions?  Comments?  

If you like this, please share it on twitter, facebook, or print it for your 79 year old mother who doesn't own a computer.  Thanks!

U is for...

UM

U could be for a lot of things.  Undertaker, perhaps?  But I've already had Jim Wright, a former embalmer post on P day for preparing a body for burial as well as Q day for Q&A, so it might be overkill if I chose undertaker as my U word.  Plus, what more could I say on the subject?  Uh, they're nice? 

Then I thought about the UK.  Stay with me here.  I'm sort of OCD about checking my blog stats.  They used to be sort of embarrassingly low.  Hi Mom!  But now I've got real traffic and a third of it is from the UK.  I feel like buying a t-shirt that says "I'm Huge in the UK."  But, that would be really weird, so I won't do that.  Although it's very tempting.  Very. (Hi Lori, oh t-shirt maker you!  You can make that one right after you make the "You had me at Bacon" tee.) So, I know of two people from the UK who comment regularly on my blog, so I'm gonna give them some love right here in this post.  Hi Clare and Wes!  Here's a link just for you to UK death statistics.  You know, just for fun.  I appreciate your comments.  Like a lot.

Okay, so UM.  My husband suggested I write about unmarked graves, which sounded wonderful at 11pm last night, but then I spent my day assembling 625 snack bags for kids taking the STAAR test tomorrow in Texas.  No, I didn't do it all myself, but there was that.  Then I got my kids from school, came home and had to wash a sink full of dishes.  Then I baked some M&M cookies for the teachers.  Then I made dinner and now I'm composing this totally random blog about the letter U.  What I really want to do is watch the Ranger game with my husband.  But, I'm dedicated to this blog.  And I'm dedicated to you, dear reader.  The problem is, I don't want to do any research, so the place that came to mind with a whole bunch of unmarked graves (some of them are marked with a number) is Peckerwood Cemetery.  Actually it's called Joe Byrd Cemetery and you can read all about it here.  It's where poor inmates in Texas are buried if their family doesn't claim their body.  If my book ever gets published, I want a picture of that cemetery as the cover image.  Why?  You'll have to read the book:)

Oh, and there's this Biblical quote about unmarked graves.  Luke 11:44  This is from the English Standard Version.  "Woe to you!   For you are like unmarked graves and people walk over them without knowing it."

So, I'm sorry I didn't deliver any earth shattering U topic for your reading pleasure today.  Check back tomorrow when I have a very special guest blogger.

Got any questions for me?  Ask away!

T is for...

Okay, so we've already established on this blog that every single one of us is going to die.  We've covered burial and cremation and what we want to happen when that someday happens.  But here's the deal, you can have your totally awesome funeral all planned out in your head, or the fact that you want to die in the comfort of your own home there too, but if no one knows about it, how is that going to happen?  This is where trust comes in.  Who do you trust to take care of all the details at the end of your life?  More importantly, does this person know that they have been entrusted with this responsibility?

Never assume that another person knows how you'd like to be cared for at the end of your life. I want you to be brave. It all starts with a conversation.  It could be with your spouse, your partner, your bff, your sister, your brother, your child.  You get the point.  It could go like this...

You:  So, I've been reading this blog called the death writer and she

thinks it's important to think about the end of my life.  And I think she

may be right, even though it's kind of morbid.

Your (_______):  Oh, yeah?

You:  Well, I downloaded a form that is fairly specific about what

I want to happen if I should be incapacitated and unable to make

decisions on my own.  I think you're really cool and smart and I trust

you a lot.  Would you be my agent?

Your (________):  Uh, sure.  Can I see the form?

You:  Sure.  Here it is.  We just have to get it signed by two witnesses.

In case you are unable to do this, I've also picked ________ to 

be an alternate.

Your (__________):  Really?  You picked_________? They have

horrible fashion sense.

You:  I know, but they've got a good heart.  Hey, you wanna go

see a movie?

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy!!!

So where you can get these forms?

Click on the links, peeps.

Death with Dignity is a great place to start.  They have a lot of research about end of life issues.  And here you can access a free Advance Directive for your state.  For a more specific account of what you want to happen as far as care at the end of your life, check out Five Wishes.  Be aware that this document is not legal in all 50 states, but their website is a great resource to check out.

