My Job is Depressing

If you included all the weeping and bawling I've ever done while PMSing, watching Grey's Anatomy, and shouldering all the shit I've had to put up with from my boss, it wouldn't come close to totaling the amount of tears I've cried after a hard, emotional day at work. So many of my families from the funeral home ask me how I'm able to do it every day, walk hand-in-hand with death while smiling and tra-la-la-ing and yet be so helpful when they're falling apart. They always tend to assume that I'm just a hard-ass and brush their grief and heartbreak off like it was just some lint stuck to my skirt.

The fact is, it's my job to help those who temporarily lose their direction. It used to unnerve me to witness a grown man cry and I would just shy back and twiddle my thumbs and wait till he stopped. Now, I understand and know that when a man steadies himself against a couch, simply being right there beside him makes all the difference.

So, I'm seemingly fine while the mother of very young motorcycle crash victim tearfully asks me if tomorrow's service is her final opportunity to say goodbye; the father notifies me that I'm supposed to sneak in and out of the chapel during the visitation to make sure nothing is leaking from his son's left ear and stealthily fix it if there is something leaking; and the brother belts out a serenade to a full house because the microphone isn't working. However, when I step into the shower later that night, I wash every bit of that off and cry till my eyes feel like they're going to topple out of my head. This is perfectly normal and healthy and is called Catharsis (  a release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit).

But everynow and then I'm thrown a curve ball.

A young man called the funeral home when I happened to be the only person working and asked me to help him arrange his own funeral. Easy enough. After answering all his odd-ball questions about cremation and nailing down all the nitty-gritty details of the service, he still had not told me if he was sick or not. It's my experience that when a person is faced with his own mortality they usually like to talk about it. So, I asked him gently, "This may be none of my business...atleast not yet....but..", no I didn't say that, that would be horrible! OMG! I asked him, "Matt, I'm just curious, and don't feel you need to answer this, but is there a reason you're making these preparations now? Are you sick?" and he replied: "Well...-stuttering and such-...It's just a very long story and I don't want to bore you with it. You've been so helpful, more than I expected you to be." And he was all gracious. He called the next day and my boss picked up. He asked for me and when she said that I wasn't there but she asked for his name and told him that she would tell me that he called, he said, "Uh...My name is Logan...and don't worry about it I'll call back." He didn't want to give her his phone number...or his real name. He did end up calling me later, but only to ask the same questons as he did the day before. All the girls in the office think he is suicidal and only trusts me now that he likes me. It's weird.

I'm alittle freaked.

I've lost a considerable amount of sleep and appetite and it's all his fault, or mine for being sensitive. He hasn't called lately, and I feel I should be thankful for that.