Have a safe and happy Halloween everybody!
October is a palpable time of year. It encompasses the mystery of life from beyond, the dead are remembered, revered or feared in balanced fervor. I love Halloween! I like this time of year to remember that the spirit of people and animals alike may still have some hold on this world. This is the only time of year that I display in my own home skulls, skeletons, headstones and all the creepy crawly things that we usually shy away from. I like the freedom of being strange and macabre because what I do for a living is usually seen as strange and macabre. I am a mortician and I care for the dead and I love what I do.
The history of my profession is timeless. From the beginning of time, life has been born and life has ceased, there is no other way. We cannot have life without the end of it. To prepare myself for this post I have been listening to the podcast LORE, Aaron Mahnke has an otherworldly way of telling stories that make us reconsider whether or not ghosts are living amongst us. I have also been watching the series Haunted, where people tell their stories of being abducted, cursed, wounded or frightened by unseen forces. I am not a big believer of entities from beyond plaguing us with their unfinished business, undying love or need for revenge. That being said, I have found some interesting links that may make you think twice about where that creak in the floorboards is really coming from.
And of course my own ghost stories:
It was early evening when we got the call. The air was crisp and cold. There were patches of black ice on the roads that threatened a tire slip and mounds of dirty snow were piled high on the sides of the streets. The man we were going to pick up was found dead in his apartment on the second floor of the building. It was an older complex which could mean a challenge with stairs, narrow hallways and small door openings. I explained the possible challenges that we might face to my partner who had never been on a transport call before, this would be his first time out. We pulled the van up to the gate that entered the complex, the deceased man’s mother greeted us bundled in her coat, seemingly calm as she described where we should park. The procedure I had in place was for one person to enter the space, speak with the family and assess the situation, then retrieve the second person, our medical cot and any supplies we may need. I took the lead since my partner was new.
As the mother of the deceased and I walked up to the apartment we were greeted by a man who was standing guard to the doorway we would enter. I shook his hand and introduced myself. He was a family friend, there in support of the grieving mother. The mother seemingly unperturbed by the fact that her son was dead and his body was on the other side of the apartment door tried to rush in opening it to whisk me inside, but I had to slow her down. Many people in a state of shock like this can get comfort from talking and seeing that I am genuinely concerned for them and more interested in the person than just doing the job. I grasped her hand and asked her who found her son and what had happened? I was trying to get a sense of the situation. She was uninterested in chatting though, she quickly told me that she had found her son, that she had come over to his apartment to check on him because she hadn’t heard from him in several days and he had only just moved to this new place. She then proceeded to take me inside. As she opened the door, the air inside was ripe with the scent of advanced decomposition, acidic and eye watering. The door opened into a living room that was filled with piled boxes unopened and labeled with what was contained in each one, clothes, books, dishes. On the other side of the high mounds of boxes was a modest kitchen with similar boxes scattered along the counter tops in various stages of being unpacked. The sink contained used dishes with crumbs of a meal scattered on a plate, a crusting of milk at the bottom of a glass. We made a right at the kitchen and started down a narrow hallway closer to the acrid smell.
The first thing I saw was a black and bloated leg hanging off the edge of a mattress which was sitting on the floor with no frame. As we entered the room the rest of his body was in the same state, he was big, dark, bloated and covered in blisters, meaning skin slip (skin slip occurs when the top layer of skin detaches and easily bursts and sloughs off when touched). He was lying on the mattress on his back. I turned to the mother and rushed her out of the room, I felt that she had probably seen enough already. To protect her from further trauma I asked her and the friend to wait outside while I retrieved my partner and got to work. As I had surmised, there was no elevator, only concrete and metal stairs with tight turns down to the icy parking lot. I was a little worried since this was my partners first transport and one never knows how a person might react to the horror waiting upstairs so I bluntly told him, “this is almost the worst of the worst scenario for your first call”. I walked through how we would be handling this situation but internally prepared myself to call for back-up if it proved too much for the new guy. We hand carried the cot up the steps, taking note of the conditions because this would also be our way down, only on the way down the cot would be laden with the weight of the dead man.
We were able to fit the cot just inside the front door of the apartment with the ability to close it for privacy. First we lowered the cot as far to the ground as it would go. Since this transport would require the man be slid down the hallway from his bedroom, once we reached the living room, it would be easier to maneuver him onto the cot with it closer to the ground. My partner and I then dawned our gloves and retrieved a “body bag” (this is an enclosed plastic bag that would zip up to contain any fluids and make for easier transport), at least that is what it said on the package. We then made our way down the hallway to the bedroom. As we entered the room, I kept an eye on my partner for signs of running away or throwing up, both situations have happened more times than I can count. I watched him look at the man. The man’s skin was dark and he was bloated, his facial features were unrecognizable due to the swelling. Almost every surface of his skin was covered in blisters the size of teacup saucers just ready to burst and slip off. Just think of a time that you have burnt yourself on the stove or curling iron but much, much worse.