Another thing to think about is a will.  You know, so you can dole out your vast fortune to all your friends and relatives  or even your dog when you die.  Don't think your kids aren't going to fight over who gets what, even if it's like a 40 year old television set.  And if you've got serious assets, you really need a will.  You can read about Leona Helmsley's unusual will here.

Well, kids, I hope you learned something today.  I also hope you have someone in your life that you can trust.

Hey, and if you liked this post, share it.  

S is for...

SAYING GOODBYE

I've only know three people who have died.  The first person was my grandmother.  When she went to the hospital with advanced leukemia, I wasn't allowed to go visit because of my age. I never got to say goodbye to her.  The other two were Khristian Oliver and Larry Matthew Puckett.  These two men both knew the exact date and approximate time of their deaths because they were executed by the state of Texas and the state of Mississippi. I met Khristian Oliver the day before the state of Texas executed him.  The next day, I went to tell him goodbye and I was at a loss for words.  I wrote an essay about him called Surrender, which was published in Ten Spurs, but you can read about my experience here on Smith Magazine's, The Moment.

With Matt Puckett, I had to say goodbye in a letter, which was rather difficult to compose.

I had a conversation via Twitter with a fellow A to Z challenge participant about social media and grieving.  I think we both agreed that it is useful when a public figure such as a musician dies so that their fans can share memories and console each other, but I can't help but think about sites such as Facebook when the loss is personal.  There's an interesting article from Time about grieving and Facebook.

And here's another interesting article about what happens when you die (simmer down now) on your social media accounts after you die.

What do you think about Facebook and grieving?  Do you think it's cool for someone to post "My mom just died" or "I have three months to live."  Should these things be kept off social media?  Tell me your thoughts...

And the winner is...

We are now taking a break from our regularly scheduled A to Z program to award the prize from yesterday's post.
So, I put everyone's name who commented on a tiny piece of paper.  If you follow me, you got an extra piece of paper.  Then I put them in a hat.  It's a Spiderman hat.  It's special.

Then my son mixed them up really well.

And then he pulled out a name...

And the winner is

Emily Moir

Thanks to everyone who commented and followed.  I think you're the bee's knees!

R is for...

RELIGION

Wait a second.  Don't run away.  Stay with me here. 

In my opinion, religion influences our views about death.  Our spiritual preferences influence if we're buried, embalmed or cremated. In hospice, there's always a spiritual component. On a personal level, the two men I knew on death row were sustained by their faith in God as they faced death. Faith feels somewhat foreign to me as I was not raised with religion.  Yes, on occasion my mom and I went to church on Easter or Christmas, but it wasn't something that was explained to me or that I'd studied.

So this got me thinking about the fear of death. Is this fear based around the the question of what happens after we die? (I have my own reasons for fearing death, but I want to hear yours.) Do we go to Heaven?  Or do we go to Wal Mart for all eternity? (Which is my own personal version of Hell.)  Or is it just the end? Lights out.

I have no answers for you about what happens when we die.  I do know one thing.  We typically fear what we don't know.  And since no one wants to cuddle up with the idea of death, we tend to fear it.  We'll think about it later.  Oh, hey look!  American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, Mob Wives, Toddlers and Tiara's is on.  Much better.  I'll think about death tomorrow.

I'm done with my death book and now I'm looking towards my next project, which organically came about in my exploration of death.  It's called Finding my Religion, not to be confused with...

As a former bartender, there were two things I never discussed at the bar--politics and religion. I've kept up with this practice throughout my life.  Why?  Well, for one, I don't like confrontations and those two topics tend to bring out, dare I say it, religious fervor in people.  But, I'm going to go forth and explore religion and write about my experience.  Here's the dealio.  I'm going to explore one religion a month.  And I'm not just sticking with Christianity.  I want a global perspective.  This will not be a covert operation, nor will it be a journalistic expose.  I will be upfront and honest with everyone.  I am on a quest to fulfill the one piece of my life that is missing; spirituality. I hope to be pitched, convinced and sold on a "brand."  At the end of the year, like the bachelorette on that show I've never seen, I will choose.  

Yeah, it's kind of Schtick-lit, but I imagine I'm going to learn a lot and maybe make some new friends.  And that's cool.

