Death in Black and White: Artborne June 2017

A year and a day ago today, thousands of lives, including my own, changed. This past month, I wrote a brief piece about the impact from that change in my life and in the life of my friend (referred to by his chosen name, “Franco”) for Artborne. (Read the .pdf version here!)

If you read no other part of this article, then please at least read this quote from Franco:

The tattoo was a way for me to contribute, even a little, to help our community rebuild … There’s a sense of feeling like I have to do something or give my life meaning because I was left alive of it all in the general sense. The feeling that there were and are people out there who hate us so much that they’ll commit these heinous acts. That a place meant as a safe space, meant as a place where you can truly be yourself, can get ripped away in the span of one night.

 

The Plague Pyre

I wanted my triumphant return to this blog to be more personal, or at least more peppy: a zippy analysis of grief and ritual in outer space (see: Guardians of the Galaxy and Covenant), intergenerational relationships connecting at a nexus of death in popular media (a.k.a., the return of Twin Peaks), a narrative about using social media to stay connecting with the ailing and the grieving… but, due to circumstance, this is instead an extremely didactic post about misconceptions about HIV/AIDS and the funeral arts in the year 2017.

The premise is innocent enough. In one of the popular death and death care forums founded by one of the prominent and popular death professionals on social media, someone asked a series of basic questions about embalming, including “What about HIV or aids? How do you handle that? With the aids/HIV thing, or any disease, does it continue to live after the host has died? For how long?”

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Contradictions

For one of my theology courses, I have the task of interviewing at least one ministry professional and/or end of life lay care professional per unit; ideally, this is meant to demonstrate some above and beyond level of commitment to the course material to my course instructor, and more to the point, it’s probably meant to reinforce ideas learned from the material itself in order to cement a learned understanding of the doctrine.

However, that just hasn’t been… exactly what’s come of it.

“I want us to keep in touch.” That was what Chaplain P said after I pushed the ‘end’ button on my recorder. “I want to keep in touch over this summer and have you shadow our chaplains after your surgery.”

Later, she emailed me into a cc’d email to a colleague at the hospice I’m already volunteering at. I replied saying ‘thank you’ and told her I was in the process of transcribing out interview. She replied back. “You have the heart for this work. You definitely have the desire and the compassion for the area you are pursuing.”

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Eat My Dust

I’ve been enrolled in my palliative care course in my theology program for just a little over a month, over which time I’ve done several interviews with professionals in the spiritual health ministry discipline in the trauma, intensive care, end of life and funerary fields, all of whom have not-so-subtly pushed the envelope about social trends of homophobia, transphobia, classism and the relationship between human value and supernatural work ethic.

It’s been a challenge analyzing those view points in the lens of the course, which of course wants me to read spiritual autobiographies of men who were privileged enough to die of debilitating disorders that did not break their minds with the help of several hundred thousands of dollars’ worth of in-home medical equipment and rotating caretakers–and G-d, of course–and to enforce the logic of healthcare directives that prioritize the long term impacts on the immortal soul over the insignificant trifles of the mortal flesh.

Challenging, because I mostly because I find agreeing with these theologians, and their theology. And I despise their churches.

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I am obliged to state…

On the first day of my INELDA death doula training in Raleigh, NC, I sat at a table with a woman who was living and working in the City part-time in 2001 who happened to have commuted back to PA on the day of 9/11 as well as with a woman who lived in Blacksburg, VA, where Virginia Tech sits at the center.

Our facilitator is INELDA Executive Director, Henry Fersko-Weiss, a man who follows the school of The Good Death while carefully avoiding such terminology as if there were a hidden trademark. He urges volunteers in training and would-be professionals to commit to a zen-like state of utility to create the most selfless and supportive environment in the deathbed room for passing peaceably. Someone from the other side of the room asks “Will we be covering the deaths of children?” Another asks “Will we be covering deaths that aren’t planned and happen suddenly—like suicides or tragic deaths?”

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13 Reasons Why I Gave it a Shot (and am glad I did)

As is wont to be with virtually all things, the internet populace is two-party opinionated on the Netflix series 13 Reasons Why: either it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened with regards to showcasing death by suicide in the media, or it’s the most moving call to arms for suicide casualty awareness and youth mental health support.

Scene: February 2017, yours truly + 20 other virtual strangers in an office pod on the second floor of an office building (occupied by Somos Orlando, a latinx outreach program for LGBT folk, families and allies). We are in an 8 hour workshop for mental health first aid targeted specifically to the youth. For 8 grueling hours, we observe interviews with suicide survivors (who go graphically in depth with their stories), we practice mock interventions in hypothetical scenarios that gradually increase their severity with deeper and deeper involvement, we even go so far as to facilitate mental health crisis scenarios by simulating auditory hallucinations—a colleague and I sit this one out, because this scenario hits just too close to our own special sense of unreality.

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Happy birthday to me

This excerpt comes from one of my dearest and most favourite of friends. We’ve been going at this ritual of giving each other the most outrageous send-ups on our respective birthdays for the past 10 years (!!!).

I turned 27 on April 1 of this past weekend. Before that happened, I was 26-years-old and on the cusp of a nervous meltdown in my therapist’s office on March 31, which was also also transgender visibility day.

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