On the floor of the bedroom were piles of clothing and bedding, like the man had been sorting his laundry before he died. Gratefully, partner proved himself capable in keeping his lunch to this point. He asked me what we needed to do and as I instructed, he did what needed to be done. It turned out the “body bag” was actually just a sheet of plastic that could be folded over a person and sealed with sticky tape! Ugh, “Okay we can make this work” I thought in my head. We rolled the man slowly onto one side, this task was made difficult by the blisters bursting with every touch making his skin slippery and almost impossible to hold on to. We pushed a clean linen sheet and the sheet of plastic and a white canvas tarp with black handles underneath him. Then rolled him to his other side and pulled the materials out so that it was completely underneath him. It was messy and smelly and not very dignified but at the end of it all we had wrapped the man in our materials successfully. Now, the only plausible way to get him from the bed to the gurney was to pull the straps of the canvas, slide him off of the bed and down the hallway. As we pulled, the man proved large enough that as we made our way the plastic sheeting and the man’s limbs slipped and bumped the doorways. By the time we got him to the living room he had left behind a trail of liquid and sloughed skin, there was no other way around this without a proper body bag. All we had to do now was slightly lift the man’s torso onto the cot and slide him into position. Everything worked like a charm until the last few inches when suddenly, he got stuck! We pulled and pulled but he would not slide any further and his feet were still dangling off the end of the gurney! We strained and pulled and pushed without making any headway. I had no idea what was happening so we stopped to take a break, both of us red faced and sweating from the strain. My partner had the idea that the end strap of the tarp was stuck on the end of the cot and, he was right. We released the strap and thankfully slid the man the rest of the way onto the cot. We secured him with the cot straps, covered him completely with the sheet and then placed our cot cover over everything. We did it! We made it this far with few mishaps. We wiped up the mess down the hallway and covered the mattress with the bedding as best we could to protect the mother from having to see the huge soiled stain her son had left there.
We walked outside where the mother and the friend were waiting for us. I walked back into the apartment with the mother and we talked about what would happen next and how the mess would get cleaned up. I gave her instructions on who to call and who could help her. She gave me a hug and then my partner and I prepared for the decent down the stairs to our van. I asked the friend if he would be willing to help us with this part and thankfully, he agreed. One set of wheels at a time we stepped the gurney down the treacherous concrete stairs and ultimately into the van waiting in the parking lot. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fast but it was as dignified as we could make it. We said goodbye to the mother and her friend and pulled away, thankful that we did our job as dignified as possible in such a sad situation.
My partner was my husband, and this was our first transport together after opening our business Tolman Trade Services (TTS).
Hi everyone. I know, I know, it has been a very long time since I have posted anything on my page. Well, I am happy to announce that starting October 1st, the blogs will begin again! New stories, updates and information. I am so excited and can not wait! Stay tuned!
It is midnight. Most people are tucked in bed sleeping soundly. Your funeral director is up working dressed in a smock and gloves, preparing the dead. Their phone is always nearby just in case of the inevitable phone call notifying them of another death. Your funeral director is always ready, always prepared, day or night.
During the last few months I have posted very little. I started a business and have been working on some other ventures. Today I wanted to share with you other funeral directors who have been using social media to convey their messages. I have compiled a list of links and descriptions and created another tab on my website called “Others in the industry”. It is important to celebrate the brave souls who are willing to speak out and teach others about the mystery surrounding the inevitable, our death. I have a great respect for those who talk about death in a respectful way. There are no gimmicky, romanticizing, dark lords here, just real people who handle real death and understand your fear of it. https://chelseatolman.com/those-in-our-industry/
To arrange an interview, or request a signed copy of my book “Speaking of the Dead”, please contact me directly at 801-702-9202, email to: firstname.lastname@example.org, and follow me on social media at twitter.com/chelsea_tolman, instagram.com/thembalmergirl, or facebook.com/mbalmergirl
Before you read this story I felt this a good opportunity to address that there are many industry professionals whom I admire and also tell their stories on social media platforms. It is important in our current society to address the many questions raised when it comes to death and how we care for the dead. I am working on adding a new page to my website dedicated to sharing links of these funeral directors. So in the next couple of weeks if you have any suggestions of who should be added to this page please message me on instagram @thembalmergirl or email me at email@example.com and of course you may always send me a message from the contact page.