Thanks for popping in.  Tell me about yourself.  Kinda like this..."Hi! My name is ______ and I'm an Episcopalian from Eureka Springs.  I'd like to be cremated and made into a necklace."  Or whatever.  I don't bite.

Q is for...

Well, I enjoyed having a guest blogger so much, that I decided to invite him back and ask him a few questions about working with death.  If you didn't see yesterday's post on embalming, be sure and read it.  Here's a wee bit about Jim...

Jim Wright has had an on again, off again relationship with the funeral industry since 1970 when he was hired on as an apprentice embalmer. Since that time he worked in funeral homes and embalming services in Houston, TX, Denver, CO and Birmingham, AL. After a stint in the Navy he hired on with the largest Pathology laboratory in the South, where he worked for twenty years. Now retired, he and his Companion, Zeek live in Amman, Jordan with their cat Umm Khalil where he writes and travels. 

And guess what?  I'm gonna throw a CONTEST inspired by being the 1000th commenter on Steven Chapman's blog yesterday.  All you gotta do to enter is ask either Jim or me a question on this post.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy!  If you become a follower of my blog, I'll enter your name in the hat two times.  Then, I'll get my kid to draw a name out of the hat tomorrow.  What do you win?

Issue 33 of Creative Nonfiction.  

I know.  Try and control yourself.

I'm in there.

And I'll even sign it and send it to you with a really cool bookmark.

Okay, here are my questions for Jim, but since I'm related to myself, they don't count in the contest.  DARN!

1. Did you receive any formal training?

A: I didn't go to Mortuary College, but received on the job training from some of the best (and one of the worst) embalmers and restorative artists in the business.

2. Did your relationship to death change after working with the dead?

A: I had had what some referred to as a "morbid preoccupation" with death since the death of my sister in 1959. I never viewed it with fear or revulsion, so I think working in the funeral industry enhanced my attitude toward death.

3. Any freaky stories? Corpses jolting or exhaling?

A: Nah, heard 'em all. Haven't been able to find one single person who's actually experienced such things. It was always someone's best friend's barber's second cousin (twice removed)'s next door neighbor's brother who had someone sit up suddenly, gasp, or some such thing. The closest I can come to it is a story from my early days. My mentor was teaching me the fine art of raising a vein and artery. Now, let me say that I knew we had three bodies in the preparation room. I was completely unaware of the arrival of a new guest whilst I was out of the room. I positioned myself to better see the demonstration when I felt a rather coolish hand on my backside. I have to tell you that for a second or two I thought the body population in that preparation room was about to be increased to five!

4. Ever feel like you're being watched?

A: Erm... well, I always feel I'm center stage, but I don't think it has anything to do with the job. Ego, perhaps..?

5. Have you worked on friends or family members?

A: Yes. The first time I was quite young and a long-time close friend of the family died. I wasn't sure I could go through with it. A great friend told me "You get back in there and do this for him. It's the last thing you can do for him, and he'd be proud to know it was you who took care of him." That was the best advice I ever got, and since then I've been given the honor of embalming several friends over the years, especially during the height of the AIDS crisis. I'm still grateful for the privilege of caring for the remains of my friends at the end of their way.

6. What was the most interesting aspect of your job?

A: There are a great many interesting aspects of working in Funeral Service. However, I think the best, for me at least was the opportunity to observe the seemingly endless facets of the human personality. I've seen family members and friends react to death with rage, resignation, simple joy, and hopelessness and every emotion you can think of in between. I like to think I have given a good service to the families I've served over the years, but I have to say that they have given back to me far more than I could've ever given them. They taught me more about the human condition than any classroom or textbook ever could have.

7. Cremation or burial for you?

A: For many, many years I've expressed my desire to be cremated and scattered at sea in the Mediterranean. 

Now though, I live in a predominately Muslim society where cremation is not as readily accepted. Since my Companion and our family are Muslim, I reckon I'll be buried. I don't find this as unacceptable as I used to because of the vastly different attitudes toward death and burial here. The Islamic way is same-day burial (if possible), no embalming, no casket. After the burial there is a week-long visitation at which the life of the deceased is celebrated. I think this is far, far better than the Western customs, don't you?

Okay, peeps, now it's your turn...

