Quandry

There are many events in my daughter’s life that I’ve missed because of my job. Birthday parties, violin concerts, parent teacher meetings, countless hugs goodnight. I suppose then, it is no surprise that she thinks I will also miss her wedding. And, in all fairness, I might. I’m smart enough not to say this aloud though. Instead, I simply listen as Kaya talks about her wedding plans, eating my soup with the occasional nod.

Around us there’s a low buzz of chatter in the restaurant, but it’s not loud enough to distract from Kaya’s words. There’s an excitement to what she’s saying that I haven’t seen in far too long. It makes my heart ache, and I find myself missing when she was a child and she thought I could make the world turn with a snap of my fingers. When she saw me as a hero, someone superhuman, rather than a workaholic.

Seeming to notice my wandering thoughts, Kaya’s gaze sharpens. Her tone changes, her eyes locking with mine as she asks, “You’ll be there to walk me down the aisle, right Dad?” The words are a challenge, not a question.

“I will. I-”

“Don’t say you promise.” Kaya interrupts me sharply, her mouth twisting like she’s tasted something sour. “You’ve promised a lot of things over the years. You didn’t come through on most of them.” The words are like a sucker punch to the gut.

An argument rises to my lips, but it dies quickly. She’s right, and we both know it. A sigh escapes my lips, guilt weighing on me even as I try to defend myself. “Kaya, you know my job is important to me. Just like you’re important to me.”

Kaya purses her lips. The expression is all too familiar to me. “Yeah. I know.” There’s a bitter, angry tone to her words that makes guilt coil inside me. Her expression is determined; the soft curves of her features turned to stone as she stares at me expectantly.

The words your job is more important than me hang in the air even though Kaya hasn’t said them. I know she’s thinking it. Her dark eyes meet mine, daring me to oppose the statement. We both know I won’t. We’ve had this discussion more times than I can count. It’s exhausting, this never ending competition between my daughter and my job. I swear it’s the reason I have so much grey hair at 40.

Kaya looks at me and some of my feelings must show in my expression, because she softens. The irritation on her face melts away, turning to tiredness. “I just want my father to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. Is that so much to ask?” Her voice is soft, the quietness of it more impactful than a shout ever could be. I sigh heavily and look at Kaya. The anger is gone, replaced with tiredness and a resigned expression. She expects me to say no. The thought hurts more than anything she’s said so far.

“Of course not,” I start, and hope makes Kaya’s eyes light up. Then my phone rings. For a few seconds, I let it ring, hoping to make things right before I have to go. But the light has already vanished from Kaya’s eyes, the softness in her expression gone.

“Just leave,” she says tiredly. The excuses I always have on hand die on my tongue and after a moment I stand. I lean in for a hug, and Kaya returns it half-heartedly.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.” Her voice is tired, and as I answer the phone, I notice her shoulders slump.

~

When most people think of crime scenes, they think of shows like Bones, CSI, and Criminal Minds. Shows where as soon as the body is found and clues retrieved, the room where the body has been found is suddenly clean, as if by magic. However, as a crime scene cleaner, I can attest to the fact that it’s definitely not magic that cleans and airs out the rooms. It’s people, specifically people with strong enough stomachs to clean up after crimes have occurred. People like me.

Officially, I’m a Biohazard Remediation Technician, or CTS Decon Specialist (Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination), but I prefer the term the Super Cleaner. It makes my job sound less depressing, and more like I do cheesy commercials where my biggest problem is a badly stained T-shirt. Unfortunately, my job is much more disgusting and dirty. In short, I clean and sanitize places that have been compromised by other potentially infectious materials or OPIM1. Sometimes I help with the victim’s loved ones, comforting or helping them, but mostly it’s clean up.

Because I work with blood and human waste on a regular basis, I have to wear PPE, also called personal protective equipment. This consists of multiple parts, but the biggest is the Tyvek biohazard suit. Putting on that suit is the most tedious part of the job. It covers every inch of my body and is designed to keep biohazards from getting in. Unfortunately, it also keeps body heat from getting out. Working on hot summer days makes it feel like I’m stuck in a microwave, but it does its job.

