FOR IMMEDIATE HELP
- First time facing the unthinkable: What you see at a trauma scene can stay with you forever… don’t take that risk.
- Trauma cleanup isn’t DIY: Avoid emotional trauma and dangerous pathogens… leave it to certified professionals.
THE SCENE THAT STAYS WITH YOU
No one will ever forget their first call. Mine was Barry. Barry was an elderly gentleman living alone with three kinds of cancer. His health was failing fast now, and his pain seemed to increase with every breath. The hospice nurse had told him, Barry, do you remember when we talked last month about the possibility of going to the hospice center? So you’d best get your loose ends tied up so you can go; your time is running out.
But Barry knew it was closer than she thought. He had already decided to die in his home, in his small bedroom where he felt safe and secure, at a time of his choosing.
Barry, I was told, had no real regrets in life. He grew up on a farm with his brother and sister in central Nebraska during the Great Depression Era. Life was challenging, as it was for everyone he knew, so he paid little attention to being poor. His mother ensured that the boys went to school, which meant many long nights spent on homework after finishing their chores. He learned the value of hard work during those tough times.
Barry went to college, leaving his siblings behind, but he didn’t get too far in his education when the war broke out. Barry dropped out of school and joined the army. When he returned, he went back to school, but this time, he was helped by the new GI Bill. That’s where he met his wife, and they married just after graduation.
Barry graduated with a degree in civil engineering and took a job at a firm in Chicago. They stayed there many years, then moved back to Kansas City to be nearer to family.
WHEN RESOLVE MEETS SUFFERING
He lived well into his eighties, worked most of his life, and lost his only wife to cancer some years before. They had no children. His sister-in-law, his wife’s sister, was Margaret, who lived a few doors down and was helping care for him as his health began to fail.
Margaret was a slightly built lady, older, but kept herself well-trimmed and seemed very fit for her age. Even though my time knowing her was short, she spoke softly, caring for everyone around her, even me. Margaret and her husband grew up in Kansas City but only briefly discussed what they did for a living. She had children, and I overheard a conversation later in which she said her kids were heading to town for Barry’s funeral.
I’m sure Barry had a plan in place once he found out he was leaving soon. I can only imagine how Barry took his time. Indeed, reminisced over his life and prayed about what was planned. Relatives revealed he was a religious man, attending church regularly. At least, until he was too ill to attend.
I can’t imagine thinking about ending your life without much prayer, angst, and fear. His condition was such that he would have to struggle to get out of bed to get to his closet, where he kept the gun. Moving around had become difficult and painful months before. But great resolve can bring much strength to even the weakest body for a short time.
It still puzzles me how someone can come to a place in their thoughts where they would want to take their own life.
WHAT REMAINS WHEN LIFE IS DONE
When you feel the cold steel against your neck and your next move is pulling the trigger, knowing it will END your life, it must be all awe-inspiring. His time had passed — he had endured horrific pain, and he lived his life, and he knew, in his soul, it was now time to go.
When you’re in someone’s home, you notice the things most important to them, whoever is living there. Barry, I was told, grew up on a farm in central Nebraska, but I saw the photos of his travels with his wife. Several pictures hung on the wall, showing him in uniform. He was an army captain in one photo. Yet, in another instance, he was being honored by a group of businesspeople at a formal dinner.
His wife looked a lot like her sister, Margaret. She, too, was a trim, petite woman, and next to Berry, she only came to his mid-chest area. Other photos show family and friends in various settings, such as by the lake, in the mountains, and at home. Obviously, with no children, these relationships were meaningful, and they traveled well.
Margaret entered Barry’s house the following day, just as she had every morning for months. First, she announced herself, exclaiming, “Good morning!” from the front door as it closed. Then, as she approached the bedroom through the modest home, she noticed it was pretty silent. Barry would always bid her hello in response, or at least a grunt or a groan.
As she approached the other side of the living room near the bedroom, she saw Barry’s feet on the floor, sticking straight out through the doorway. At first, Margaret thought he must have fallen, and then her sad thought was perhaps he had passed away when trying to get out of bed.
