Autopsy

I have literally failed at life today, in every possible way.

For starters, I saw an autopsy today as part of a requirement for my Pathology class. It. Was awful. Quite assuredly the worse thing I have ever experienced at any time during my dealings with all things medical. Including TV, drunk driving don't-end-up-like-these-mangled-scraps-of-humanity promotional videos, and odd bits of horror movies I've been unfortunate enough to stumble across.

It got to me. The smell was the first thing, though not the worst. It's fleshy and raw and meaty, I suppose, and the scent of blood just tastes like iron and rust in your mouth. I still can't get the taste out.  The most disturbing thing about the smell of fresh death was that it was so horribly familiar. I've never been around anything like this--I've never even been hunting, been to slaughter houses, nothing--and yet I knew that smell. I don't know why, but I hated it.

I walked into the building sick already. I'm one of the types who don't eat for days when PMS hits, because the smell, thought, or mention of food makes me feel nauseated. And so I literally whimpered when I woke up this morning and realized that, yes, this was one of those days. They tell you to eat before you come in--well. That's funny. And so that blast of cold air with death in it hit me in the face, and I saw all these bodies in various stages of butchery almost immediately, and it took everything I had not to black out right then and there. I think I pulled it off pretty well, all things considered.

Autopsies are obscene. They cut her open with kitchen knives and used massive garden shears on her ribcage, and then they just started pulling things out, lungs and vessels, her liver, her heart. God. I think this really got to me more than I realized--I'm sitting here crying because I was so horrified and all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't. It's required. Why the hell they require something like that is beyond me. And it's gross, and I can't even apologize about it, because it's been trapped inside my head all day, and I want it out.

They weren't like cadavers, you know. Those don't look like people anymore. These do. Just stupid people with tattoos and scars and nail polish. So you have to desperately remind yourself that they aren't people anymore. Just lumps of meat, no more than a cat or dog lying dead in the gutter.

I don't think anybody realizes what autopsies actually look like. They're not that nice neat metal table with the body all pristine and sewed up, or laid open all clean like those idiotic TV shows. There's blood and fluid everywhere, spattered on masks and dripping on the floor, and pieces of stuff, and did you know that people don't die with their eyes closed? Her eyes were blue. At least they were until the coroner's assistant pulled her face off and folded it under her neck, ripped her scalp off her skull and took her brain. God. I couldn't watch that part. The smell of bone being sawed just added to the whole experience, if you know what I mean. But you don't. Of course you don't.

There was a massive fat black lady next to us. I don't know why she died--perhaps gunshot wounds. I didn't look very closely. When they rolled her over, all her fat moved and it looked like she would sit up at any moment. The coroners were making rude jokes about her. Maybe that's their way of dealing with what they do. I suppose you get used to it after a while, but it made me sick.

Towards the end, the people working on the body lifted it up to put a block under the back. They'd cut everything apart that was holding her together in front, and her shoulders flopped back to form a 90 degree angle where one normally doesn't exist. That was the worst moment, for me. People don't do that. They don't move like that unless they're so, so broken. I had to look at something else, hard like trying to memorize Braille, hard to remind myself that I could still breathe.

You keep thinking it will get better. That the worst moment had to be first walking in and seeing a person flayed open like a fish, thin wrist hanging off the table and dripping blood so slowly. And then you think, no, the worst moment must be watching one side of her face cave in because they just went through her neck to her throat, under her skin, and ripped something out--I didn't look closely enough to tell what. Surely that must be the worst moment, and it will be over soon. But then you realize the worst moment is when you accidentally look closely at the bag they've used to cover her brainless head, and realize it is actually semi-transparent, and that her twisted used-to-be-a-face is staring back but it's all wrong because they didn't pull it tight enough over her skull to fit the place it used to be; and then you finally get it, that there will always be a worst moment coming up until you get to walk out the door, so just expect it and look away when it comes.

I came home and scrubbed my hair twice. After that, I did almost nothing. The entire afternoon. Some of it was the I'm in physical pain, and that never helps concentration, but after this little exercise with words I'm starting to believe it was simply my lack of willingness to think about this morning. All afternoon it's felt like my mind has been shut down, just stopped, like I was trapped in honey or amber. And so I lost myself in stories, in being around people, in not thinking. It's been so discouraging and I was beating myself up pretty badly for my appalling lack of motivation--but it sort of makes sense now, for the first time.  I've written about it, cried fairly hard, and for the first time in hours I feel like things are starting to move again--and that I might be able to sleep (and I'm hungry now). Still a bit bewildered by it. Still trying to process. I'm not done yet, either. I can feel it. My mind is still stumbling around it. But I think this was my problem today. Maybe my mind just shut down for a bit to protect itself.

I know a girl I met in a lunch line started crying when she tried to tell me how her autopsy experience went, so this isn't completely nuts. Steph told me they gave her a kid, and she didn't know if she could have gone through with it--but they switched her so she didn't have to watch. I don't know. I don't know why I had to experience that. Most people probably don't have my reaction, but still. At this point I can't see anything redeeming about watching a body being torn down piece by piece.

I'm so tired now. I couldn't sleep before--you might notice by the time stamp that it's almost midnight, and I generally turn into a pumpkin at about ten. As therapy, this has worked pretty well. But man. I can still smell it. I hate that. I just want to sleep.

