Originally posted by Hot_Wings
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The first time that you roll a dead body to the morgue from the ER you’re no thinking about it much. You’re too busy taking mental notes from the nurse next to you who is barking procedures to you like there is no tomorrow.
“And always lock the wheels down good after you put them in the freezer” she barks.
I remember that one because it was a visual order, not the one about what I was supposed to write down in the log book about so in so. You wheel the body down there, unlock the door, log in the body and then properly place it in the freezer. There is a little more too it than that, but that’s the basics. You would think that it was an easy job really, but after a while, no one wanted to do it. I didn’t understand why at first.
By the third body the nurse is getting tired of escorting you down to the morgue because it is, after all, your job and not hers and she is still thinking about the other patients that in her charge back in the ER, not the one that is all ready gone. Now, instead of trying to overcomplicate the job to you with orders she is trying to keep it simple so that it is quick and she can get back to her other work. You get it over with pretty fast. All the I’s are dotted and get out of there. You still haven’t really had time to think about things yet, and even if you did you think it might be something simple like, “Poor bastard” “You shouldn’t have let yourself get so fat” or something simple like that. You still don’t know why none of the ER nurses or guards wants to take dead bodies to the morgue. But you think it’s because they are just squeamish or overly religious.
By the fifth body there is no one escorting you to make sure that you do it right. You take your time making the trip because you don’t want to go back to guarding the psycho baker act patient in room one again who not too soon before just tried to bite you. It’s the first time that you sit there for a second and think about the “Poor Bastard” on the “Slab” as they call it. After you die your name is always “Poor Bastard” or “Fat Guy” or something like that. No one calls them Judy or Tom anymore after they die except the family and friends. I sat there for a second and thought about “Poor Bastard”. I never saw his face. I think he came in on the shift before me so I never actually met the guy. It was also the first time that I felt like saying some kind of prayer, but I didn’t. I just closed the freezer door, signed the log book and went back to the psycho in room one.
As a side note, all the psycho’s were put in room one because it was the ER only had one room set up with a camera in it and a restraint system. It used to be that they could close the door to the psycho room as long as there was an ER guard there with the patient because it was all on camera. But that changed when a Baker Act patient snuck in a scalpel in the room and killed a guard by cutting his throat. Damn near cut his hear off I hear. I was surprised that a scalpel could do that. So then they made a policy never to shut the door to the psycho room.
By the tenth time that you wheel someone down to the ER is when things start to go wrong. It takes about ten times before something breaks the routine of just shutting the door and signing the log. My tenth time happened entirely on my shift, which I was to find out is always a bad thing. What I mean is that I was the one who helped the EMT’s bring her in and stood guard outside her door while they tried to save her life before she died. She was 19 years old. A popular girl from a local high school they said. Decent grades, nice family, well liked, that sort of thing. She was apparently the unwitting victim of some guys GHB laced Mountain Dew drink. It happened in a bar somewhere downtown. Some guy gave her his mountain dew to drink on the dance floor. He made it seem like he had just bought it from the cooler girl in the bar and apparently had just gave it away carelessly to any girl who wanted it. He of course knew exactly who he wanted to have it and orchestrated the affair to go that way. The drink was still cold and with the loud music I am sure that the girl didn’t realize that the drink had all ready been opened or pierced with a needle and drugged.
Her friends say that she danced and drank just a little of the drink and then collapsed on the floor of the club. They at least were smart enough to bring the drink with them to the ER for testing and analysis. Sure enough, it was loaded with GHB. The careless person who laced the drink didn’t calculate at all the proper dosage. The drink would have killed anyone who drank more than a quarter of it.
But I was there outside the door to her room keeping out her family and friends. Her parents were allowed in, but not her brothers and sisters. There just wasn’t enough room for them. She was shaking violently in the bed. A GHB overdose is not a quiet way to die at all. It was hard to get the IVs in her to attempt to flush her system of the chemicals that were killing her. Eventually, I got the call to take her to the Morgue. It seemed like the entire hospital was crying that night. All kinds of people showed up in the few hrs it took for the GHB to take her away and of course all got the bad news at the same time. She put up a good fight I guess, better than others I saw from drug overdoses.