P is for

Preparation of the Body for Burial


Today I have a special guest blogger, Jim Wright, who I met on this crazy A to Z blog challenge.  As a former embalmer, he is going to explain the process of preparing a body for burial.  Here's a little bit about Jim...

Jim Wright has had an on again, off again relationship with the funeral industry since 1970 when he was hired on as an apprentice embalmer. Since that time he worked in funeral homes and embalming services in Houston, TX, Denver, CO and Birmingham, AL. After a stint in the Navy he hired on with the largest Pathology laboratory in the South, where he worked for twenty years. Now retired, he and his Companion, Zeek live in Amman, Jordan with their cat Umm Khalil where he writes and travels.

Take it away, Jim...

As soon as practicable after death, the preparation of the body known as embalming, begins. The deceased is transported from the place of death to a preparation room in the funeral home, much like a surgical suite.

Embalming is essentially the temporary preservation of the body to allow for arrangements, transportation and viewing of the deceased’s remains. Cosmetics and, if necessary, restoration are used to complete a pleasing “memory picture” of the dead person.

Each state has various laws for the regulation of embalming. The Federal Trade Commission and funeral industry regulators have additional “laws” or rules. I will not address those in this post.

Embalming requires extensive knowledge in the disciplines of anatomy, chemistry, biology, microbiology, and pathology as well as skills in cosmetology and restorative art.

The body is placed on a stainless steel preparation table and positioned for optimal viewing. An embalming report is begun, making note of any identifying scars, wounds, tattoos, incisions, etc. The report identifies the deceased, notes any property accompanying the body and details the procedures and chemicals used. This report can be critical in the case of future litigation.

The body is then bathed and washed in a disinfectant solution. Catheters, IV needles, bandages etc are removed and the skin, mouth, eyes and other orifices are cleaned with a disinfectant. The joints are moved about and the muscles are massaged to relieve rigor mortis. If shaving is required it is done at this point to avoid razor burn.

The features are set prior to injection. Small “eye caps” with a small amount of stay cream (to deter dehydration) are placed under the lids. On occasion a bit of glue may be required to ensure complete closure of the eyes.

The mouth is closed by using a special injector gun. Afterwards, a mouth former is placed behind the lips to assist in the formation of a more natural appearance. Again, a bit of stay cream is used to prevent dehydration.

At this point, arterial injection is started. An artery, usually the carotid, is raised and a stainless steel tube inserted for the injection of the formaldehyde based fluids. Many fluids have a dye additive, giving the remains a warm, pinkish glow. As the pressure builds, the fluids are able to penetrate the vascular system, skin, muscles and organs, and restoring a more natural color to the tissues. A vein, such as the jugular is raised and a drain tube inserted. This tube is opened periodically to relieve the pressure and release the displaced blood. When the injection is complete, the tubes are removed, the vessels tied off and the incisions are sutured and sealed with a special chemical.

Following injection, cavity treatment is carried out by aspirating the hollow organs. This is accomplished by use of a trocar (a very long needle) inserted just above the navel that punctures the stomach, bladder, intestines, lungs, etc. A stronger formaldehyde cavity fluid is then introduced to complete the disinfection and preservation of the abdominal and thoracic cavities. The incision is then sutured or closed with a trocar button.The anus and vagina may be packed with cotton or gauze at this point to prevent leakage.

Once the embalming process has been completed, the body and hair are washed again. If any restoration is required, such as masking injuries or sores or rebuilding features, it will be performed at this point. Cosmetics are applied to the hands and face and the hair is arranged according to the wishes of the family. The true art of the embalmer is evident in the application of the cosmetics. Proper application will give a more life-like appearance, leaving the mourners with a pleasant and lasting memory picture. Clothing chosen or provided by the family is put on the body. This generally includes underwear, socks or stockings, and shoes. The body is then carefully placed into the casket for viewing. Any adjustments needed for clothing, hair and cosmetics are carefully made at this point.

Here's a short video from National Geographic on embalming.

So, now that you know the scoop, what do you think of embalming?  Did you know that it began during the Civil War so that bodies could be preserved on their way home?

Thanks Jim!

O is for...