A DISCOVERY NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO MAKE
She was ready in her mind to come in one day and find he had passed, which was something she could have handled. But the farthest thing from her mind was that he would have taken his own life, and indeed, she had prepared for something entirely different from what had happened and what she saw.
Barry sat on the edge of his bed facing the doorway, took his 12-gauge shotgun, and placed it just below his chin. After some time of deep mêlée and high concentration, he pulled the trigger. Of course, I’m sure Barry had never seen what a shotgun could do to the human body at close range in a small room, even though he spent time in military battle.
I’m sure Barry gave no thought to what a gruesome sight and what emotional trauma the event would give to those who would eventually find him. Barry did not know what kind of mess he had left behind or who would clean it up.
Margaret slowly rounded the corner, softly speaking Barry’s name, and peered into the room, fully expecting to see Barry resting quietly, though gone from the body.
But, as she looked around the corner, bracing herself to see he had just passed away in his sleep, she let out a scream from the depths of her being; the sound was guttural and full of horror from the shock of what she saw. Margaret went running home crying hysterically to call the police. She could have called the cops from Barry’s house, but all she could think of was an escape.
BEYOND WHAT WORDS CAN PREPARE YOU FOR
When I recount this scene, I usually say, ‘You could not have put two five-year-olds into this tiny bedroom with a bucket of mud and told them to make a bigger mess. ‘ But, even though I hesitate to describe it, poor Barry had removed his head in totality.
The gun blast propelled the body backward onto the bed. Then the body recoiled and bounced back to an upright position, gently slipping off the edge of the bed, coming to rest sitting on the floor. Barry’s feet were sticking out in front of his body just through the doorway, and the shotgun came to rest between his legs on the floor. (In our industry, we call that room a debris field.)
The force behind the blood and tissue creates massive human debris that ricochets around the entire room. It even flies in the opposite direction of the gun blast. Unencumbered, it will fly 60 to 70 feet.
When Margaret called our office later that day, I asked what I would have to clean up. I wanted to make sure I had all that I needed with me to do the job.
Oh, there’s some blood on the bed and a little on the wall, and I’m sure there must be some blood on the floor, but I didn’t stay to look at the room.
Okay, I’ll assemble my gear and arrive in about an hour.
Margaret stepped out of the front door when she saw my van pull up in front of the house. I brought Pops with me for moral support.
-Are you Margaret, approaching the house?
-Yes.
-I’m happy to meet you, although it’s not a great situation.
-Yes, me too.
-This is my Operations Manager, Pops.
-Come on in, and I’ll direct you to Barry’s bedroom.
Margaret hung back as we approached the room. You’ll be able to look at it without me; I don’t want to see it again.
Oh sure, you don’t need that in your head.
THE NIGHT AFTER; WHEN THE SCENE COMES HOME WITH YOU
As I rounded the corner with Pops right behind me, I almost went into shock myself when I peered into the room, and I certainly wasn’t emotionally or otherwise equipped to handle the task.
Turning quickly and excitedly, I told Margaret, I’m sorry — but I’m not at all equipped to do this job this evening. I thought there was a much smaller mess — I’ll have to return tomorrow morning with more equipment.
After witnessing my reaction, Margaret knew her description was lacking and agreed it would be best.While driving back to the office, Pops, sitting next to me, was also upset. We had never seen such carnage in our lives.
The only problem was that he expressed his shock by trying to show how macho he was. Did you see that? Did you see that? That didn’t bother me, not at all! I could eat a hamburger right now, and it wouldn’t make me sick.
I was silent. All I could think about was where to start cleaning. I was very apprehensive about whether I could do what was necessary. Sleep that night was out of the question, tossing and turning, dreaming weird, almost nightmarish dreams filled with blood and gore everywhere.
I didn’t let on what was happening in my head. My machismo was also playing out in me. I wanted to complete the task. I told everyone, including my wife, that I could do it despite my doubts. I didn’t think my first job would be a “baptism by fire.” But to be honest, I’m still determining what my first job will be like.