Her hands were clutched in front of her. She made small, nervous motions as she walked. She was slightly bent from age like something heavy weighed upon her shoulders and her feet shuffled along the carpet. Her head was down, her eyes focused on the floor and she never looked up as she walked, seeming to be nervous of what was to come and why she was here. She was surrounded by her children who, whether on purpose or not, ringed her protectively as they all entered the funeral home. As I walked towards them, I adjusted my suit and checked that the buttons on my jacket were fastened, always wanting to look professional and capable. I observed the group for signs of defensiveness, fear, sadness, or any of the other “feels” that are typical of people who have just experienced a death. She came across that she was in need of comfort and support, her family around her were shielding and wary.
I greeted her first, extending my sympathies that the death of her husband was the reason we were meeting. I stretched out my hand with the intent of holding hers for just a moment and to hopefully create some sense of ease that is needed in these moments. She quickly recoiled both hands to her chest and sank further into her crowd of defender. Still never looking up but in a mighty voice contradicting her small frame she demanded, “Who are you?!” I took a small respectful step back and answered, “I am your funeral director.” In response she looked up into my eyes and with a glare belying her previously diminutive stature said, “Well, I … don’t … like … you!” Proving that sometimes I am wrong in my assessment of people.
In hindsight, moments such as these can be comical. But the distress experienced while the situation is occurring are real and painful. Some people fear the mortuary and the funeral director. Some believe that we are out to get their money and steal their loved one’s body parts to make the painful experience they are living more painful. Some choose to be cocooned in a world where death doesn’t exist for them because in our society, we are so far removed from death that it is a mystery to most. I admit, this is the easier way – until someone dies. Then, it becomes a trauma that no one should have to experience. It is hard to watch someone internally wrestling with what they perceived wasn’t even possible to the reality that it has happened and now they are living a nightmare.
In an attempt to take the hostility out of her comment and show her that I did not take her remark personally, I answered with a friendly smile and said “Of course, I understand.” I made my introductions to the rest of the family who were silently mouthing to me “I’m sorry.” I waved them off, assuring them that it was fine and then spoke to them all as a whole as to what they should expect during the time they would be spending with me. I then asked them all to follow me and turned around to lead them to the room where we would be spending the next hour or so together. As I walked away, I heard the widow say “I don’t trust her, let’s get someone else.”
Comments like these usually come from being in pain and in shock and not knowing what to do with these emotions, it can’t be taken personally. I knew at this moment that it wouldn’t matter who her funeral director was, she would feel the same about any of us. So, understanding this, I continued walking away, acting as if I didn’t hear her.
During the arrangements, most of the questions I asked the widow were ignored by her and had to be repeated by a family member. I would ask a question, a family member would echo my question to her, and only then would the widow give an answer. She was determined to show me who was boss, and I was obliged to let her think she was in control. This went on during the entire arrangement. During this time the family would give each other side glances, roll their eyes and sometimes even giggle at the absurdity of how their mother was behaving. At one point the daughter asked her mother “Why don’t you just answer the lady?” and again she said, “I don’t like her.” And so, we continued the ask twice, answer once regime. Which made me also giggle internally at the widow’s resolve to be difficult.
When it was time for them to leave I walked them to the door and said goodbye, addressing the widow by name. I heard her grunt and mumble something I couldn’t make out as she ignored me and walked out the front door. Her daughter stayed behind to apologize for her mother’s behavior which I could only respond with that she was in grief and scared and sad and her behavior was nothing for them to worry about. The daughter was truly embarrassed. I assured her that I was not offended and with a smile I told her that her mother has great personality. She gave me a big smile, thanked me again and left to join her family in the parking lot.
As a funeral director, I am subject to see all kinds of emotions. Sad, angry, numb, these are all things I expect from families during the time I interact with them. I didn’t feel threatened by the widow’s behavior, I felt sad for her pain. And to be honest it does make me giggle a little when sweet little old ladies are rude, as it belies the behavior we expect from our elders.
The next time I saw the widow was when the family came in for a private family viewing. I had her husband dressed and in his casket. I made sure his shirt was pressed and tie was straight. As the family walked into the lobby, I addressed the widow again, making sure that this time I stayed at a distance and didn’t reach for her hand. She looked at me but said nothing. I greeted the rest of the family with hugs and walked them to the door where I had their father’s body ready and waiting for their arrival. I talked them through what they would see once I opened the door, where the casket was located, what flowers had arrived and that they should take as much time as they needed, and that the room was theirs for however long they stayed.
