with Author Deborah LeBlanc

Sneakers
Web-roll and Duct Tape
Proof Please
A LESSON LEARNED AND NEVER FORGOTTEN

It was supposed to be a routine evaluation of an embalming, a process that would help me, the new in-house consultant, establish consistent standards for operational procedures . . .

Things began simply enough as ‘Max’ washed down the body of a petite, ninety-year-old woman. His hands shook as he made the incision to locate the carotid artery. What should have been a two-inch incision, wound up being a large gash that would need multiple stitches. Thinking my presence might be unnerving him, I backed away from the embalming table. Within minutes, Max relaxed, and his hands worked deftly, inserting the cannula, then massaging the arms and legs as the embalming fluid ran its course.

Without warning, the deceased’s neck and face began to swell to five times its original size, and her skin took on an orange hue—signs of inadequately mixed fluids. I bit my tongue as Max cursed and tried correcting his error, all to no avail. Shrugging, he moved on to the woman’s’ toothless mouth. Instead of using the standard injection system to close the orifice, he ran thick string through the sinus cavity and jaw. The adjustment process made the woman’s mouth and head jerk about like that of a morbid puppet.

Max completed his job by aspirating the body with a dull-edged trocar. (A trocar is a long, hollow metal rod with a blunt opening on one end that attaches to a suction hose. The opposite end is shovel-shaped and is inserted into the body.) Choosing not to use the conventional incision and insertion method, Max jabbed the trocar against the side of the abdomen again and again until it punctured through with a sickening schhhlop! He grinned in triumph, then shoved the trocar through the internal organs, puncturing and suctioning vehemently. I watched in horror as the pointed end of the instrument poked against the opposite wall of the abdomen, threatening to skewer the woman.

About that time, the funeral home owner walked in, looked at the body, smiled and asked if I was impressed with their ‘top’ embalmer.

I glanced back at the deceased, whose upper torso now looked like that of a two hundred pound liver disease victim and gulped. The lesson of the day was mine to learn. No one truly knows what goes on in the back room of a funeral home. Now, whenever a loved one dies, I find myself compelled to be present during the embalming. Although ninety percent of the funeral homes around the country truly do wonderful work, you never know when a ‘Max’ will be on the job.


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