My Life With Death

By David J. VanBuskirk

The eternal darkness of death comes to every human. Whether it is the miscarriage of an imperfect fertile egg, or the grim reaper coming to harvest our soul, we all enter into another world in an instant. It can happen at any time, from the moment of conception until well past the century mark. We all have our very own time to die.
During my thirty-two years as a licensed embalmer and funeral director, I’ve seen death first hand, almost on a daily basis, and I’ve seen nearly every kind of death imaginable. I’ve removed the dead bodies of those who died of natural causes, and I’ve had my hands on some of the most gruesome, and grotesque looking bodies imaginable.
The following story tells about my involvement with some of those dead human bodies, and their survivors. It contains my own thoughts, observations, and descriptions of when, how, and where death occurred. I try to relay my relationship to the circumstances, and to the part that I played in the removal and disposition of those bodies.
My intentions are to enlighten the reader about my profession: what we do, the odd hours we work, and to let you know that we in the funeral industry are humans, too. Some of what I write about is sad, some of it is humorous, and some of it is extremely gross.
Out of the thousands of experiences in my career with the injured, the dying, and the dead, these are the incidents that will forever be etched into my memory.
Even though some of the events I tell of here may not be chronological, these incidents did actually happen. Everything I say in this story is true. I have, however, given fictitious names to the many people and businesses that I mention in my story.

David J. VanBuskirk

• Language: English
• Publisher: David J. VanBuskirk
• Release date: Jan 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370754311

David J. VanBuskirk

Dave was born and raised in Oklahoma. Because he didn't want to become a farmer, or an oil field worker, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and left for active duty shortly after graduation from high school. His affiliation with the Marine Corps would span most of the next eleven years of his life. Following his tour of duty if Vietnam (1966-'67), he was assigned to the Inspector-Instructor staff, 3rd ANGLICO, USMCR, on Terminal Island. In November of 1970, then Staff Sergeant VanBuskirk was forced to retire with a thirty percent physical disability, caused by his Vietnam service. Dave became a Mortician strictly by accident. To put it bluntly, he needed a job following retirement so he could feed his family of six. He eventually found employment driving an emergency ambulance, a job for which he had absolutely no training, except for his Boy Scout first aid and Marine Corps training. His new boss just happened to own a mortuary. After a few months of employment, Dave became an apprentice embalmer, served two years as an apprentice, and attended the Los Angeles College of Mortuary Science, graduating in September of 1973. Dave was a licensed embalmer and funeral director for the better part of thirty-two years. Dave has been married to his best friend, Grace, for over thirty-six years and lives in Southern California, where he has lived most of his adult life. Four men and two women call him Dad, and nine youngsters call him Grandpa. He is also the proud Great Grandfather of one and a half. Dave has also had a first person article published in the "Leatherneck Magazine", a magazine for Marines.

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My Life With Death

Copyright 2014 David J. Van Buskirk

Published by David J. Van Buskirk

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INTRODUCTION

The eternal darkness of death comes to every human. Whether it is the miscarriage of an imperfect fertile egg, or the grim reaper coming to harvest our soul, we all enter into another world in an instant. It can happen at any time, from the moment of conception until well past the century mark. We all have our very own time to die.

During my thirty-two years as a licensed embalmer and funeral director, I’ve seen death first hand, almost on a daily basis, and I’ve seen nearly every kind of death imaginable. I’ve removed the dead bodies of those who died of natural causes, and I’ve had my hands on some of the most gruesome, and grotesque looking bodies imaginable.

The following story tells about my involvement with some of those dead human bodies, and their survivors. It contains my own thoughts, observations, and descriptions of when, how, and where death occurred. I try to relay my relationship to the circumstances, and to the part that I played in the removal and disposition of those bodies.

My intentions are to enlighten the reader about my profession: what we do, the odd hours we work, and to let you know that we in the funeral industry are humans, too. Some of what I write about is sad, some of it is humorous, and some of it is extremely gross.

Out of the thousands of experiences in my career with the injured, the dying, and the dead, these are the incidents that will forever be etched into my memory.

