Starving

I’m starving. Not for food, I just ate the tastiest Haloumi breakfast from my favourite café.

I’m starving to know what it’s like…to live a regular life.

What must it be like to have your life in order? To not fall in love so deeply all of the time? Able to have coffee with a stranger without falling head over heels with their smile? What’s it like to be ignorant to mortality?

I spend far too much money on random nights out, pavements catch my falls while I’m spinning on alcohol highs, I kiss girls, I hire limos on a Tuesday night, I kiss the limo driver, I order Rib eye at fancy restaurants and sleep in a two thousand dollar bed that hardly fits in my tiny bedroom of my rented cottage.

I should own the house.

I should have a partner. I should have loads of savings at my age and I should stop dancing on tables at age 32.

Or should I?

If I stopped all of this, would I then starve?

I hand lower people into the ground every day. I see the roots sprawling out from the dirt and I watch the coffin get buried with soil. How could I not live each day as if it’s the last???

Last Sunday, one of my best friends died overseas. I was unable to prep or bury him with oceans between us. Instead, I had to continue working on others in my own mortuary.

I wanted to hold his big hand and say goodbye. All I had was the latest comment he wrote on one of my Facebook photos.

Last Wednesday afternoon, I was asked to go and collect the next person who had succumbed to death from the coroner. Wrist tags in my hand and paper work informing me that Craig was only 34, I climbed into the van, turned up the radio as loud as it could go (the work cars have the BEST sound systems) and I cruised down the M1 with guys gawking at the young blonde in a suit driving a conspicuous van.

I approached the huge roller doors and pulled into the super secret parking space allocated for funeral vehicles. The familiar scent of body gases and innards slapped me in the face. It is a well known fact in the funeral industry; Emma Jane loves the forensic science unit! I feel like a cast member in a real life crime show. The police walking about, the yellow and black tape indicating where you must stand, blag body bags…it’s exciting! While the other funeral directors moan and groan when there is a transfer from the place, I am in that suit quicker than you can say mouth suture!

I took my stretcher inside just as Craig was wheeled out from the fridge.

‘Heart attack,’ the forensic pathologist’s assistant tossed me a pair of latex gloves.        So young to have a coronary, I thought to myself. I realised how I take my health for granted with a Big Mac in my tummy. I  opened the body bag to find a beautiful young man with long lashes looking back at me with sunken eyes. He was bleeding everywhere, I could hardly secure the name tags. I felt connected to him, I always am when we share similar ages. I had been allocated this job on my own so I had to use the lifting device secured to the ceiling above us.  Forensic Pathologists walking all around and bodies being brought in and out for collection by other funeral directors, I focused on clipping the straps under Craig’s knees and shoulders. With the push of a button, I watched as the device slowly lifted the man and he hovered mid air, droplets of blood falling to the floor like soft rain. I had seen this many times, we have a body lifter in our mortuary at the funeral home, but for some reason, as I watched poor young Craig hover, I felt like I was going to faint. He reminded me of my friend overseas who had just lost his own life to heart disease at such a young age. Remaining calm and professional, I grabbed my trolley and positioned it beneath him and the machine lowered the body. I strapped him in and with a few ticks on my paper work, I loaded him into the back of the van and jumped in. Bruno Mars was singing Uptown Funk.

As I drove back to the funeral home with a tear in my eye, I realised that there was no way I would ever stop living my life to the fullest. Life was far too short. So the extra cheese on my taco it is! Dancing on tables and that extra champagne!

 

 

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