Thursday, September 23, 2010
Post Seventy-One: She Got No Guns.
I'm reasonably confident in most aspects of my employment, but there are occasions where I feel pretty unequipped. My weakness is my entire lack of muscle, I gots me no brute strength. Sigh.
Who would've thought that to be an undertaker you need to be pretty physically fit? I guess, when you think about it (which I didn't), when people die they can't pick themselves up off the bathroom floor and walk themselves down the five flights of stairs into the transfer van...
I remember my first weekend of transfers well, which when basically described is when you go to wherever the person has died to pick them up and take them back to the funeral home (this only refers to natural deaths, suss ones involve the police and police contracted undertakers.)
I had only just learnt how to take the stretchers out of the van without the whole thing slamming to the ground. This involves this whole technique of gravity and clicky things and smooth movement, all skills of which I lack completely. When it was time to pull the stretcher out in front of the family I was probably the most afraid I have ever been in my life...they were all staring at me, most likely thinking "How the hell did such a little, mousey girl get a job like that. Strange..."
Two years later and I still fear the damn things. I don't like the fact they go up and down and the legs are bendy. I'd prefer to piggybag the corpses if I could, fireman stylz for sure. I haven't dropped anyone yet, but the scenario plays over and over in my fears...