Even though some of the events I tell of here may not be chronological, these incidents did actually happen. Everything I say in this story is true. I have, however, given fictitious names to the many people and businesses that I mention in my story.

David J. VanBuskirk

CHAPTER I

SPARKS FAMILY FUNERAL CHAPELS

I’ve experienced some exciting times in my life. Riding shotgun in an ambulance, speeding down Interstate 10 with red lights flashing and siren blaring, ranks close to the top of my list. I was on my way to rescue a stranger, or strangers, who had been injured in an automobile accident. I was excited, my adrenaline was flowing, and I was scared.

I was afraid because I had no prior medical experience. The only time that I’d ever been inside of an ambulance was as a patient, in Da Nang, South Vietnam, in 1967.

It seemed like our trip was taking forever, and my new partner, Willie, kept throwing instructions at me.

We’ll head for the person who’s in worse shape first, Willie told me. Then we’ll tend to those less injured. Our job is to patch up our patients, and get them to the hospital as soon as possible. All we can do is administer the best possible first aid, and keep the patient alive until we get there.

Stay calm, Willie warned. If you act overly excited, the injured person will think they are worse off than they actually are.

Okay. I answered. I believed him, and I wondered how I was going to respond to this emergency.

We could see the accident long before we reached it, and the jitters were kicking in. Willie eventually had to use the shoulder of the freeway to reach the chaotic scene quicker. I was getting more excited by the moment, but when the ambulance stopped I became calm, and ready for whatever lay ahead.

Skid marks on the pavement led to a mangled overhead camper lying on its side, along with its equally mangled attached boat and trailer. Debris from the accident littered most of the freeway, and its shoulder areas.

The California Highway Patrol (CHP) officer had thrown flares on the freeway to channel the traffic down to one lane, and was waving the vehicles through.

A four-door sedan was jammed head on against the metal center divider, an elderly gentleman sitting in the driver’s seat. The old man’s head was tilted backward, nestled between the window frame and the seat. His mouth was hanging wide open, and his eyes were staring into emptiness.

A young couple, I assumed from the camper wreckage, was standing near their torn up toys. They didn’t appear to have any major injuries.

An obviously shaken and dazed elderly woman sat on a blanket near the highway patrol vehicle, parked on the shoulder of the freeway.

Half carrying and half rolling our cot, we headed for the sedan. The CHP officer interrupted his traffic directing duties to intercept us.

He’s dead, the officer yelled, and pointed to the roadside. Take care of his wife.

We hurried over to the frail looking little ole white-headed lady and lowered our cot to ground next to her. We quickly assessed her injuries. She was barely conscious, and had multiple small lacerations on her face and arms, probably from the shattered glass. There were bruises on her forehead, and I suspected that she was going into shock.

Willie quickly introduced us, and told the lady that we were going to take her to the hospital. We gently, but quickly, helped her onto our cot, lowered her onto her back, and fastened the stomach and leg straps over her. We raised our cot to its full height, and hurriedly rolled its small wheels toward the ambulance, placed it inside and fastened it in place. I climbed in back with my first patient.

Willie quickly checked with the young couple. They didn’t need our services so he closed the ambulance’s back double doors, jumped into the driver’s seat and away we went. As we pulled away from the scene, he flipped a toggle switch on the dash board and the siren started it’s soon-to-be familiar wailing.

We used the Verbenia Avenue overpass, and headed back the way we’d came. As we sped down the freeway toward the hospital, I heard Willie key the radio mike. KOX5884 to base.

This is base, a female voice responded through the static. Janet Mallory was secretary, office manager, and daytime dispatcher for the ambulance service. She was a nice looking young lady, about twenty-five years old, with a great, bubbly personality.

We’re Code 3, with one patient, minor to moderate injuries. I heard Willie tell the dispatcher. We’re about twenty minutes away.

10-4, Janet answered. I’ll alert the emergency room (ER).

10-4, Willie acknowledged. KOX5884 out.

Base out, came the reply.

I was busy covering the dazed lady’s larger wounds with four inch by four inch bandages, while trying to keep her calm. I dabbed the smaller cuts and nicks with a clean towel, and tried to tell her that she was going to be okay.

