Russian novels.
Of course I recognized names. There were people here I’d met, in my own peculiar context, at the crematorium or the Silver Doors. Their backstories humanized them, gave them families and hobbies and obsessions with heavy agricultural machinery, and the more I read the more the details gnawed at me. These are people, but at work they are also logistical puzzles to solve. Each case in the prep room is assessed by age and weight and muscle mass and obvious infirmities (bedsores, knife wounds). The goal, always, is to demonstrate, through the application of Permaglo and Rectifiant,that something as chaotic as death can be displayed. My days go more smoothly if I don’t think so much about what, or rather whom, I’m doing. The work is emotionally lighter when the dead remain anonymous, former someones wrapped in white plastic who’ve already lost their someone-ness by the time they get to me. To embalm a man is one thing. To embalm a man who had a dog named Oreo is another.
“Here’s one,” Annie says. “‘The family wishes to thank those management and staff of the Charleswood Care Centre, Health Sciences Centre, Victoria General Hospital, Grace Hospital and Winnipeg Regional Health Authority that treated Donna with respect and dignity, and wishes God’s mercy on those that didn’t.’”
Monday, the Factory: Respect and dignity for Mrs. H., stored until now in the cooler, means honouring her wish not to be embalmed. Before she died she made arrangements with Neil, and she told him she wanted to go out like her late husband, in what’s called a Bodyguard. The Bodyguard is a human-sized Ziploc bag. We keep a roll of them in the prep room, bracketed to the wall like giant paper towels: the body goes in, the air is sucked out with a Shop-Vac and the free end is wound up and secured with a heavy plastic tie. The bagged body goes into the casket, and the casket goes to the funeral without any worry that the corpse will raise a gassy fuss during the service. There’s no viewing. Neil discourages open-casket services with the Bodyguard, on the same principle as with the boat accident victim: Grandma in a Baggie is not a Beautiful Memory Picture. But we’ll dress her anyway, “in case the family wants a peek,” Adina says.
“You go right ahead,” says Glenn. “I’m not touching a body that hasn’t been embalmed.”
No offence to Mrs. H., it’s not her fault she’s dead, but Glenn won’t lay hands on her unless she’s washed and Dis-Spray’d, and that’s his choice. But as far as science goes he’s on loose gravel. The idea that dead bodies, unless they’re embalmed or shrink-wrapped, pose a health risk is undertaker propaganda. Mitford debunked this forty-plus years ago, citing, among others, a pathologist from San Francisco General Hospital who put it this way: if dead bodies sneezed, we’d have something to worry about, airborne pathogens and all, but they don’t, making them less of a communicable disease risk than the living. You’d be more likely to catch something from the widow at the funeral than the body. Embalming is an aesthetic tool, and the Bodyguard keeps the corpse from ripening during the pastor’s homily, but neither should be framed, nor sold, as public-health necessities. Yet they are sold that way. Not as a ruse, but because Glenn and Shannon and Eirik were taught that the dead are health hazards and that the undertaker’s role is to protect the public. Remember the mantra. Treat every body as if it were your own father or aunt, but add the qualifier: wear rubber gloves, and keep a sensible distance until it’s embalmed or burned.
The woman’s belly and sides are deep green and her arms and legs are limp. The rigor mortis has already faded, and she’s starting to bloat, so Adina opts for a quick one-two with the trocar to vent the gases, handing me the wand so I can try. Mostly I’m an orifice and nail boy in the prep room, but I take a stab at it, literally,
Of course I recognized names. There were people here I’d met, in my own peculiar context, at the crematorium or the Silver Doors. Their backstories humanized them, gave them families and hobbies and obsessions with heavy agricultural machinery, and the more I read the more the details gnawed at me. These are people, but at work they are also logistical puzzles to solve. Each case in the prep room is assessed by age and weight and muscle mass and obvious infirmities (bedsores, knife wounds). The goal, always, is to demonstrate, through the application of Permaglo and Rectifiant,that something as chaotic as death can be displayed. My days go more smoothly if I don’t think so much about what, or rather whom, I’m doing. The work is emotionally lighter when the dead remain anonymous, former someones wrapped in white plastic who’ve already lost their someone-ness by the time they get to me. To embalm a man is one thing. To embalm a man who had a dog named Oreo is another.
“Here’s one,” Annie says. “‘The family wishes to thank those management and staff of the Charleswood Care Centre, Health Sciences Centre, Victoria General Hospital, Grace Hospital and Winnipeg Regional Health Authority that treated Donna with respect and dignity, and wishes God’s mercy on those that didn’t.’”
Monday, the Factory: Respect and dignity for Mrs. H., stored until now in the cooler, means honouring her wish not to be embalmed. Before she died she made arrangements with Neil, and she told him she wanted to go out like her late husband, in what’s called a Bodyguard. The Bodyguard is a human-sized Ziploc bag. We keep a roll of them in the prep room, bracketed to the wall like giant paper towels: the body goes in, the air is sucked out with a Shop-Vac and the free end is wound up and secured with a heavy plastic tie. The bagged body goes into the casket, and the casket goes to the funeral without any worry that the corpse will raise a gassy fuss during the service. There’s no viewing. Neil discourages open-casket services with the Bodyguard, on the same principle as with the boat accident victim: Grandma in a Baggie is not a Beautiful Memory Picture. But we’ll dress her anyway, “in case the family wants a peek,” Adina says.
“You go right ahead,” says Glenn. “I’m not touching a body that hasn’t been embalmed.”
No offence to Mrs. H., it’s not her fault she’s dead, but Glenn won’t lay hands on her unless she’s washed and Dis-Spray’d, and that’s his choice. But as far as science goes he’s on loose gravel. The idea that dead bodies, unless they’re embalmed or shrink-wrapped, pose a health risk is undertaker propaganda. Mitford debunked this forty-plus years ago, citing, among others, a pathologist from San Francisco General Hospital who put it this way: if dead bodies sneezed, we’d have something to worry about, airborne pathogens and all, but they don’t, making them less of a communicable disease risk than the living. You’d be more likely to catch something from the widow at the funeral than the body. Embalming is an aesthetic tool, and the Bodyguard keeps the corpse from ripening during the pastor’s homily, but neither should be framed, nor sold, as public-health necessities. Yet they are sold that way. Not as a ruse, but because Glenn and Shannon and Eirik were taught that the dead are health hazards and that the undertaker’s role is to protect the public. Remember the mantra. Treat every body as if it were your own father or aunt, but add the qualifier: wear rubber gloves, and keep a sensible distance until it’s embalmed or burned.
The woman’s belly and sides are deep green and her arms and legs are limp. The rigor mortis has already faded, and she’s starting to bloat, so Adina opts for a quick one-two with the trocar to vent the gases, handing me the wand so I can try. Mostly I’m an orifice and nail boy in the prep room, but I take a stab at it, literally,
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