“Go on, touch his tumour,” the embalmer prodded. He picked up my wrist to forcibly make me touch the recently deceased cancer patient. As I touched the spongy mass, I again wondered what the hell I was doing.

For many years, I’ve had the desire to become a mortician.  Yes, the Doctor of Love wants to embalm the deceased. Unfortunately a fundamental requirement is I must attend a university with a mortuary science programme to become licensed. Before dropping even more money on a seemingly wasted education, I thought I’d investigate by working in a funeral home.

This summer, I spent some time on the telephone, contacting various funeral homes in Indianapolis. I spoke with many funeral directors, asking questions about the different programmes and work experience available. Nearly everyone with whom I spoke was really helpful, save the lone woman who made a snide comment about me watching too much Six Feet Under (which I don’t watch) and assumed that’s where I got the idea this would be “a fun thing to do". Not so much. 

One director in particular (and my current employer) invited me to his main chapel where I spent the better part of an afternoon. Not only did I get a chance to have my questions answered, but also I was lucky enough to shadow a funeral director for two of the day’s visitations.

What exactly is a funeral director, one may wonder. Essentially, it’s a party planner for the dead.  rude phrasing, but it’s true. They meet with the decedent’s family and make the arrangements for the funeral. Not all funeral directors are responsible for the embalming, however. Larger funeral homes employ a person whose sole job is to embalm.

Now that’s sorted, I can begin my journey.  Many of my friends wonder why I’m interested in this particular field. It may be bizarre, yes, but it’s a highly rewarding career. I don’t mean to say I get my jollies from seeing corpses, and I’m certainly not into necrophilia. This profession really is about appreciating life. After experiencing the grief of someone else and seeing their pain, it does put one’s own life into perspective. I’ve started to realise how important family and friends are, and no longer take them for granted.

While not every day brings me into contact with a bereaved family, I do spend my days in an office with a box of cremated human remains ('cremains'). Someone’s wife, mother and grandmother lived her life, only to end up in a cardboard box in a supply closet of a mortuary, awaiting family members to pick her up. Imagine ending up in a box on a shelf, surrounded by strangers – gives one something to think about.

Enough of the smushy stuff. Corpses aren’t creepy. Honestly. At least, not the ones I’ve seen. I’ve not been privy to the more gruesome aspects of death – that’ll be saved for mortuary school. The directors with my company have been a fountain of knowledge; kindly and patiently putting up with my questions. Hell, I really wanted to know if people are buried with underwear on. If you’re curious, the answer is yes, assuming the family brings some. When you die, you’ll be dressed in whatever your family decides to put on you. I’ve seen a woman buried in a pink suit and red fuzzy slippers.

I’ve learned about the embalming process, the frequency of muscle spasms that occur after death, how to perform an autopsy, and the various uses of cling film.  I’ve heard stories of fat corpses falling through the bottom of cheap caskets, ministers falling into muddy graves…it’s happened. I’ve tried to share my stories with my nearest and dearest, but they don’t want to hear it. Sometimes I wonder why people don’t want to talk about skin slip or organ harvesting.

I’ve been told I can watch an embalming and go on a body removal, but I have to wait until an indigent person dies (something about respecting the family). That’s definitely taking away my fun (I’m kidding.)

One of the directors is a deputy coroner for Indianapolis, who said that he’ll give me a call the next time he goes to the scene of a particularly violent car wreck. I have no idea if he was kidding, as this is coming from a man who cracks jokes in the middle of funerals.