I have lots of experience getting people dressed. I've been dressing myself, at least somewhat successfully, for many years now. I've dressed babies. Lots of babies. Oh.so.stinking.many.babies! I've helped dress a family member suffering from temporary paralysis, a grandmother in a nursing home with soiled bed sheets, even a complete stranger in a dressing room once while working retail. (Prom dresses can be a challenge.) Still, I can't say with confidence that any of this prepared me for my first time dressing a body.
Being around the dead doesn't bother me, so when Heather (my supervisor) said "let's go get Mrs. A (not her real name) dressed," I knew I'd be fine from a purely practical standpoint. We put on her bra and panties, her soft knit dress and matching sweater. We had to wet her hair and then blow dry and curl it a bit to get it back to her normal style. At one point, Heather had to leave and told me to go ahead and put a second coat of nail polish on her fingernails and as I did so, I made a deal with Mrs. A. I promised that I would keep her secrets if she would keep mine. (As far as I know, she's holding up her end of the bargain.) Everything went as it should and then we were done and went back to office stuff. And I was fine. Until...
I got in my car to drive home. I started crying. I cried all the way home. I cried as I told Tim about the experience and I cried some more as I texted Heather wanting to know "is it normal to be a big fat cry baby?!" I shared with her that, despite the fact I couldn't seem to shut off the faucet, they weren't tears of sadness -not like the ones her family would shed for her. I didn't know her. They weren't the kind of tears you might shed when something has traumatized you. I wasn't freaked out by it. I just couldn't get past the sheer overwhelm of the privilege, this truly intimate privilege that those moments held. So, I cried and I still cry when I think of her and I cry when I talk about her and yes, I'm crying while typing this blog to tell you about her. And maybe I always will because she was the first.
As time passes, it's highly unlikely that every encounter will have such profound effect on me. There will be lots of firsts as I'm starting this new career. First dressing, first embalming, first infant/child funeral, first... Eventually the firsts will become par for the course, I guess. But I'm writing this blog and bringing you on this processing journey with me so that I can always look back and remember these firsts and never take for granted the high level of respect and responsibility that comes with this intimate privilege.