Where is my husband? she asked me every few minutes.

They’re bringing him in another ambulance. I kept answering. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was dead. My fibbing seemed to quiet her down, but from the look on her face, I don’t think she believed me.

We were still a few minutes from the hospital, and my patient was slowly coming out of her trance. She was becoming more alert, and anxious. I tried to keep a conversation going, trying to keep her thoughts away from her husband.

It had been a long twenty-minute ride, and I was relieved when Willie finally turned into the small emergency room parking lot. He made a short, horseshoe curve before backing up to the ER entrance and shutting the engine off. Willie hurried to the back of the ambulance and opened the double doors to their full width. We unloaded our patient and hurried inside.

We startled several people who were in the small waiting room when we burst through the double doors. Willie pulled, and I pushed the cot as we hurried through the twelve feet by twelve feet room. When we rounded the corner to the right into a large hallway, not ten feet in front of us stood Diane Worley, a short, slightly portly lady, old enough to be my mother. She was one of the ER’s registered nurses (RN’s), and was waiting for us at the entrance to the Trauma Treatment Area.

Hi, Diane, Willie said, as we hurried toward her.

Hi, Willie, Diane answered. Who’s your helper? she asked, as if I were invisible.

I’m Dave, I answered, before Willie had a chance to respond.

Nice to meet you, Diane said, as we rushed into a large room with several exam tables lined up, side by side, maybe a half dozen feet apart.

The dropped ceiling was decorated with an aluminum framework for the curtains that could be drawn around each table for privacy. Between the curtains, crunched against the back wall, stood an open-shelved, white metal cabinet, loaded with all sorts of supplies and equipment. A large oxygen tank stood at the ready. Each of the five stations was equipped the same way.

Diane selected the nearest table, and we quickly placed our cot along its side. Willie unsnapped the belts from over our patient’s stomach and legs. We untucked the sheet from under the mattress and folded it over our patient. The three of us rolled the edges of the sheet together and used it to slide the lady off our cot, directly onto the exam table. We would retrieve our sheet later.

Space was limited inside the trauma room so I made my exit, and was standing in the hallway, using a clean sheet from underneath our thin mattress to remake the cot. I could hear the sounds coming from within. Diane was speaking to her frightened patient in a soft, soothing tone, trying to comfort her. She was all business, though, and was swiftly and methodically cleaning the cuts and scrapes as she removed the bandages that I’d applied. As she conversed with her patient, she continued applying a disinfectant, and a clean bandage, or band-aid. She never stopped looking for signs of other trauma.

I had just finished putting the cot back together when Willie joined me. He had finished filling out the trip sheet, a condensed record of our ambulance call. Let’s grab a cup of coffee. Willie said.

I’m all for that, I responded. I can sure use one.

We walked a short distance down the hall, around the next corner to the right, and into the hospital cafeteria.

Willie was a little younger than I, about my height and weight. His main job was ambulance work. He also helped around the mortuary as needed. It was unusual for him to work funerals or make removals at night. While having our coffee, we chatted, getting to know each other. Where did you work before? Willie asked me.

I’ve been in the Marine Corps, I told him. I was forced to retire last November due to a physical disability.

How did you get this job? was Willie’s next question.

Strictly by accident, I replied. I looked for work for more than two months, and applied for every advertised job I could find. Rev. Smith of the Presbyterian Church in Beaumont, where my wife’s folks go to church, knew I was looking, I continued. He suggested that I talk to Jerry, and here I am.

Where did you get your first aid training? Willie asked.

Just from my Boy Scout days, and my Marine Corps training, I answered. Where’d you get yours?

I took some Red Cross courses, Willie replied, and I got my First Aid Card, and Advanced First Aid Card.

Where’d you work before? I asked.

I worked for Boardhew in Palm Springs for about five years, Willie said. When Jerry started his service here a few years ago, I moved to Banning to work for him.

Jerry Sparks owned the ambulance service, and a mortuary. He was a portly young man, standing about five feet, ten inches, and only slightly older than myself.

