I'm not hot about the idea of washing up after a gurgling baby who has poo-ed and pee-ed on the floor. The rather real possibility of raising a child sends shivers down my spine. I clearly don't possess a biological clock where babies are concerned. But switch the human to an older version who is incontinent, wrinkled and sullen, I've no issues dealing with that. I should know. It's been 15 years. I do this every week. The responsibilities I've taken on my roster are for life, till the expiry of each human lifespan.
By now, I'm quite practised in combing through the demands of paperwork and requirements of collecting the dead from hospitals and organising funerals. Different sorts of funerals, depending on the religious beliefs of the deceased. No wakes. I hate wakes. If there has to be a wake, I allow just one day. Any longer, I won't do it. Cremation usually. Once in a while, burial plots have to be blocked off too. Usually I have help to complete these errands in time. At times, I prefer to sort it out on my own, especially when they're on my roster.
So this is the ninth funeral on my roster. I'm not particularly affected by it. Sure, I'm tired from sorting out stuff and itty bits, but I've gotten a hang of the standard procedures so that I can literally do it fast asleep. I take a deep breath and that's that. I've come to grow fond of those who died. But I've also learnt to let go and filter out how far or how deep I should let each death affect my emotions and thoughts.
