A Bloody, Awful Job

A few years after my divorce and living in a crooked house with a feral cat who used the crawlspace as his abode, I realized I needed to find something that paid more than minimum wage. I was getting nowhere and I absolutely hated the dump I was living in. I knew how absolutely horrible the living conditions were when my teenage daughter stayed with friends or cousins rather than come home. I didn't blame her. The neighbors were low life asshats who cranked up their music so the whole block had to listen. The other neighbor burned his garbage late at night to avoid paying for waste disposal. My landlord was a creep who hired drunks to do maintenance. I once came home to find one of his hired help standing in the middle of our living room. I could smell the alcohol fumes from ten feet away. Instead of yelling at him or looking like I wanted to scream (which I so wanted to) I laughed and asked him if he had forgotten some tools. I wanted him to think it was perfectly fine that he was in my home without permission and that I wasn't threatened by him.  Fortunately, it worked and he soon left. There were times when I'd come home and know they had been in the house. It was pointless complaining to the slumlord or even going to the police. So, I had to find something so I could get out of this nightmare. I noticed an ad in the paper for help cleaning where the salary was nearly three times what I was making. Hey, I love to clean. I can do that! Living my childhood with a mother who didn't put much effort into a clean house did something to me and my sisters. We like order and clean floors. Rewashing old food encrusted forks or walking on the kitchen floor as our feet stuck to the grime turned us all into compulsive cleaners, so this job sounded awesome. A few days later I met with two women who were anxious to hire someone right away. They had just started their business and claimed they were so busy they had to hire people. They started out telling me all about the great salary, overtime and great health insurance. Wow, I was so ready to start. Then they told me what I'd be doing. They cleaned up after the dead. It could be and usually was a natural death, but sometimes these poor souls were forgotten and it was a bit messy. Rarely, the death was a murder, although suicides were more common and depending on the gender, messier with the male, who usually ended his life with a gun. I'm sure my eyes were as big as saucers as they tried to ease me into the reality of what the job entailed. Before I could say anything, they said think about it for a day or two, then give them a decision. I think if they had wanted an answer right then I would have said, yes. I was desperate to leave the hell house, but after thinking about it and knowing I could never wipe brain matter off walls or mop blood from hardwood floors, I declined the job offer. It takes an unusual kind of person to be able to literally face death in the eye day in and day out. I wasn't going to have to see the individual, but a lot of them left enough reminders of their unfortunate demise. 

I'm mentioning all this after having just finished reading, 'Blood Beneath my Feet,' by Joseph Scott Morgan, who was a forensic death investigator in New Orleans and Atlanta, Georgia. Before I read the e-book, I had found an interview with Morgan on Ladbible. Holy moly, this was riveting stuff. Morgan talks about his abusive childhood in Louisiana and how he began his career as the investigator who went to scenes so gruesome it's difficult for people to comprehend the depravity of mankind. It's not like CSI and Bones where everything is so clean and the experts can pinpoint the death to the minute. It's ugly and messy and awful. The smell never leaves you. The sight of children who starved to death can never be erased although he notes many like him who deal with death on a daily basis try to wash away the images with drugs and alcohol, which was his choice until the panic attacks hit. After years of trying to compartmentalize his job with his personal life, his brain said, "enough." His psychiatrist told him he had the worst case of PTSD she had ever seen and would make sure he never worked as a forensic investigator ever again. Morgan now teaches and has a podcast appropriately named, 'Body Bags.' I found the e-book through Google books for $10, well worth the price. If you are more apt to want a hardcover be prepared to shell out $300 to $500. I have no idea why they are so expensive and I clearly recommend the e-book. People in the medical field, firefighters and police see things we were mortals could not endure, so I try not to judge too harshly when they seem callous or find gallows humor in a death. It's just a mechanism to cope with the ugliness of society. 

Anyway, I highly recommend reading, 'Blood Beneath my Feet.' A few other very good reads if this genre interests you...

'Smoke Gets in your Eyes,' by Caitlin Doughty.

'Stiff,' by Mary Roach.