A Woman's Work

by Diane L. Busch
All rights reserved


“Time of death?”

“It’s hard to say exactly. Pupils fixed and dilated, and she’s just starting to cool. I’d guess less than an hour ago. She’s a positive for a long history of heart problems. Grant Hanson is her doctor. Better get her hooked up to transmit an EKG for death protocol to Mercy Hospital. We can take her directly to the mortuary once Dr. Hanson okays it. Ask the principal to take charge of her purse and wheelchair.”

“All I could get from the PTA president was that she was cutting these paper leaves for some reading contest. A kid’s name goes on each one as he completes an hour of reading, and then it gets stapled on the brown paper tree in the hall. No one has seen her since she started on them early this morning. She’s finished about fifty, but they say she was a slower cutter than most.”

The first paramedic reached down and gently pried the scissors from my hand.

“How odd!”

“What do you mean?”

“Just look at her face; she’s smiling!”

(You’d better believe I was smiling! As I felt the familiar crushing tightness around my chest, and then a warm fuzzy blackness envelope me, I realized I was not going to have to finish all 500 of my PTA-assigned leaves. I am, after all, a slower cutter than most.)

* * *

The young man at the mortuary was quite nice looking. About six feet tall, with wavy brown hair. He reminded me of my younger brother. He was excited and a little nervous.

“This one’s all yours, Dan!” said a balding, older man.

“Thank you, sir! By the way, there’s something I’ve always wanted to try, at least once. In school they told us about "continuous process embalming". Would you mind if I had a go at it?”

“Tell you what, my boy. You donate your time, and I’ll chip in the use of the Portaboy and the extra formalin solution. Call it part of your training experience. Fair enough? And of course, you’ll need the family’s permission.”

Dan quietly and sympathetically approached my husband on the subject and got his permission—-provided it wouldn’t cost extra.

The following day, I was thinking of enjoying a hymn and appreciation-filled funeral, and then taking my peaceful rest in the good earth. I had never been fond of harps, nor very good musically. Perhaps I could start up a kazoo band in the hereafter. My reflections were interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice raised in unfamiliar distress.

“What do you mean, twenty thousand dollars?!?” roared my husband, Jim, at a mortuary counselor.

“I was just quoting the price, sir. After all, there are the embalming charges, the funeral, the casket, the vault, burial costs, the price of the plot and the marker, and of course, we don’t offer any spaces here at Sunny Hills without the perpetual maintenance fee.”

“Forget it! I’m not spending more on her dead than alive! I’d barely be able to come up with that amount with a second mortgage on the house!”

(Not entirely accurate, dear, but perhaps we could arrange a pauper’s funeral?)

“If you would like us to keep her until you have a chance to decide what would be best, our climate-controlled storage fees are quite reasonable...”

“No, thank you. I’ll take care of her myself, if you don’t mind.”

He asked for Dan, who after his all-nighter treating my body, looked tired and rumpled.

“I’m planning to take my wife now. How long, um, will she be good for, if you get my meaning?”

“With your permission, sir, I performed a continuous embalming process on your wife. Her remains should ‘keep’ indefinitely. She was brought here shortly after she was pronounced dead, and was, if I may say so, in very good condition."

(Yes, you MAY say so, you darling boy!)

“We haven’t done any cosmetic work on her face yet. Are you sure you’re ready to take her?”

“I have two teenage daughters. They’ll see to everything that’s needed. Thank you.”

Together, they buckled me into the back seat of the van.

Once home, Jim sat me up on the sofa and went to the phone, phonebook in hand.

“Hello, State Department of Vital Records? I need to know the legal requirements in our state regarding the time frame in which a deceased person must be buried after embalming. There are none? You’re sure? Thank you. Thank you VERY much.”

(Jim, now wait a moment. You can’t possibly be thinking what I think you’re thinking. You’re not, are you?)

Next was the insurance company.

“So all I need are the date of death, cause of death, and policy number? And later, a certified copy of the death certificate? Anything else at all? No? Thank you for your time!”

He was rubbing his chin, in that way he does when he’s trying to consider all possible angles of a problem. At last he looked my way and spoke quietly, “Now, I wonder how the kids would take it?”

(You really are insane, Jim. You were always a bit of a tightwad, but this is really insane!)

“Are you sure, Dad?” Angela eyed my remains, where they sat on the sofa. Diane had already gone for the hairbrush.

(Now watch it, honey, whatever you brush out won’t be replaced!)

“Cool!” was all our fifteen-year-old son had to contribute.

“At least she’s smiling!” added Diane.

* * *

My life was never the same after I died.

“You know, Mom, you never raise your voice at us. And you always have time for us. We’re luckier than a lot of kids I know.”

“No one has a mom who is a better listener. I can talk to you for hours about my friends and concerns, and you never make wise-cracks or interrupt anymore!”

“Hey, look! I actually got it! Your favorite son has earned his Driver’s Permit! It says I have to have a licensed adult in the vehicle with me to drive. Haven’t broken any speed limits or telephone poles lately, have you, Ma? Let’s just get you loaded into the front passenger seat of the van…”

“You were awesome, Mom. When I tell the guys you never grab the door handle or stomp on an imaginary brake or scream to look out for pedestrians, they all envy me. Gary wants to know if he can borrow you on Tuesday.”

“Did you notice how fabulous your amethyst earrings and bracelet look with my new outfit? And I’d just LOVE to borrow your blue silk dress for a date I have with Brad on Friday night. If you object (giggle), speak now or forever hold your peace!”

(If you spill anything on it, I’ll rise from my grave and...never mind, I don’t even have one of those...)

The PTA president had her own crisis to deal with. “Your wife committed to us for 500 leaves. Since we've had to pull Debbie from Hall Monitor duty to cover for her, it would really help us out if she could take Debbie’s post for the next day or two...”

When our favorite family restaurant advertised a free child meal for each attendant adult meal paid for, there was no chance Jim would pass it by. My wheelchair, fresh makeup, and some dark glasses were all I needed. And, quite frankly, I looked at least as good as several of the patrons still capable of eating.

My husband has even been complimentary. “You never blow the budget, you don’t have mood swings or hot flashes, and you always have a smile on your face. What more could a man ask for?”

He even promised to enter me in the Mother of the Year contest. For my essay, he submitted an article I wrote when in a particularly gushy mood one day: “A Woman’s Work is Never Done.”

They selected me as a finalist. I could just die.

* * *

With grateful appreciation to the Utah Department of Motor Vehicles (licensing division), Utah State Department of Vital Records, Lake Hills Cemetery Embalmer (Sandy, Utah), and Blue Cross and Blue Shield Insurance Company. Special thanks to Byron Garner for information on paramedic procedures.