ORGAN DONATION

Hey!  Guess what?  April is donate life month!  Go here to sign up.  Single file line please.  No pushing. What? You're scared?  No worries.  You don't make your donation until after you're dead.  (Unless you donate a kidney like one of my friends did.  How rock star is that?) Not feeling like Jagger? I know, I know. It's okay.  I understand. We don't like to think about dying and organ donation kind of makes you think about that, doesn't it?

I'll try to be as gentle with this next statement as I possibly can.  We're all going to die.  Hard to believe, huh? One day you will be gone, but maybe your heart will continue to beat in someone's chest so that they can live.  What a gift.  Think about it.

So, are you a donor?  Do you have a little heart on your driver's license?  Do your family members know of your wishes?  Do you know anyone on a transplant list?  

N is for...

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

Early on in my journey, I interviewed a photographer who volunteered her services for the organization, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. I've already written about it on my blog, so I encourage you to simply watch this video.  Grab a box of tissue.

Watch This

Have you heard of this organization before?  Have you or anyone you know utilized their services?  What are your thoughts?

M is for...

Miscarriage

When I first began this project of exploring professions that dealt with death, I naively thought that I didn't have any experience with death, other than the death of my grandmother when I was a teen.  At the age of 38 when I began this journey, I'd already had two miscarriages.  

Why didn't I consider their loss as a death?

For me, the minute those two lines appeared on the test, I was literally pregnant with possibility--living in the future with my snuggly little bundle of joy.  Although my mother experienced several miscarriages before having six children, I never considered that possibility for myself.  Until it happened.  Immediately, I felt shame that my body couldn't do the most natural of natural things.  Then I blamed myself, thinking I had done something wrong.  Ultimately, I felt unable to grieve openly over my loss.  

Why?

Miscarriages make people uncomfortable.  Heck, all death makes people uncomfortable.  (That's why I'm so thankful for the few followers that I do have.  You all get brownie points for joining the discussion.) I'm partly to blame.  I silenced myself so that others wouldn't feel uncomfortable. When I did talk to someone, I was told either, a.) It's good that it happened early or b.) Don't worry, you'll have another one.  So, in other words, forget about it. Suck it up. Move on. Is this just an American attitude?  I'd be interested to hear from people outside of the states.

Jizo Statues

If you'd like to read about what they do in Japan, there's a wonderful article,"Mourning my Miscarriage" by Peggy Orenstein that talks about this tradition.

In my own research, I found this wonderful book, "Unspeakable Losses" by Kim Kluger-Bell. If you've experienced a miscarriage or know someone who has, I highly recommend it.

So, who is going to be brave and talk about it?  What helped you in the grieving process? 

L is for...

LIFE

So, what makes you feel alive?  And let's keep it PG-13:)

K is for...

The Kiss of Death

or

"El Peto de la Mort"

I'm not going to lie, I've had a hard time deciding on what to write for my "K" post.  One of the main people I wrote about during my "death trip" is named Khristian, but I've written about him a lot on this blog and there's a ton in the book, so I wanted to add something fresh and new.  A friend of mine (Hi Lori!) suggested I write about the "kiss of death."  I had no idea where this expression came from. She told me that it is a Biblical reference to when Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. (Mark 14:44-46)

Then I thought, I'd take another friend's suggestion and write about KIDS and death, more specifically, children attending a funeral.  But the thing is, I have nothing to say about that topic, other than I'm all for it.  Death is a part of life.  Granted, it's not typically the part of life we look forward to, but I am totally against sheltering children from the reality of death.  When you hide something from a child, in my mind that = bad.  I'm all about open discussions.  I took my two kids to a funeral last month.  It was their first funeral and my third.  They did not know the deceased, but I wanted them to see what a funeral service was about.  Afterwards, they had lots of questions and it made for a great discussion.

I'm going to leave you with a K song, "The Killing Moon" by Echo and the Bunnymen--one of my favorites!

So, do you have kids?  Would you let them attend a funeral?  Did you attend any funerals as a child?  Was it a good or a bad thing?  Discuss...

J is for...

Jill!  That's her in the middle.