As we continued getting acquainted, more cafeteria staff, several nurses, and other staff members came and went. Everybody seemed to know Willie, and as he acknowledged each one he introduced me.

Ours was the only ambulance service in the San Gorgonio Pass area, and the San Gorgonio Pass Memorial Hospital was the only hospital. It was an old hospital, dedicated on March 4, 1951, and was constructed as a memorial to the San Gorgonio Pass war dead. A flag that had flown over the nation’s capital had been raised by local veterans.

Our ambulance personnel were in and out of the hospital several times a day, and sometimes, throughout the night. In between emergency calls we transferred patients in and out of the hospital, to and from their homes, or to and from the local convalescent hospitals.

During my conversation with Willie, I got a quick lesson on how to fill in the blanks on our trip sheets. We were required to accurately record the mileage, all expendable supplies used, and, of course, the base costs. There was also a place for the patient’s name, contact information, and diagnosis. The sheets were printed in triplicate with one copy going to the patient, one copy to the patient’s insurance company, and a copy for our file.

We’d been in the cafeteria for about a half hour before we headed back to the mortuary, our base of operations.

Our office was a detached garage at the end of a narrow driveway, lined on the east side by a ten-foot hedge, and on the other side by Sparks Family Funeral Chapel. The garage at the end of the driveway had been converted into an apartment, with a full kitchen, then into an employee lounge. It was comfortable, adequate, and well used by the staff.

Fifteen feet from our office door was another door leading into the back of the mortuary. The framed five by seven-inch placard attached to the door looked official, and declared in large bold letters that only employees were allowed inside. A lot of fine print took up the rest of the placard.



When Willie and I returned from the hospital, everyone was busy, and Willie was sent on a few errands. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I ambled on over to see what the mysterious room with the ‘Employees Only’ placard was all about. I opened the door, and walked in like I owned the place. The door closed behind me with a loud thud, and wow, did I get a surprise.

I found myself staring down into the clean, white, boney cavern of a human skull, where a brain should be. The spinal cord had been neatly sliced at an angle, and peeped out of its own little tunnel at the bottom of the void. I almost gagged on the foul odor that hit my nostrils. The smell brought back memories of my dad butchering a pig, or a steer, and cutting up the meat on the kitchen butcher block.

Being a country boy from Oklahoma, I’d seen a lot of slaughtered animals, and I always had to clean my own wild game and fish before Mom would cook it. But this was different, this was a human being.

My initial shock subsided, and my focal point changed to the man’s scalp, peeled forward, stretching to the middle of his nose. His hair curled out from underneath. The back half of the scalp had been peeled back, and tucked under his skull, which was resting on what looked to be a hard rubber block. Where’s the guy’s brain? I wondered.

The rest of the body was covered from the neck down with a white linen sheet, neatly tucked under the shoulders. Balanced on the man’s ankles was a twelve-inch stainless steel bowl, covered with a white terrycloth towel.

The foot end of the table was positioned above a white porcelain sink a couple of feet above the floor. The sink was mounted in the top of a two and a half feet high cupboard that ran parallel to, and the length of, the south wall. Next to the sink sat a three gallon, galvanized steel water bucket, draped with another white terrycloth towel.

On the wall, large cupboards stretched from the corner to my left, to the edge of the door in the southwest corner of the room to my right. There was an eighteen-inch wide space between the cupboards above the foot of the table.

On a shelf in the opening sat a machine with a large glass tank on top. A quarter inch, clear rubber hose was wrapped around the tank. A half inch pipe jutted from the wall, turning at a ninety-degree angle down into the tank about two inches. There were hot and cold water knobs underneath the tank.

A strange looking metal rimmed glass tube was screwed onto the end of a faucet coming out of the wall at the foot of the table. It was also adorned with a half inch hose, wrapped around and hanging loosely from it. Hot and cold control knobs were sticking out of the wall on each side of the faucet.

Another stainless steel table sat empty six feet to my right, its foot end positioned above another sink with an identical machine mounted on a similar shelf at its feet, and a faucet system like the one in front of me.