There was the same old nurse with me this time. Not because it was procedure, but just because this time the nurse wanted to say goodbye. Every nurse has their soft spot. You hardly ever see it, but if they didn’t really care about something very deeply then they wouldn’t be nurses for very long. This nurse was a charge nurse, a career ER nurse. She had seen it all and then some. It was valiant the way that this nurse tried to save this young girls life. She moved as fast as she could, she seemed to do everything right. But nothing it seems was going to save this girl.
When the outside morgue door closed she broke down. Sometimes it seems that ER personnel can only talk to people who don’t work in the ER directly. It’s like they can’t break down in front of other staff, especially ones that they are supervising. But I was a guard; I dealt with crying people a lot. My post was with usually in the ER waiting room with people crying about loved ones being treated in the trauma room. It was OK for a Charge Nurse to cry in front of me because everyone seemed to cry in front of me because I always had to be where things were happening around people who cared. She said a tearful goodbye, a very nice prayer, and a sort of I’m sorry this happened to you and quietly left the room.
I stood there for a minuet, just outside the freezer door and just looked at the dark bag lying on the slab. I tried to distance myself from all the crying family and friends, the charge nurse’s tearful goodbye, the dead 19 year old victim in front of me, but I couldn’t. This time it was different. This person in front me was a victim, not “Fat Guy” or “Poor Bastard”. This was a 19 year old girl who was either murdered on purpose or by accident. This was someone who by all accounts of her trusted people and was kind and cheerful all the time. This was someone who did not deserve to die.
I came to my senses, shut the door, made the log entry and went back to the ER. I went to the cafeteria to sit for a while. Guards always know the best places in a joint for peace and quiet. Most often times, it’s places that you wouldn’t think of. At night, the cafeteria is closed and only the security lights are on. NO one goes down there at night, so I could just get a drink out the machine and sit there for a while and think about things for a bit. If they needed me they would call me on the radio for sure.
I told myself that I would never take a drink from some person in a bar, no matter what. Such a simple rule really, but I had just got done wheeling the body a person who lost their life because of not following a simple rule like that. That was when I realized why people don’t like the duty of taking bodies to the morgue. It’s because sometimes you will get attached to the person that died. You can’t help it. You’re not a human being if you don’t.
But the danger is when you start making all kinds of rules for every victim of a crime that you wheel into the freezer. Over just a few months the list had grown from “Never take drinks from strangers” into always carry a “window breaker in the car” and “wear gloves as best you can even if it’s hot.” Eventually, you come to the realization that life is simply dangerous at all times. You realize that no where is really safe and you can’t protect against everything, not matter how strong or smart you are, or how much you train or prepare.
But seeing all the people who die at the hands of other people in your section of the city you start to get bitter and extremely defensive about your life. You constantly tell yourself that you refuse to let yourself become a victim like the people that you wheel into the morgue. I think that anyone who in charge of other peoples lives should be forced to wheel bodies into the morgue for at least a year. I think that everyone who teaches martial arts should have to do this for a year as well and see the people who end up there who supposedly had training.
When I guy dies because he was stabbed to death you tell yourself that you might want to wear a chain mail undershirt on occasion. Each and every violent death isn’t a name in the paper or a headline on TV. Instead, it the “Poor Bastard” that you have to touch the bag of in order to make sure his body doesn’t fall off the slab and onto the floor of the freezer in the morgue. You become an extreme realist of life and not a bystander. You see things, perhaps for the first time, as they really are. You realize that your life, and everyone else’s, is just a few mistakes away from the “slab”. You fully understand that people die all the time. Everyone, young, old, big, small, everyone.
Most people think they understand this but they really don’t at all. They haven’t had it drilled into time and time again by wheeling dead bodies around that only moments ago sometimes you were talking too.
But in the time that I was there, the people who died who were martial artists were surprisingly very few. They didn’t have diabetes, and they usually at least survived violent encounters. They weren’t overweight and dying of heart attacks every day like the “Poor Bastards”. Strangely enough, they didn’t even seem to get shot up like “Gang Banger” or “Dumb Thug” did all the time. For about a thousand different reasons, Martial Artists just seemed to “Survive.”
I don’t want to take martial arts because I am young and I might think that it’s cool. I don’t want to take martial arts because I think that I will be able to take on 10 guys at a time like they do in the movies. I want to take martial arts because I know from real truths in life that they have better chance of living a long and happy life than most others.
