Shouts From Down Under

Subject; Death

Be warned, people sensitive about death might want to move on to another blog entry this time.

One day I'll write on the subject of flowers, Christmas trees, a big bag of lollies, or something else warm and fuzzy, comfort zoned.

But this particular day we stopped by the local lawn cemetery to see my wife's stepfather's resting place and visit the graves of an uncomfortable number of young people, all taken before they had a fair chance at life.
One had taken his own.

Grandpa passed away in June this year, just a few weeks ago. The grass has hardly grown back over the disturbed soil yet.

My wife's mother phoned us to say he'd fallen off his electric Ezy chair while she was outside washing the lawn mower after the garden guys had cut the grass.
He'd had an aneurysm that the doctors warned could take him any time. And it did.

So we drove across the Leven River to their place, and mum had the ambulance paramedics there, but she knew it was way too late for anything other than to pronounce him dead. Yes, dead. No euphemisms or softening it. Sometimes it really feels better, more comforting, to just say it how it is. Then the fear can be overcome.

You see, it's something I've always feared my whole life. Dead people. Someone dying and having to see them dead, to deal with the body, the look of them, the lack of response, wondering if they are still breathing. The stunned look on Grandma's white face. Her spaced out eyes and vagueness. That's a terrible expression of grief. Quietness and silent anguish.

All that stuff that I suppose for doctors, nurses, mortuary staff, morgue attendants, ambos, soldiers and whoever else, is just part of life.

But for me, I had never even seen a dead body. Not had to help people deal with it. Close relatives who needed support in the chaos, the loss, the grief.

As a kid the thing that scared me about dead people, sounds ridiculous now. What if they weren't dead? What if a mistake was made. Perhaps after a couple of hours they might suddenly rattle in a huge breath and start clanking along again, heart restarted miraculously and life be back to normal. That was a near thing everyone would exclaim.

That's not how it is though. Is it?

The reason I'm writing this is, to reassure others who may have this fear, to put their worries aside. Perhaps it might be different if it's a stranger. Maybe then there is a repulsion, a dread of the body, the alien strangeness of life no longer there. But when it's someone you love, loved, there is no fear. You can deal with their remains, the body they once inhabited, easily. Lovingly. It's the least you can do and you do it gladly, respectfully. It's not a chore.

I read a book once with a fascinating study about bodies and decay. It was forensic research on a property somewhere in the USA. No doubt some WDC people would know of it. They dispose of bodies there, all in the name of research, to see the various rates of decay under typical conditions that may exist in crime cases. Murder, accident etc.
There was another book about a strange subject. The TIME OF DEATH. In this day of modern technology and science, no one can accurately tell EXACTLY when someone died. If you don't believe me google it. And the body temperature can be all over the place depending on conditions such as wind chill, bacteria beginning to break down that makes the body grow hotter for a time, after death.

My point to this whole discussion, is that I no longer have the fear that I did before. Now I know what it's like to see someone, touch them and sit around the lounge room for a half hour talking with family members, with the dead person lying there on the carpet.
What if I tell some of the details. Things that people don't talk about. Because I think, for me, its that people don't talk about it. A forbidden subject.

But that wouldn't take away the fear for you. So best to leave it to when it happens for you, if it's necessary. I can say that it's not a fearful thing for me any more.

So, we found the various plaques in the lawn cemetery, saw the grave of a young man who'd been in an accident on a quad bike. Another was suicide. Another was swept away along with his uncle while riding through a west coast creek.

There was another squall of rain about to hit and the wind was icy, encouraging us to move towards the car. I noticed a grave prepared by staff for a funeral later in the day. It was open, waiting for it's occupant. I've never looked in an open grave before. Only when the coffin is sitting on the straps ready to be lowered, and the flowers are everywhere, relatives weeping and it's not the done thing to go poking around disrespectfully or otherwise.

Don't misunderstand me, I don't have an unhealthy morbidity with the subject of death. But in facing up to the practical details it has helped me deal with the fear. So here was this open grave. I took a couple of photos.

And here they are.

That's what it looks like before someone is laid to rest.
One day it will be our turn.


Isn't it strange, that on that day, our funeral, the only person missing, is the reason everyone else is there.

Sparky