Life, and Death

Yesterday (Monday morning) I found myself in a rather unusual, if very sad, situation.  Without breaching any privacy, I had gone to be with a client, who’s wife, also a client, had just died.  Not one hour beforehand.  There were three police cars parked on the quiet cul de sac.  Family members had started to arrive, or were already in the house, and in the bedroom, with the dear lady. 

Because of some technicalities - there had been no one else in the house at the time of her passing, the family GP was unable to sign the death certificate, the wife had only recently been discharged from hospital - one of the three young policemen (they all had baby faces) was writing up a formal statement with the husband.  The policeman was quiet, methodical, patient, waiting for the husband to talk and answer questions.  There were interruptions.  Phone calls, texts, visitors who wanted to be acknowledged and pass on their condolences.  He was obviously in some shock, but handled himself magnificently.  Only once or twice he broke down, but pulled himself up before the grief overcame.  Many questions were asked of him, some seeming odd, surprising, or obvious, but the policeman was doing his job and needed to be thorough.  An accident that had happened fifteen years ago, and had caused her paralysis.  The exact movements of the couple over the previous three days. Her mood and health up until that morning.  He listened to the husband, then would take a few minutes and write it all down.  There was no apparent warmth, no emotion, just a matter of factness, and I wondered how many times the policeman had done this, for an unexplained death, a domestic incident, a vehicle accident.  When had his sympathy for human suffering been worn down, to barely register as empathy? What horrific scenes had he witnessed and how did he deal with this every day in uniform?  Was he even thirty years old?  Was he in fact, deeply moved but keeping his emotions in check to complete the task at hand?

And we were all in the sitting room with the husband and the policeman, wearing his full gear of flak vest, torch, baton, spray, cuffs.  Ankle boots.  Fitting blue short-sleeved shirt. Family members kept close to one another, quietly whispering, crying, consoling.  They spoke often in their native tongue, and discussed family members yet to be notified. When the aunts from America would arrive. There was a baby who needed attention, but he was well behaved and plump and didn’t cry out.  Some stayed with the dear lady, keeping her company, others drifted in and out of the bedroom.   The pastor tried to be helpful.  I perched on a settee, and took all this in.  Keenly aware of nuances, reactions, feeling invisible but aware of my own consciousness in the room.

It isn't the first time I’ve been with a body once the soul has gone, but it’s always sobering, and the image is usually burned in one’s mind for a number of weeks, if not forever in the recesses. 

To be a story-teller, you must develop characters, and these characters come from your observations of real people, their personalities, their reactions to events.  Babies being born, people’s lives and choices they make, their passing. Although yesterday’s experience was deeply personal and sad, I know, sometime down the line, I will subconsciously use this knowledge. 

Rest In Peace my dear lady, you were ever graceful, positive, and never complained.

 

Life does go on