Today on the death writer blog, I've invited Jill Brodsky to post about Jewish customs surrounding death, something that impacted her growing up.  Why am I having a guest blogger?  Well, there are several reasons.  For one, I'm busier than a three-balled tomcat with this A to Z challenge and the volunteer duties at my kids' school with the Scholastic Book Fair. Second, I didn't have a post for J and Jill e-mailed me out of the blue a couple of days ago.  It was totally serendipitous and when those signs from the universe appear, I like to take advantage of them.  And lastly, I'm going through some minor medical issues that I dealt with a few years ago that I wrote about in my book.  Okay, you're probably wondering what they are, so I'll just go ahead and tell you.  I've got a nodule on my thyroid and doctors like to stick a large hollow needle into my neck to check if its cancer and I've got a whole month of waiting before that happens.  Me and Google need to stay far, far away from each other right now.

So, how do I know Jill?  Well, we met my first semester of grad school at Goucher College, where we had the same mentor, Diana Hume George.  Long story short, Jill was writing about her love of rats when I met her, and then a year later, she won the Chris White Award for personal essay about experiencing a brain hemorrhage at 17.  Jill is a vegetarian, a blogger and the proud parent of two weenie dogs.

So here she is...

Hi.  My name is Jill and I am Jewish.  I recently sent Pam a brief note about my relationship with death as a Jew in response to what I have been reading in her A-Z challenge and some other posts.  She has requested that I be a guest blogger for the day of “J” (for Jill?  For Judaism?) and I am flattered.  I will say that the following is what I have learned as a Reform Jew (as opposed to Orthodox, for example) in the United States.  I have had this information looked over by other Jews to ensure accuracy but I do apologize if what you may know is different.  Judaism is also a religion that encourages interpretation by the individual and this is how I interpret what I have learned.

Of all the life cycle and tradition lessons that I sat through in religious school, death was really the biggest thing for me.  I vividly remember our parents were invited to stay one Sunday (yes, Jews have Sunday school) and we watched a video called The Plain Pine Box, which pretty much explained everything behind the Jewish funeral and burial process. If you were super religious you wouldn’t even have a casket because that is a barrier between you and the earth, but a plain pine box is the next best thing. It also has to do with federal and state requirements for burials stating that you must have a casket.  Those fancy schmancy caskets? Waste of money. And a good way to keep your body from decomposing into the earth like it should. That's not to say that many Jews don’t get some upgraded caskets that are polished and shiny, but they are always wood.  But ever since that movie I have been "dead" set on a plain pine box. Why spend loads on something fancy that will just go into the ground where nobody can see it? 

When I went to Israel a few years ago I found out that at Mount Herzl cemetery in Jerusalem where the war dead are buried, it was only recently deemed OK to bury in caskets at all.  Because modern warfare is so brutal and can leave the deceased in more than one piece, the reform was thought necessary.  It was hard not to think about the soldiers that were with us, their friends who died in battle, and what might happen to all them. 

In Judaism we don't have open casket wakes, either.  I realized this difference between Christian funerals and Jewish funerals when I was pretty young and I’m sure it was explained to me many times over as to why we Jews don’t view the body pre-burial.  My favorite way that it was explained to me was that it is not respectful to look at somebody when that person cannot look back at you. That in itself hit me deeply at a young age.  The dead body cannot look back at you.  We are respecting the dead. We also give a 6-month period before dedicating a grave and giving it a headstone so that the soul can find its way to its final resting place, so it's not like the soul can look back, either.

As for embalming, we don't do that because it is unnatural and takes away part of the body that should go back to the earth. It preserves the body, too. We don't want to preserve the body.  You know the saying “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”?  Since we come from dust, we must go back to dust and any sort of preservation or postponing a burial will keep the body from going back to dust.  We bury our deceased as soon after the actual death as possible.

I love the Jewish way of dealing with death and the dead body. No fancying up a dead body, a lot of respect involved, and a lot of focus on celebrating the life that was. The wedding, birth, bar and bat mitzvah lessons? Flew by me. Death is what really got me.

I is for...

Immersion

You are probably asking yourself, what in the heck does immersion have to do with death?  Is that crazy death writer lady going to immerse herself in death?  What exactly would that entail?  A trip to the morgue?  A sleepover at a cemetery?  What? Inquiring minds want to know!!! Well, my new found friends, followers and atoz blog hoppers, there's a daring, swashbuckling kind of way to immerse yourself in death, and there's the Pamela Skjolsvik, tip-toe through the tulips way.  