A twelve by twenty-four-inch portable table top, mounted on a long stainless steel pipe sitting on four widespread lengths of tubing with wheels, sat between the tables. Another white terrycloth towel covered its contents.

A clothing rack made of stainless steel tubing stretched across the west wall of the room. Several clothing bags and empty clothes hangers were hanging from the bar that ran its length. Other plastic and paper bags had been tossed on the top rack.

High on the wall of the north wall was a small window, next to the door I’d used to enter. Two large, plastic trash cans sat on the floor under the window. A large portable fan was standing between the two trash cans. A mop bucket stood at the ready.

Even though I was now an employee, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be in that room, or not. I thought I might be intruding where I shouldn’t be, and seeing what I wasn’t supposed to see. Visions of being fired flashed through my mind, so I quietly closed the door behind me and went back to the lounge.



Willie got back from his errands, and my education continued. He had shown me earlier the contents of the almost new, bright red, 1970 Chevrolet ambulance. He had pointed out where the bandages, tape, scissors, hemostats, and clean sheets were stored. There were various sizes of plastic, inflatable splints stored in one of the cabinet drawers.

I had learned where the ambu bag was kept, and how to use the oxygen system - a tall, slender, green-colored metal tank strapped to the wall, a small round glass gauge adorning its top. Coming out of the gauge was a long, quarter inch, clear plastic hose with a soft plastic face mask attached to the other end. The hose was neatly, and very loosely, coiled around the gauge.

It was a great looking ambulance, and there were emergency lights almost everywhere. The company name was painted in bold, black script, on each side: "Sparks Family Funeral Chapel," and as a second line, "and 24 hour ambulance service."

The cot snapped into a bracket connected to the long bench running almost the entire length of the back, ending next to a small jump seat directly behind the driver. A matching bench was on the other side. We could carry two litter patients, if we had to, and another if the patient could sit up.

There was a second ambulance to become acquainted with, also. It was an old, low roofed, red and white Oldsmobile. The attendant had to stoop pretty low to maneuver around in the back.

We only use it as a backup, when it’s absolutely necessary, Willie told me. It’s almost embarrassing to pull up to an emergency scene, because the siren keeps going. The wind makes the siren turn, and there is no shut off switch. It has to unwind by itself, and that takes a while.

Our radio call sign for the Chevy was KOX5884, and KOX5885 for the Oldsmobile. Our base was located in the office and we would communicate with Janet, and she would let the emergency room personnel at the ER know how many patients we were bringing in, and the severity of their injuries.



The more I looked, and the more I learned, the more my gut kept talking to me. You can do this, it kept telling me. I was still a little nervous from my first ambulance call that morning, but it only wetted my whistle for more action. And I was more than ready to prove myself.

The rest of the day was quiet. Willie and I took a little ole guy home from the hospital in the ambulance, I got better acquainted with the staff, and got more schooling on the dos and do nots of ambulance work. I also helped Willie wash both ambulances, and the hearse.

It had never dawned on me before that people do have accidents, get sick and die, every second of every day. The downside of my job was that someone must be immediately available to respond to any of these emergencies, or death calls. This responsibility is continuous, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. And, there must also be a second person on call to assist with residential death calls, or calls for assistance from the coroner’s office.

I was hired as an ambulance driver/attendant, but there were many other duties, too. As my ambulance duties would allow, I would be helping around the mortuary, running errands, and helping on funerals. The company used a lot of part time help, mostly local firemen on their days off. There were also a couple of elderly retired gentlemen who worked part time, when needed. I would be working with these part timers quite often.

I got my work schedule before I went home. I would be working an alternating schedule. I’d be on call every other night, and every other weekend. I would be on call Monday and Wednesday nights this week, and would work the coming weekend, Saturday through Sunday. Next week, I’d be on call Tuesday and Thursday nights, and be off from Friday morning through Sunday night, for a three-day weekend.

The company used a lot of part time help, mostly local firemen on their days off. There were also a couple of elderly retired gentlemen who worked part time, when needed. I would be working with these part timers quite often.