THE DAY I STEPPED INTO THE WORK AND THE WORK STEPPED INTO ME
I returned the following day with all the gear I thought I would need and went to work. Margaret was there to let me in and watched as I set up my gear just outside the room. She was concerned, asking me if I was ready to do this. As ready as I’ll ever be, I said.
I donned biohazard level C Tývek coveralls with a hood and booties. In the hospitals where I worked, we called them bunny suits because all you needed were two big ears. This gear covers the wearer from head to foot, with two sets of gloves taped to the suit and a face shield protecting against splashes.
It was early 1993, and the day was hot. I hadn’t noticed the heavy blood odor the day before, but it lingers in the air, virtually making it seem like there is no air to breathe. In addition, it has a strong menstrual smell.
I started at the doorway, lifting one part at a time, then placing it in the bio-waste tubs. I cut away the contaminated carpets and pads and put them into containers, one after another. Blood and tissue were everywhere, clinging to every item in that small room.
Margaret said we don’t want anything; throw it away. Back in those early days, I used to have an event that I called “surprises.” I would pull on a bedsheet or cover, and something would plop at my feet – usually a large piece of brain matter, which was a surprise. I always thought one day that would make me sick—but thank God, the day never came.
I never thought about the police being in the room doing an investigation. You quickly learn the police will move everything around while doing investigative work, trying to find evidence of what may determine murder rather than suicide, especially in the absence of a note.
I cleaned the exterior of Barry’s dresser drawer and removed it from the room. So I could take the dresser out of the room by myself. I opened the top right-hand drawer to remove it, and there was my first surprise staring at me in the face – brain matter about the size of my fist just lying on Barry’s underwear. Mortified, I felt the shock roll over me like a wave. Was I going to hold it together? My first thought was, ‘I’m going to be sick! ‘ Then I would say, no, I’m not.
What in the world was I going to do with it? Should I pick it up? I had never held part of a human brain in my hand before. So I gently picked it up, like an injured bird, and held this soft, fatty, almost translucent tissue in my hand for a few moments.
This is the essence of Barry, or at least a part of him. Besides his body, this was a big part of what made Barry — Barry. It was a frontal lobe by its shape, where thoughts, goals, and dreams live. I don’t know how long I stood there staring, but it seemed like half an hour or more. How did it get there? The drawer was closed.
While performing their investigation, CSIs will routinely open and shut doors and drawers. The ammo’s placement in the drawer left it wide open during Barry’s death, with the remaining ammo in its box in the opposite corner. I gently placed the brain matter in the bio-tub and then put it in the next drawer until I could pull the dresser out of the room.
Some of Barry’s and Margaret’s friends arrived in the late morning, and I could hear them talking in the other room. The sadness was terrible, and I got mad at Barry for causing them so much pain by doing such a dreadful thing the day before.
I finished the room some six hours later, and I was exhausted. Sweat was pouring off me like a running faucet, and I had lost eight pounds in body weight. Margaret remarked that I had become pale and looked a little sick. I am, I said; I need a little rest, and I’ll be alright.
THE WEIGHT I CARRIED HOME
Driving home, I wondered if I could walk into the house and act like nothing had happened. I felt stressed, and my anxiety was off the charts. I went home that evening and played the part of the macho man.
I told my wife very little. I mean, what is it, I would say? How do you describe the carnage? How do you describe holding a man’s brain in your hands for the first time? I didn’t want to give her nightmares; I wasn’t sure I could go through the night without having them myself.
I did tell her how grateful Margaret was and how she couldn’t give me enough praise. That part was significant, and it helped grow my confidence.
But I learned that you can play the macho man for a while, but things begin to creep into your life. People suddenly start asking questions like, “Are you alright? You seem a little distracted lately.”
You might hear others say, “Why are you so short-tempered today? What bug is in your butt?” It gets harder to deal with as time passes, and you need to seek some relief.
Usually, this is when you put it off, telling yourself you’ve got it together; you need a little more time. Time heals many things in life, but time makes Critical Incident Stress Syndrome and PTSD worse if you don’t seek relief.
Written by-
DON MCNULTY