“And always lock the wheels down good after you put them in the freezer” she barks.
I remember that one because it was a visual order, not the one about what I was supposed to write down in the log book about so in so. You wheel the body down there, unlock the door, log in the body and then properly place it in the freezer. There is a little more too it than that, but that’s the basics. You would think that it was an easy job really, but after a while, no one wanted to do it. I didn’t understand why at first.
By the third body the nurse is getting tired of escorting you down to the morgue because it is, after all, your job and not hers and she is still thinking about the other patients that in her charge back in the ER, not the one that is all ready gone. Now, instead of trying to overcomplicate the job to you with orders she is trying to keep it simple so that it is quick and she can get back to her other work. You get it over with pretty fast. All the I’s are dotted and get out of there. You still haven’t really had time to think about things yet, and even if you did you think it might be something simple like, “Poor bastard” “You shouldn’t have let yourself get so fat” or something simple like that. You still don’t know why none of the ER nurses or guards wants to take dead bodies to the morgue. But you think it’s because they are just squeamish or overly religious.
By the fifth body there is no one escorting you to make sure that you do it right. You take your time making the trip because you don’t want to go back to guarding the psycho baker act patient in room one again who not too soon before just tried to bite you. It’s the first time that you sit there for a second and think about the “Poor Bastard” on the “Slab” as they call it. After you die your name is always “Poor Bastard” or “Fat Guy” or something like that. No one calls them Judy or Tom anymore after they die except the family and friends. I sat there for a second and thought about “Poor Bastard”. I never saw his face. I think he came in on the shift before me so I never actually met the guy. It was also the first time that I felt like saying some kind of prayer, but I didn’t. I just closed the freezer door, signed the log book and went back to the psycho in room one.
As a side note, all the psycho’s were put in room one because it was the ER only had one room set up with a camera in it and a restraint system. It used to be that they could close the door to the psycho room as long as there was an ER guard there with the patient because it was all on camera. But that changed when a Baker Act patient snuck in a scalpel in the room and killed a guard by cutting his throat. Damn near cut his hear off I hear. I was surprised that a scalpel could do that. So then they made a policy never to shut the door to the psycho room.
By the tenth time that you wheel someone down to the ER is when things start to go wrong. It takes about ten times before something breaks the routine of just shutting the door and signing the log. My tenth time happened entirely on my shift, which I was to find out is always a bad thing. What I mean is that I was the one who helped the EMT’s bring her in and stood guard outside her door while they tried to save her life before she died. She was 19 years old. A popular girl from a local high school they said. Decent grades, nice family, well liked, that sort of thing. She was apparently the unwitting victim of some guys GHB laced Mountain Dew drink. It happened in a bar somewhere downtown. Some guy gave her his mountain dew to drink on the dance floor. He made it seem like he had just bought it from the cooler girl in the bar and apparently had just gave it away carelessly to any girl who wanted it. He of course knew exactly who he wanted to have it and orchestrated the affair to go that way. The drink was still cold and with the loud music I am sure that the girl didn’t realize that the drink had all ready been opened or pierced with a needle and drugged.
Her friends say that she danced and drank just a little of the drink and then collapsed on the floor of the club. They at least were smart enough to bring the drink with them to the ER for testing and analysis. Sure enough, it was loaded with GHB. The careless person who laced the drink didn’t calculate at all the proper dosage. The drink would have killed anyone who drank more than a quarter of it.
But I was there outside the door to her room keeping out her family and friends. Her parents were allowed in, but not her brothers and sisters. There just wasn’t enough room for them. She was shaking violently in the bed. A GHB overdose is not a quiet way to die at all. It was hard to get the IVs in her to attempt to flush her system of the chemicals that were killing her. Eventually, I got the call to take her to the Morgue. It seemed like the entire hospital was crying that night. All kinds of people showed up in the few hrs it took for the GHB to take her away and of course all got the bad news at the same time. She put up a good fight I guess, better than others I saw from drug overdoses.
There was the same old nurse with me this time. Not because it was procedure, but just because this time the nurse wanted to say goodbye. Every nurse has their soft spot. You hardly ever see it, but if they didn’t really care about something very deeply then they wouldn’t be nurses for very long. This nurse was a charge nurse, a career ER nurse. She had seen it all and then some. It was valiant the way that this nurse tried to save this young girls life. She moved as fast as she could, she seemed to do everything right. But nothing it seems was going to save this girl.
