There has always been a fear lurking amongst my ever so safe and cautious being-- A fear that haunts and chills my bones, robbing me of journeys and dazzling escapades. Controlling me like an insecure female seeking security through an abusive relationship. It entangles all my deep rooted strengths, causing me to falter and stumble. Tripping my soul seeking steps of patent leather and shiny ribbons tied in tiny bows. The force of its nature pulls and taunts me, tasting of playground dirt and dust. It is dark, numbing and dirty. As a child, it stopped me from climbing trees, hanging from monkey bars, diving into adventure, and riding my bicycle without the use of my anxious griping hands that longed for constant safekeeping. Perhaps it is lack of bravery - afraid of the unknown and reprecussions unforseen.
I grew up in a place that rested their refuge in the hands of a higher power. One that gives grace if you mind your P's and Q's, sit pretty one day a week on an oak bench praying silently and refraining from liquor and pre-marital sex. In abiding, you have a vision engraved in your mind. One that consists of paved streets of gold, joyous souls rejoicing and whispers of angel's wings. Yet, that envision of sanctuary could barely block the ghostly fear of death in my mind.
The passing of my grandfather was my first encounter with a loss of life. At the time, I was thirteen and had a full understanding of the situation. There was no need for an explanation given by a parent stating, "We will never see him again. He is a bright star in the heavens." Cancer had taken the man I loved dearly. I loathed that sickness. I was robbed of the man that called me, "Pepa's Girl" and allowed me to climb in his lap and dig for Trident gum in his shirt pocket, fully knowing I was too young to chew bubble gum and would swallow it whole within two minutes. He was the same man that introduced me to beef jerky, despite the vegetarian lifestyle I would eventually lead in my twenties. He kept our family together, insisting on big family Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. And in an instant, those moments disappeared. He would be nothing more than a soulless body in an overpriced box with brass embellishments.
"Manda, I saw Pepa sleeping."
The thought of my grandfather lifeless sent a cold rush through my young body. I was appalled that my brother, five years younger than I, attended the open casket visitation. He didn't quite grasp how our Pepa had become a "glittery star" in the sky. I stayed home that evening.
My second loss occurred in my college years. She was and continues to be the definition of friendship. Until that day, death had ever been so incredibly real to me.
At the age of twenty-two, I landed a job as a local newspaper journalist turned assistant editor. Nothing thrilled me more than chasing police cars, fire trucks and ambulances in hopes of catching that signature photo for the front page accompanied by a thrilling article. I was a southern belle with a bite -posing paparazzi with a Canon EOS-1D. I was faced with sadness on more than one occasion while writing for the newspaper, witnessing families losing their homes to fire, interviewing parent-less children due to car accidents or murders, viewing the body of a raped and mangled twenty-six year old woman.
My journalism profession forced me to look at death head on. I eventually met Dillon who was associated with the state morgue, and gave me personal access to the forensic science scene. I pondered over this invitation for weeks, until finally I willingly agreed it was time to face my biggest fear in life.
"You must vow to not write this as front page news."
"Scouts honor."
The case was of a local man, momentarily ruled as suicide, however due to a schizophrenic son, others questioned the situation. Dillon was due to the state morgue for observation of the body and asked me to come along. I had no idea what I was in for, yet part of me really wanted to see the unseen. He swore me to secrecy of the current case and tossed a stack of crime scene photos in my lap. I froze. My hands were shaking and I nearly choked on my own gasp.
"Are you going to be able to handle this?"
"Yes, of course"
Dillon gave me a run through the events of the case and his thoughts on what happened. It was a two hour drive to the state morgue and I spent the entire journey collecting my thoughts, thumbing through the photos, memorizing every gruesome detail to rule of out the element of shock once I arrived.