I opened the door and allowed the family to walk in first. I stepped in behind them watching how the widow reacted to seeing her husband for the first time since his death. She walked up to the casket and placed a hand on his chest, her head was bowed forward and she was quickly surrounded by her children with their arms around her shoulders. I walked out of the room and quietly closed the door behind me.
The widow never fully warmed up to me, but she at least stopped being rude. She allowed me to direct her husband’s funeral and burial. Her children were no longer apologetic but grateful that I handled the situation so well and accomplished creating a memorable funeral for their father.
My hope for the widow is that she found a way to calm her inner turmoil and grasp the joy that her children and grandchildren will bring her as she learns to survive without her husband. I will continue to love the families I serve no matter how they act towards me.
This is a story that I recall every Memorial Day. It is heartbreaking but forces us to remember the veterans who struggled with injuries both physical and emotional and ended up in unfortunate circumstances. Some of our veterans have died alone and dejected. Today, let’s remember all of them.
I went on a first call. It was a small home, it was fairly shabby, the stain peeling off the wood on the front porch and siding, the yard was trying to be grass but just couldn’t get its way around the empty pots, lawn furniture and grimy toys left about. I walked in and was greeted by the sister of the deceased and a niece and nephew. I sat with the family around the kitchen table to go over some details. The lighting was poor and the 1960’s countertops were dull and scratched and covered in used dishes. This was not an unfamiliar scene, it isn’t even a negative, it was just the setting I was in. I asked if they had thought about services and what they would want to do as a tribute for the man who had died. Every person in the room was in tears and solemn and quiet. The sister told me that they wanted the best for her brother. A big funeral with a casket and viewing and burial. She told me he was a war hero, he served his country and had been wounded, he had lost both legs and had been bed ridden for several years. He should be honored and cared for as a king. So, I pulled out a packet that detailed our service packages and pointed out the one that best served what they were describing to me. A viewing, a service and a burial. We talked about the local cemeteries and which one they would like to use. Almost immediately I was met with hesitation at the cost. After some discussion, I explained the other options we had available, services can be beautiful in many different ways and budgets. It is never easy to talk about money, especially when a death has occurred and the family is raw and in shock and broken. We decided they should think on the matter and that we would meet at the funeral home the next day after some sleep and could then decide on the details. I asked to see where his body was so I could bring my partner in and transfer him to our cot to take him to the mortuary. We walked down a narrow hallway to the end of the house. Halfway down the hallway the smell hit me, it was awful. As I walked into the room which was the size of a closet and saw this poor man laid out on his bed with no sheets and a myriad of stains that I could not have guessed what they were. He was skin and bones. He had no legs and I could already see and smell that he had bed sores (when a person lies in bed so long in one position the tissues cannot get blood flow and so it starts to decay). He was wearing a t-shirt and a diaper, neither had been changed in a very long time. His hair was long and scraggly and his facial hair had not been trimmed in months. (As disturbing as this may be, this scene wasn’t uncommon. Most people in that area could not afford could care and so it was up to the families to handle a job that is much more difficult than you would imagine.) I explained to the family how we would be taking him from the room to the hearse waiting outside and took my leave to get the cot and my partner. Once we got this man in the hearse and was set to drive off, I was approached by the sister pleading to take good care of him, he was a hero and deserved to be honored. I assured her that I would and left her sobbing in the front yard. My heart broke for so many reasons, his deplorable conditions, her absolute grief.
The next day, the family came in to discuss funeral details. We sat for about an hour going over different options to give him a fitting tribute within their budget. I could not take payments and there wasn’t any insurance, even the government couldn’t pitch in enough money to supplement what little they had for the funeral he deserved. The most economical choice of cremation was even more than what they had to spend. I gave them some resources and told them that we would somehow figure this out. They thanked me and said they would call later that afternoon. They never called that afternoon or the next day. The day after that I made a call to them and discovered that the phone number I had was disconnected. So, I did some searching in the phone book for the names of the family members I knew and came up with nothing. I then decided to wait another day to see if they would show up or call. After about a week of failed attempts to contact them, I drove to the house only to find it empty and silent. So, my next step was to call the medical examiner. In these cases, the medical examiner in the jurisdiction would take possession of the body and make further attempts to find some family who will claim them. The weeks soon turned to months. I periodically checked with the medical examiner as to what happened to this man and as of the last time I checked he had been in their morgue for four years.