When the outside morgue door closed she broke down. Sometimes it seems that ER personnel can only talk to people who don’t work in the ER directly. It’s like they can’t break down in front of other staff, especially ones that they are supervising. But I was a guard; I dealt with crying people a lot. My post was with usually in the ER waiting room with people crying about loved ones being treated in the trauma room. It was OK for a Charge Nurse to cry in front of me because everyone seemed to cry in front of me because I always had to be where things were happening around people who cared. She said a tearful goodbye, a very nice prayer, and a sort of I’m sorry this happened to you and quietly left the room.
I stood there for a minuet, just outside the freezer door and just looked at the dark bag lying on the slab. I tried to distance myself from all the crying family and friends, the charge nurse’s tearful goodbye, the dead 19 year old victim in front of me, but I couldn’t. This time it was different. This person in front me was a victim, not “Fat Guy” or “Poor Bastard”. This was a 19 year old girl who was either murdered on purpose or by accident. This was someone who by all accounts of her trusted people and was kind and cheerful all the time. This was someone who did not deserve to die.
I came to my senses, shut the door, made the log entry and went back to the ER. I went to the cafeteria to sit for a while. Guards always know the best places in a joint for peace and quiet. Most often times, it’s places that you wouldn’t think of. At night, the cafeteria is closed and only the security lights are on. NO one goes down there at night, so I could just get a drink out the machine and sit there for a while and think about things for a bit. If they needed me they would call me on the radio for sure.
I told myself that I would never take a drink from some person in a bar, no matter what. Such a simple rule really, but I had just got done wheeling the body a person who lost their life because of not following a simple rule like that. That was when I realized why people don’t like the duty of taking bodies to the morgue. It’s because sometimes you will get attached to the person that died. You can’t help it. You’re not a human being if you don’t.
But the danger is when you start making all kinds of rules for every victim of a crime that you wheel into the freezer. Over just a few months the list had grown from “Never take drinks from strangers” into always carry a “window breaker in the car” and “wear gloves as best you can even if it’s hot.” Eventually, you come to the realization that life is simply dangerous at all times. You realize that no where is really safe and you can’t protect against everything, not matter how strong or smart you are, or how much you train or prepare.
But seeing all the people who die at the hands of other people in your section of the city you start to get bitter and extremely defensive about your life. You constantly tell yourself that you refuse to let yourself become a victim like the people that you wheel into the morgue. I think that anyone who in charge of other peoples lives should be forced to wheel bodies into the morgue for at least a year. I think that everyone who teaches martial arts should have to do this for a year as well and see the people who end up there who supposedly had training.
When I guy dies because he was stabbed to death you tell yourself that you might want to wear a chain mail undershirt on occasion. Each and every violent death isn’t a name in the paper or a headline on TV. Instead, it the “Poor Bastard” that you have to touch the bag of in order to make sure his body doesn’t fall off the slab and onto the floor of the freezer in the morgue. You become an extreme realist of life and not a bystander. You see things, perhaps for the first time, as they really are. You realize that your life, and everyone else’s, is just a few mistakes away from the “slab”. You fully understand that people die all the time. Everyone, young, old, big, small, everyone.
Most people think they understand this but they really don’t at all. They haven’t had it drilled into time and time again by wheeling dead bodies around that only moments ago sometimes you were talking too.
But in the time that I was there, the people who died who were martial artists were surprisingly very few. They didn’t have diabetes, and they usually at least survived violent encounters. They weren’t overweight and dying of heart attacks every day like the “Poor Bastards”. Strangely enough, they didn’t even seem to get shot up like “Gang Banger” or “Dumb Thug” did all the time. For about a thousand different reasons, Martial Artists just seemed to “Survive.”
I don’t want to take martial arts because I am young and I might think that it’s cool. I don’t want to take martial arts because I think that I will be able to take on 10 guys at a time like they do in the movies. I want to take martial arts because I know from real truths in life that they have better chance of living a long and happy life than most others.
I dont mean this even slightly in a pisstake way but i think you need some basic counseling to talk about this stuff.
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