We walked in the main room. Four tables made of concrete lie empty with towering lamps shining down. The room was damp and reeked of formaldehyde. My first thought was that I would never wear the sweater I had on at the time again. I imagined the pink threads soaking in the deathly scent. Dillon motioned for me to follow him around the corner and as I rounded it, he flung open an oversize silver door. My mouth dropped. There laid dozens of bodies on stretchers waiting for autopsies in an oversized refridgerated room. I don't know what I expected. Peaceful sleep-like bodies with folded hands perhaps. However, their expressions weren't peaceful. In fact, many looked horrified. Their bodies were stiff with rigor mortis, crooked limps frozen and unmoving, reaching for the heavens.
My stomach felt as if it were taking repeated punches of a strong fist. My swallows were hard, my sense of smell overcome. The body I examined through photos was wheeled out to the autopsy room. He was naked. His body was stiff. His arms were slightly tightening due to muscle stiffening after his death. The examiners worked on the body, moving each limp up and down with full force, as if pumping water from a well, to loosen the stiff limbs in order for it to lay flat. I could hear the crunching sounds of his arms as he was moved about. His scalp was lanced, the inside of his head exposed. Eventually everything was scooped out, until I could see the back of his eyelids. Tiny pieces of organs were snipped and placed in tiny clear bags for examining. The remainders were put in a large bucket lined with a garbage bag that was placed on the floor below the table. A t-shaped cut was precisely made on his chest then pried open with an oversized clamp and saw-like machine. More snipping of organs took place, and remains were thrown in the bucket below, nearly filling it to the brim.
His body had been completely hollowed. I stared intently at his face until it became mere shapes. I could almost see straight through him. I was searching for his soul and curious about his life. Where was his wife? What were his passions? Where would he spend eternity?
"What about his organs?"
Dillon glanced over at the body. The examiner then proceeded to pick up the large bag of the man’s organs from out of the bucket and placed it inside the vacant cadaver. A large container full of greyish dust and tiny rock particles were poured on the inside of his hollow body.
"What is that they are pouring in him?"
"It is the equivalent to kitty litter. It holds down the stench."
They then proceeded to pack the remaining empty space of his open body with newspaper. I was beyond disturbed. His body was sewn up with what resembled thick kite string. His mouth wired and glued shut as well as his eyelids.
By this time, I was surrounded by four autopsies being performed simultaneously. Mentally, I was not prepared to view the horrific accidents of all these victims. I watched examiners tear into Big Macs and fries in between autopsies. I witnessed the body of a man being stripped of his clothing and as his shoes were taken off, his feet were detached from his legs and still inside his shoes. Bone fragments and dirt crumbled to the floor. I examined an elderly man who died from a blow to the head by his own daughter. Greed and money brought him to his death.
I excused myself to the bathroom. I wanted to get away from the smell, wash my hands and breathe elsewhere. The hallway to the bathroom had a singed smell. A smell as if something had been burning. I glanced to my right and on the floor near the wall laid two objects fully wrapped in white cloth and heavy tape. I was almost afraid to ask. I ran to the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. The odour was captured in my nose and I covered my face with Kleenex, attempting to force the smell away.
"Dillon, what is in the hallway on the floor. It smells of burnt ashes."
"Those are two children under the ages of three. They were alone and in a fire early this morning in their home. We think their parents were away. We still have yet to find who the children belong to."
When I arrived home late that evening, I stripped down to nothing outside my apartment. There was no way I was bringing the clothes I wore to the morgue into my home. I showered for nearly an hour in hopes of washing away this experience that I felt would forever haunt me. Later, I cried myself sleep.
I consider myself quite lucky as far as experiences are concerned. Despite my youth, I have had the chance to experience several incredible career opportunities. By doing so, I learned an obscene amount about the corporate world, people in general and most importantly, it forced me to examine the life I lead. The life I once in fact followed instead of led. You see, I have only truly discovered my own being within the last couple of years. This experience in itself has given me endless opportunities. It has taken me nearly four years to find a place in the back of my mind to store my experience of facing death. But, I conquered it. Death no longer defeats my soul nor does it keep me from living life to the fullest.
Security is mostly a superstition.
It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men
as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright
exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.
-Helen Keller