I cannot adequately describe the disappointment I felt in this family. As a funeral director, I am here to generate some type of closure, present some way of creating a tribute to the deceased. This man’s abandonment goes completely against my code. If only this family would have come back, we could have figured it out. I get that funerals are expensive and most people cannot afford what it costs but we have to come to some decision, some way of taking care of the body and give the family a ceremony. I have imagined what the sister of this man might be going through, never get closure at abandoning her brother. Maybe I am wrong and she found a way to move forward but her pleas ring in my ears even today, please take care of him, he was a hero.
What does a funeral director, author, blogger do when taking a hiatus from writing?
Starts a business, nurses her husband back to health after an accident, has a couple of book signings, stays by the old dogs side after a couple of ER visits, trains an employee for the new business and works in the yard😁😉
“Behind these doors is the most sacred room in the building. It is where loved ones come to be prepared for the most difficult event in a family’s life. Those that work behind these doors pledge to each family a never-ending commitment of respect and service to those that place their trust in us.”
In mortuary college, every student is pledged to care for the deceased with respect and treat the families with integrity. I remember standing with my graduating class, adorned in my robes and tasseled hat, repeating each word of the oath written below. After all my classmates and I had gone through in class, the testing, the long days and nights, the testing, so many subjects we needed to learn to get to this day and did I mention the testing! We said each word together with family and friends in the crowd, watching and listening to what we promised to do. I couldn’t have been prouder of our profession, that we were required to take such an oath to do our job. There is a reason that families trust us, we have an incredibly important role in handling people and the deceased. Real things. Important things. One little white lie will always turn into a chain of other lies which destroys trust and reputation. One unwashed instrument carrying a disease can be carelessly tracked home.
We are the ones who will do the jobs not many others can or will do. We are the ones who care about you before we have ever met you. We are the last responders, and more recently I have heard us described as ninjas. We are your funeral directors.
Funeral Service Oath
“I do solemnly swear by that which I hold most sacred;
That I shall be loyal to the Funeral Service Profession and just and generous to its members; That I shall not let the constant relationship and familiarity with death give me cause to yield to carelessness or to violate my obligation to society or to the dignity of my profession.
That I shall obey the Civil Laws. That I shall not divulge professional confidences; And that I shall be faithful to those who have placed their trust in me.
While I continue to keep this oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy honor in my life and in my profession; and may I be respected by all people for all time.”
You’ve lost someone to death. A person that you knew, loved and talked to is no longer there. The grief is crippling, food turns to ash in your mouth, you are unable to move, function, smile. Will you ever laugh again?
I have been there for hundreds of families and talked them through the emotions they are feeling just trying to find a way to convey to them that it is normal to be angry, sad, numb, even happy. I myself have experienced that total grief that comes with a devastating loss.
Grief is real for everybody, it is normal, it is tangible. You can feel it, taste it and hate it. So how do you embrace it? A question I get quite frequently from families is, “When will this pain end?” The only true answer to that question is that it won’t. But, you will learn to survive with it. The more you embrace the ache and hurt the more you learn to live despite it.
It is currently Springtime and I awoke this morning realizing that this time of year is the perfect analogy to living with grief. Where I live, during the winter months, we get lots of snow. This creates many challenges. It can be a challenge to get up in the morning and have to scrape the ice off your car in the freezing cold. It can be a challenge to then drive on slush laden roads where the simple turn of a wheel or fast brake, whether by you or someone else, can send your car into a seemingly uncontrollable skid. Grief is like that. There are times when just getting out of bed is a task too difficult to achieve and driving on slushy roads is similar to the unpredictability of interacting with the world, you almost never know what might trigger an attack of horrible grief rendering you almost incapable of functioning. In those moments, remember that spring is coming. Even when you feel so heavy that simply putting one foot in front of the other does not seem possible, you will again feel the sunshine after a long winter. It’s like when the snow has melted and flowers with their bursts of color are just starting to peek through the dead grass and weeds. You will start to have days where you feel whole and complete and find joy in being. Of course, reality will come back just like the snow and the rain during springtime but again the sun will shine and more and more color will start to burst forth and your heart will lighten.
Just like in nature there is a natural ebb and flow to grief. The clouds will part briefly allowing for a few deep breaths and then the gloom settles in again. When this happens remember that the sun will find its way through the clouds and give you moments of respite. The long winters and springtime seasons will always present themselves, you cannot escape it. However, even in the darkest hours, in the worst moments of trying to get through a day, an hour or a minute, your best defense of cloudy, snowy days is try to remember the Spring.