Usually,
I feel sad for the ones left behind, humbled that I'm the one to pronounce them, glad they've escaped their suffering, awed that I'll be on a bed someday and a young nurse will come to pronounce me, etc. I don't get a lump in my throat, but my eyes prickle and my chest is weighed down with knowing all they went through.

One time was the worst: I was called to pronounce someone who had died of leukemia and as my hand touched the front door, my supervisor told me on the phone, "Oh, did I mention he's eight?"

I went into the house-he was lying on a bed in the living room, his mother was sitting next to the bed, just gazing at him empty-eyed. I explained who I was, what I would do and went ahead. There were three other kids there: the little guy was the only one of his brothers and sisters not mentally challenged or autistic. His father was at the hospital with stomach pains and had missed his death. (Dad was a bit slow, too)

One child wanted to know if her brother had gone to heaven. When I said yes, she asked, "Which one?" Another kid kept whipping off his clothes and trying to burrow into bed with the dead child and the third wanted to tell me all about how he was going to marry Arwin from Lord of the Rings.

So I was trying to field three kids, answer Mom's questions and attend to my patient all at once. I asked Mom for a basin and some hot water and if she had anything special she wanted him dressed in for the funeral home- they were too poor for a funeral. He was so small he didn't have to be embalmed if they cremated him the next day. If I washed and dressed him, they could have a short viewing before the cremation and he would look nice.

As I'm washing him, I notice drops of moisture are appearing on his shoulder and cheek. I can't figure it out until I wipe my face and realize the drops of moisture are from me. I'm weeping and don't know it-my tears are falling on his little body. He's so fragile; I'm trying to clean the blood away without disturbing him more and it's taking forever. Due to his leukemia, the boy internally hemmorhaged until his heart gave out and every orifice is trembling with clotted blood. His dad is home by then and points to his son's mouth. He has a mouth full of dark solid jelly and dad wants me to get rid of it. I have to tell him I can't or there's a good chance the unclotted blood behind it may rush out and go everywhere. The look on dad's face broke my heart with an audible snap.

Finally, the sheets are changed, he's bathed, I've cleaned his tiny toe and fingernails of clotted blood and combed his hair when his mom comes out with his clothes. They are shortie PJs-knit short sleeve/short legged pjs with Wolverine on them. Dad tells me, "Nightcrawler is his favorite, but we couldn't find any with Nightcrawler on them. Do you think these are ok?" I can't even talk. I swallow the big sob threatening to burst out and say, "Well, Wolverine is Nightcrawler's best friend, so I think that's pretty good." and we get him dressed.

The little guy was his mom's helper with the other kids. I don't know what she'll do now.

In keeping with last week's QOTW, in his grief the father walked through a screened French door. I thought "Wow, only a retard wouldn't see a closed screen door. Criminy!" Later, the mom poured a pint mug of boiling hot tea and asked me to take it to dad outside on the patio. Guess what? I walked through the same screen door. Ripped it out of its housing and dumped the tea all down my front. Got a first degree minge burn and a big helping of humility.

All the way home I thought, "Ok, ok, God, you can stop punishing me for my evil thoughts. That's enough karma." I was afraid the car would conk out in the worst part of town for my sins or something.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 1 Mar 2008, 19:49, 6 replies)

dear god thats sad
very little upsets me, but god allmighty that story had me as close to tears as i can get without the aid of six pints. literaly heart breaking.
(Mong goose, Sat 1 Mar 2008, 22:07, closed)

comfort
The only thing I can say is the family was lucky that you showed up rather than someone who didn't treat the situation with the utmost care and respect. You could have closed up and just gone on matter of factly but you treated him and his family like they were your own and as sad as that day obviously was for them I'm sure the way you handled their son, as well as the rest of the family (loved the Wolverine friend part) will probably stick with them for a while.

Click for you!
(Lurkaloid awarded wanking black belt on, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 0:21, closed)

...
Kudos to you for handling such an awful situation so well. Unlike you i get the lump in the throat which i had all the way to "first degree minge burn". Sorry for your pain but that really made me smile.

"lifes a laugh and deaths a joke its true" Brian.
(i anglepoise, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 9:10, closed)

Truely

Moving story, you handled that situation with so much care and respect, well done - theres at least some hope for humanity in todays bleakness after all.

*wipes a tear from his eye*
( Jimmer still not dead at, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 11:58, closed)

...
That is heartbreaking. I admit, I full on had tears at reading about that poor little kid. I was okay until I got to the pajama bit, on where I had to stop and cry a little. You did a wonderful job, and in such a kind and caring way.

On a lighter note (or not) minge burns are the worse.
(Wheeler back off Amazon, she's mine!, Sun 2 Mar 2008, 13:36, closed)

Whoosh
Wow, I'm really flattered. I didn't do anything special, just my job. I do this with everybody.
It broke my heart, too. I believe in God and life after death and these are the times I think, "When I die, Somebody's got some 'splaining to do!" One of the first things I want to do after death is ask whoever's in charge what the point was of killing the only normal kid that poor lady had.

While I was washing him, I asked him mom to tell me stories about him. That always helps me, to hear what people were like,, funny things they did or said. When I'm taking care of them, I talk to them too, to say how sorry I am, what a rough break their death was, how much their family loves them and so on. With children or infants, you can't help but smooth their cheek and say, "oh, punkin".
He was quite the feisty little cut-up and liked silly puns and practical jokes. He would wait til the student doctors had to examine him and then let out a scream as they pressed or touched him just to see them jump. He was a riot.
And I scalded my tits, too.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 3 Mar 2008, 5:33, closed)