November holidays

My family's thanksgivings are different; I suppose you could say odd, or downright bizarre. One year we set someone on fire with Roman candles--another we played Rock Band so loudly and so badly that I think the neighbors complained. We've burned a field for the fun of it. And an old barn. And possible a house, although that was more a summer adventure. But you get the picture (fire). There have been bloody dog fights and embarrassing excursions to Jungle Jims. Something, always. When I called this morning, Grandma had already dropped the turkey on the floor and someone flooded the basement with a hose they left running outside, so it sounded like everything was shaping up rather nicely.

Thanksgiving was lonely this year. I called in and skyped with everyone, and dad showed me his cracker loaded with aunt Lori's Famous Cheeseball and some fresh jalepeno jelly. My little brother Alex talked to me for an hour last night about scuba diving and pornography and how difficult life is, sometimes. Aunt Paula took the phone and told me they'd been talking about my boyfriend and decided he had to go--stuff like that. Home stuff. Uncle Gary made aunt Lori angry because he ate all the crust off of her apple pie. Mom sent me a box with jars of canned tomato juice and dilled green beans, my favorites. Aunt Lori and mom showed me grandma, trying to move the turkey again, and giggled about it when she couldn't see us. The uncles were grumbling about the flooded basement and we decided to blame grandma for that, too, since they like her and she can get away with it. And guess what? They saved me a place at the big table this year. I've been trying to sit there since I graduated college, and this year there was finally an empty seat.

I thought that was actually a bit cruel.

I was disappointed in today. I keep thinking I'm going to recreate Thanksgiving like we do at home, and I'm starting to realize that until I have my own home, and my own family, I'm not going to be able to do that. It just won't work; I shouldn't have expected it. 

Small things

Somewhere close, a dog is crying in the way dogs do when they feel that life is too sad not to voice. It's getting to me--I want to find it and love on it. Something in the sound is just so lonely. Forsaken. It tugs hard and something in me wants to respond.

Or it could just be a weird 'were type of animal trying to lure me out into the dark because it sounds pitiful and I just want to cuddle it--and then, as soon as I leave the safety of the light, it'll grind my bones and pickle my spleen and use my femurs as toothpicks. You just never know around here.

Demetri, the neighbor I complained about? We're doing better. He's still, at times, a world-class douche (think music at 2:00am), but now that he has a name and a history, it's easier to find a way to connect with him that isn't quite so uncomfortable. (Did I really just type that, and he really just turn his music on at a half-million decibels? Yes, yes he did). Anyway. He has a puppy. This little light tan pit bull puppy. And I know it'll probably grow up and be this vicious nasty biting thing because Demetri's little boy hits it and everybody is always screaming and unhappy in that house, but for now, it's just a puppy. And when nobody's outside and the puppy is in the yard, I'll sneak over and talk to it in puppy-speak through the fence. And it will wiggle everything behind its nose and lick my fingers and generally we're both just happy.

Speaking of little squishy things and happy; I did my first exam on a baby. And he was the most chubbly wubbly baby ever. And he LOVED ME. They warn us to be quick because babies will generally scream during exams, but every time I leaned over him, he just stared at me and smiled. It was so funny, too, because I was attempting to listen to his inspiratory strider (think wheezing), but he would see me and calm down and it would stop. The doctor threw up her hands and said, "You've healed him! He can go home!" It was great.

In other news. I was pretty desperate, these past few weeks. I skirt depression so often, now, and it felt like I was trying to claw my way out of a hole, and every bit of progress I made was lost just as quickly. I mentioned this before. Anyway, I had my first appointment with the new therapist. I like her. We worked out a basic plan for things I can incorporate into my life that will make me happier and feel more...human. Not quite as dark--more myself. I'm hopeful.

Ducks and stuff

More updates. But first, some pictures.

There was a boy in my life this summer. Actually, we just celebrated our one year anniversary. I was pretty excited about it. Thought I'd share. I'm allowed to do whatever I want, on here. -grins-

 There was also a duck.

Yes, this duck. I called her Duckers. Because I'm all original and crap.

She's the only duck I've raised who actually thought she was People. 

You would not believe how this thing ATE. I was actually sort of jealous.

Our turkey was sitting on chicken eggs, and the ducks got into the nest, and, well...it's complicated. 

I'm getting spoiled...won't know what to do without a summer of ducks.

Oh, and I learned how to wakeboard. :-D

Now that the pictures are out of the way, my study break is up. Besides, the other stuff I'm inclined to chat about doesn't really go with ducks and lakes--it'll hold for another post. Perhaps tonight, while it's still fresh. 

No title

I need to make another counseling appointment.

After my last bout with the first counselor, I ended up seeing the psychiatrist. We get along well, and I've been back since then. We decided meds weren't an issue--rather, I told him there were issues, and he listened. We talked about strategies to live life healthier, and to some extent, they've worked.

I never counted on being a bad patient. They say doctors are the worst--I guess I'd agree.

I had two things I was supposed to do, the last time I left the office. Schedule a sleep study, and make an appointment with a better therapist. I have numbers and recommendations for both. I've done neither. It's been over a month, now.

I always wait until things get bad again before I do anything. I put stuff off, brush it aside. I do this with so many things, not just this. The psych guy said it's because I'm controlling. Hard to put a good slant on that one, eh? But he said one reason for this might be that I hate feeling tied down to obligation or schedules, and if I don't want to do something, I simply don't do it. I don't get it, myself.

But. Life is feeling a bit gray again. Sleep doesn't rest me, I can't concentrate or study, and even when good things happen in daily life, I'm not happy for long before I become sad and afraid and weary. I waste time, copious amounts of time. I've studied so little for the hours I've had today, and yet all I want to do is turn off the light, crawl in bed, and listen to the rain fall until I go to sleep...sleep through the weekend, in the dark, by myself. And it's not even 9pm yet.