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“Garth Brooks,” Soula and George answered in unison.
It was the same Greatest Hits album we’d been listening to—in the same room—since childhood, when we’d cover our eyes and shout through the door for dad to come up for dinner.
“Ain’t Goin’ Down” put us all into a better mood as we donned gloves, gowns, and masks. Soula and I cried as we lowered the drape to uncover Dad’s body to the first chords of “Friends in Low Places,” just like he’d done for decades with thousands of other bodies.
The disinfectant was the worst part. Spraying the blue stuff into his mouth and nose made it all… permanent. There was no going back after this. He was really gone.
George stood across from me and winced after the first spray. He froze as if expecting Dad to sit up and spit out the toxic chemical. But his bearings came back quickly.
I took over the bathing of his body with more disinfecting soap. I shampooed his hair gently, trying not to tear his paper-thin skin. I held his hand, so familiar, yet unrealistically cool and pale, since the blood had pooled elsewhere. I scrubbed under his fingernails, and used a sponge and warm water to clean his body everywhere.
It was surprisingly shameless, this process. He wasn’t infantilized by my care of his body. None of us were embarrassed by his nudity. It was honoring; the best way I could actively convey my gratitude for the years he’d loved me.
Soula had some difficulty, but managed to raise the jugular vein and carotid arteries halfway through “If Tomorrow Never Comes.”
We splurged on the expensive cream to massage Dad’s skin, while George mixed up a cocktail of thirty-three index arterial fluid, humectants, and other specialized chemicals in the embalming machine.
Somehow, it began the process of normalizing the death of our father.
The rest of the album was accompanied by the fluctuating whir of the machine as we sat around the room, re-telling favorite stories about Dad’s mishaps.
When the album ended, we let it play again. None of us were willing to leave him alone.
This was our vigil.
It was intimate and sad and cathartic. My siblings and I needed these hours of togetherness with Dad’s body. Taking the same care of him that we’d—well, George anyway—had done for so many others. It was safe here to laugh while one of us was crying, or to cry in the middle of a joke.
It was good.
When the machine was finished, George eyed the trocar. “You might want to leave for this.”
“Do you want Bethany in here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You’re right. I’ll regret it if I don’t.” There was a pause as he stared at the long hollow tube with the pointed end.
Soula nodded at him, already crying and reaching out for my hand.
George swallowed hard, his chest shaking. His eyes grew frantic as he stepped closer to Dad, placing an apologetic, almost prayerful hand on his abdomen. Tears rolled down his cheek onto his mask the moment he punctured the cavity, ramming the trocar into the space just above the belly button, aiming it down into the intestines to aspirate anything left behind after arterial embalming. It had to be done. Any bacteria left behind would lead to leakage, bloating, and disaster in the casket by Wednesday’s viewing.
The puncture to the gut was violent. The aspirating was even worse. I turned away, leaning my forehead against the wall with my arms crossed.
Like a soldier, Soula looked on. She was brave. She was used to this. Used to worse. She could compartmentalize, remove the fact that it was Dad on that table, somehow set aside the horror of it.
George had more difficulty. His arm stilled several times. He threw off his respirator and lunged for the trash can.
When it was finally over, I opened the door.
Bethany was still sitting in the hallway, facing the door. Her Doc Martens planted on the concrete and back against the wall. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her eyes were puffy, and her skin was red.
“Have you been out here the whole time?” It had been hours since we’d started the embalming.
“I didn’t know if he’d need me. I was worried when I heard the trocar.”
I sank down on the floor next to her. “He did great.”
She nodded. “I know.” The pride in her husband shone out of her eyes. “I could never… well, I could definitely embalm my own father. But not if my dad was Jim.”
“I don’t exactly know where he pulled the strength from, but I’m sure you were a big part of it.”