My first day had gone quite well, and I felt good about my new job. I was anxious to get home and share my new experiences with my wife and children



Somewhere around midnight I was rudely awakened by the ringing telephone. I managed a sleepy, Hello.

Hi Dave, this is Brandon, I vaguely heard. We’ve got a residence call in San Jacinto, meet me at the mortuary as soon as you can get there.

Okay, I muttered. I’ll be there shortly.

Brandon Manning was assistant manager. He was an apprentice embalmer, and was also learning to be a funeral director. When the mortuary schedule allowed, his duties included ambulance service, as well as whatever needed to be done around the mortuary.

I quickly got dressed in my new suit, and met Brandon at the mortuary. We hopped into the station wagon, and headed for San Jacinto, a small town just over the hills south of Beaumont.

We headed west on I-10 and exited at Beaumont Avenue. Brandon turned left, and crossed the tracks, going toward the San Jacinto Valley. We traveled along highway 79, a narrow, twisting, two lane road, also known as Lamb’s Canyon. Accidents were frequent on this stretch of road, and fatalities were often, so the highway had earned the title of ‘Slaughter Alley’.

During the half-hour drive we chatted, and Brandon gave me some quick instructions.

I’ll do the talking, he said. You just watch me, and follow my lead.

We quickly found the address, and a San Jacinto Police Officer greeted us on the front porch. We exchanged civilities, and he told us he’d already contacted the Coroner’s Office. The deputy coroner on call had released the body to us. The cop said his good-byes and left us to our task of removing the body.

We went through the front door, and sure enough, there in the middle of the living room was a guy sprawled out on the floor, fully clothed, with a blanket thrown haphazardly over most of him - his arms and legs were sticking out in all directions from under the blanket. Sitting and standing about the room were several family members, and friends.

Brandon introduced us, offered our condolences, and sat down on the couch next to the recent widow. He started gathering information, writing it down on his first call slip. Meanwhile, here’s this dead guy laying on the floor, being completely ignored while everyone’s chit-chatting.

By the time we were finally ready to actually make the removal, I felt quite comfortable with the situation. When he was ready, Randy nodded to me, and I went for the cot.

Following Brandon’s lead, we lowered the cot to the floor. After placing his arms at his sides and bringing his feet together, we rolled the dead guy onto his side, slipped a clean white sheet under him, tucking half of it under as far as we could. We rolled the body the other way, and pulled the edges of the sheet out from under him. We rolled both edges of the sheet together, midway over the old man, grasped the role we’d made and lifted the guy onto our cot.

Brandon pulled the cot straps across the man’s waist and knees, and snapped them into place. We raised the cot to its full height, and covered the body with our cot cover - a heavy, plastic lined, cloth covering fashioned to fit over the cot.

Slowly, and gently, Brandon peeled the cot cover and sheet back from over the man’s face, and offered the family a final look. After the family said their farewells, Brandon slowly pulled the sheet and cot cover back over the man’s face, we rolled the cot out, put it into the back of the station wagon, and headed back to Banning.

When we got back to the mortuary, I helped Brandon put the body on an embalming table and undress the guy. I went home, and back to bed. The life of an apprentice embalmer is not so good. Brandon had to stay and embalm the body before he could call it a night, and, hopefully, get a couple more hours of sleep. This was all about to change.

Brandon had recently been drafted into the U. S. Army, and was off to serve Uncle Sam for a couple of years. Little did I know that I was soon to become his replacement.



It didn’t take me long to learn the ropes about picking up dead bodies, and after a couple of accompanied removals, I was on my own.

My first solo removal. It was three in the morning, and the fog was so thick I could hardly see the center line of the road. Since leaving the convalescent hospital five minutes ago I’d been driving in the milky darkness, struggling to concentrate on what may be in front of me. The silence was deafening, and the little hairs on the back of my neck suddenly snapped to attention. The sudden appearance of goose bumps on my arms sent a shivering chill down my spine. An eerie, uneasy feeling, on the brink of terror, completely enveloped me. My eyes got wide, and I dared to take a quick glance over my right shoulder. There was no one there, and the old lady strapped to the cot hadn’t moved. I