Here's a wee little passage from my book where I finally get some cajones.

When I finally reach the Polunsky Unit, I am stopped by a guard before I can turn into the parking lot.  He is the quintessential fat happy Texan.  In a “What we have here is a failure to communicate” Texas twang, he tells me to pop the hood and the trunk.  I have no idea how to pop the hood of my rental car. Frantic, I run my fingers along the underside of the dashboard hoping to find a latch but for the life of me, I can’t.  Defeated, I exit the car and open the trunk.  The guard looks inside, lifts the flap where the spare tire is kept and writes something on his clipboard.  With his black ink pen at the ready, he asks me the name and number of “my inmate.”  I tell him Khristian’s name and I fumble recalling his number.  I inform him that this is my first time at the Polunsky Unit.  He gives me a blank stare and shuts the hatch.  I feel like he’s going to tell me to leave.

     “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to pop the hood. It’s a rental. Maybe you can figure it out,” I say like a clueless damsel in distress.

     “It’s alright.  You’re going to go to that first building there.  And you can’t bring nothing inside but your ID, some money if you want to buy him something, and a smile.” 

     I look towards the flat taupe building that stands behind two barbed wire fences and thank him for letting me slide.  After finding a parking spot, I scan the rows of cars looking for Khristian’s parents. There isn’t a soul around, just a giant orange tabby wandering through the maze of cars.  I retrieve my driver’s license from my wallet and shove my purse under the seat.  This is a totally unnecessary move.  I don’t think anyone is stupid or desperate enough to break into anyone’s car in a prison parking lot.  An armed guard surveys the lot from a tower.

     I walk towards the entrance. Inside, a uniformed black woman and a white man, both in their early thirties stand at the ready.  This isn’t my first time at the rodeo, just the first time in the lone star state of Texas. I place my car keys and my ID in a yellow plastic container and walk through the metal detector.  The woman asks me to remove my shoes and show her the bottom of my feet.

     “Arms out,” she instructs and pats me down, running a pointed thumb along my bra line.  She runs her hands along my side, my stomach and the inside of my legs. Finally, she scans me with a wand.  I pass the test. 

     I am instructed to hand my ID to a woman who is seated behind steel and thick bulletproof glass.  I place my driver’s license in the metal slot and tell her that I’m there to visit Khristian Oliver.  In exchange, she deposits a chain necklace with a yellow card attached to it that identifies me as a visitor.  She looks up some information on her computer and fills out a blue piece of paper.  She scoots it towards me through the metal tunnel and I study what is written. “Pamela Skjolsvik FRND.”  This is puzzling.  What does F-R-N-D stand for?  It takes me a second.  Friend. 

     She points to the door and tells me to walk through the outside corridor and head towards the next building.  Once outside, I am greeted by a silent steel gate that buzzes on my approach.  I push through it to the outdoor walkway and continue walking. The woman’s voice booms from the intercom, freezing me in my tracks.

     “Close the gate please.”  Oh, shit.  I push the heavy gate into the closed position but it won’t snap back into place.  I stand there and wait, feeling like a kid being called on in class, the one who doesn’t know the answer and picks his nose while he thinks about it.  The buzzer sounds and I slam the door forcefully into the locked position.      

     The sun is blinding. I reach for my sunglasses at the neckline of my shirt, but they’re back in the Vibe, squished under the seat with the contents of my purse.  I squint my way towards the prison entrance and enter a regular door that doesn’t require being buzzed in.  A white male guard sits at a desk.  He looks up at me from his newspaper and nods.  There are two restrooms opposite him.  I figure this is my last chance, so I zip into the ladies room to fluff my hair and check my teeth in the reflective thing masquerading as a mirror. For some reason I feel rushed, like if I spend more than three minutes behind this door, I could arouse the guard’s suspicion that I’m excavating a balloon of heroin or a small pocket knife from the areas that weren’t patted down by the female guard.  These thoughts don’t help my pee anxiety, which strikes whenever I enter a public restroom.

     I am beyond nervous, but there’s no turning back or running away as fast as my sensible shoes will take me. I’m too far in.  

Here's me immersing myself in the working life of an EMT.

Look at the worried expression on Dan's face as I operate the "Jaws of Life."

You too can immerse yourself in something and write about it. Check out this contest offered by "Brevity" and  win yourself a shower cap!

H is for...

Psyche!  This post is totally not about the Hunger Games, even though the book (and yes even the movie) is all about DEATH.  Instead, I'm going to try my darndest to kind of incorporate the Hunger Games into a long drawn out metaphor about what it's like to be a writer.  

If you're a writer, you're used to sitting alone at your computer sharpening the weapons in your writer's toolbox.  Sometimes, you think you're getting pretty good at this writing thing.  At least that's what your Mom tells you, but she doesn't count. You're hungry to see if  your skills are really that stellar, so you venture out into the world to shoot a squirrel.  

Squirrel?

Wait a second.  I take that back. You don't kill a squirrel because that would be senseless and cruel, unless you plan on eating it and I don't know, squirrel meat just sounds kind of yucky.  Instead, you take your coffee stained, wrinkled pages to your trusty writer's group or you send your manuscript to a trusted friend to see what they think about your supposedly mad writing skills.

There is a long pause.  Sometimes it starts out with a vague "that was interesting" comment and then you hear the dreaded words that no writer ever wants to hear, "Primrose Everdeen!"  I mean, "BUT."  And there's always a but.  Why?  Because writing is subjective.  Some people think the Twilight books are the cat's pajamas and I think they're...well, um, uniquely different, but that's another story.

Okay, so let's say there's is a reaping and you volunteer your story because your younger sister's story is kind of weak. And you meet Lenny Kravitz, I mean this cool person that you really like and she gives you a writer's hat and convinces you that you're going to nail this one and be victorious in this game.  So you submit.

After hitting send, you run off into the forest to get as far away from the other writers as you can and you wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.  And just when you're about to give up, a balloon drops from the sky and says, "Congratulations.  We have whittled down all the entries to the top forty and yours is one of them.  We'll let you know soon. Thanks for your patience."

So for the first time in a long time you've got hope and hope is good. But then you realize you're going to have to kill Peeta to be the victor in this game of publication.  And who wants to kill Peeta?  

I certainly don't want to kill Peeta.  

But it's all for naught because you get rejected from this book, so you contemplate eating some poison berries for like a second and then you realize you don't have to do anything that rash because you and Peeta can both win.

So what's the moral of this story?  There are several. You can't win if you don't play the game.  Don't kill the people who help you along the way.  In fact, prop them up and support them in any way you can. And whatever you do, don't give up.  This writing game is a bitch, but lucky for us, there can be more than one victor.  Even luckier, it's not televised.

G is also for the Gatesville Prison Cats

You can read my posts about them here and here.

G is for...

GRIEF

     One of the first people I interviewed for my master's thesis, which is now my book, was a grief counselor at a hospice program in Colorado.  Her job scared me. I couldn't fathom going to work each day and having to deal with so much sadness. I had a hard enough time dealing with the office politics at my own boring day job at the time, so the thought of this woman's daily interactions with grieving people made me nervous.  It's not that I have ice water running through my veins, it's just that I have a tendency to absorb the emotions of those around me like a sponge. I naturally assumed that to do her job effectively she would have to put some sort of emotional safeguard up between her and the patient.  Like most people who make assumptions, I made an ass out of me. This woman told me that the day she stopped feeling was the day she would have to quit. 

     Grief is a funny thing.  Not ha-ha funny, but curious funny.  Even if you've never experienced a loss, you've probably heard of Kubler-Ross's Five Stages of Grief, which has been debated recently.  What I've learned through my journey into death is that there is no expiration date for grief, nor is there a right or a wrong way to grieve.  Some people want comfort, while some people want to be left alone to figure it out for themselves.  Recently there has been a movement to classify complicated grief as a mental disorder.  I think that's totally wrong, but that's just my humble opinion.

I have yet to experience a major loss, so I don't know how I'll grieve or how long it will take to "recover," if there is such a thing.  (Don't even get me started on closure.)  I've experienced two miscarriages, the death of five beloved pets, and I've had a few relationships end badly, so I've gotten a taste of those emotions, but I'm not sure I've felt the full wallop yet.  I know it's nothing I can avoid.  It will happen.  How can it not?  

I'm human.