After the suit come booties (a second covering for my feet)—Kaya used to tease me incessantly about their name. Rubber gloves taped at the wrists to keep out contaminants come next, with another pair of gloves over the first pair, because the word overkill doesn’t exist in this job. The final piece of equipment is a mask that covers my entire head, with two holes on the sides for the air filters. All of this is just so I can walk inside the house.4

When I walk in, the all too accustomed smell of death greets me. The mask over my face is supposed to filter the air, yet it still manages to creep in. The smell of death is one that’s hard to describe. It’s like roadkill multiplied by ten, putrid enough to trigger anyone’s gag reflex. A gag reflex is where the throat muscles contract, usually resulting in someone puking.

The smell itself comes from what happens after putrefaction. The state of putrefaction is where zombie movies get all their costume and makeup ideas. Anyway, enzymes in the pancreas make it start to digest itself, and microbes turn the body green from the stomach onwards. As the bacterium breaks down, it releases putrescine and cadaverine. That’s what gives off the roadkill smell from a dead body.3 It’s nauseating, and something no one should smell.

Upon entering the room, I can see that the three zones have already been established, and plastic sheets have already been placed over the areas that need protected. When cleaning up after a suicide, we have to eliminate harmful contaminants, odors, and structural damage. We do this by establishing three different zones: control, buffer, and clean. The control zone is where the suicide occurred and where remediation and disinfection happens. The buffer zone is where we put on protective equipment like our Tyvek suits and where disposal items are placed. Lastly is the clean zone, where tools and equipment are stored to prevent cross contamination. I’m in the control zone. In this one, I help remove blood and biological materials, dirt, and chemicals from the control zone.2

It’s easy to tell that the victim hasn’t been dead long—the blood hasn’t quite soaked all the way through the carpet yet, which makes my job a little easier. And as far as my job goes, this is a simple one. There’s no water or cold soil around, so no wax to clean up. (After putrefaction, if the body is in contact with water or cold soil, it can develop adiopocere, which preserves the inner organs naturally. It also forms a fatty, wax-like material on the skin from the bacteria breaking down tissue.)3

As I start to work, I try not to look at the personal belongings scattered throughout the bedroom. Even so, I can’t help but notice small pieces of this person dispersed within the space. There’s a photo of a woman that might be the victim’s relative on the nightstand. Shelves overflowing with books line an entire wall; a pair of dress shoes are still neatly set in front of the open closet. On the wall, a small calendar hangs letting me know the victim’s mother stopped by only last week. It’s these reminders that make the job so hard. Fortunately, I’ve grown accustomed to leaving my personal feelings behind while working. It makes it easier to focus.

The work itself isn’t that difficult. I’m removing the blood from the carpet and cursing gravity while I’m at it. The blood from the gunshot has soaked into the carpet, meaning I have to remove all of it. And, as every crime scene cleaner knows, just because the carpet looks clean doesn’t mean it is clean. The problem is that carpet is a porous material, meaning it has minute holes through which liquids can pass. Porous materials are nearly impossible to remove all the blood from. Which means, according to OSHA guidelines, most of the time I’m required to cut out the carpet and dispose of it in a bio-box.5 Bio-boxes are solid plastic containers or heavy-duty hazmat bags that can be sealed safely to contain health hazards.6 Not fun.

This is because blood is capable of carrying diseases and blood borne pathogens since bodily fluids left behind are potentially infectious. Any body fluids that aren’t taken care of can become trapped in floors, walls, or even ceilings, putting whoever lives in the house next at risk for potential pathogens if the house is somehow sold. Nasty things like HIV and Hepatitis. Sometimes they’re passed through direct contact (hence the reason I wear double layered gloves) or through accidental ingestion.2

And even though I’m the one cutting out the carpet, at least I wasn’t the one who had to come in first and take care of the body. I’ve had the misfortune of being that person, and it’s rarely pretty. Even taking the suicide part out of it, what happens to the human body after the heart stops beating isn’t pretty.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, being a crime scene cleaner doesn’t require any formal education. Of course, having OSHA training and on the job education sessions is useful, but those are usually offered by most bioremediation companies. Even though I don’t have a medical degree, I know a thing or two about what happens to the human body after death after twenty years at this job. For instance, decomposition begins mere minutes after death. While most people have heard of rigor mortis, algor mortis is less well-known. Algor mortis or the “death chill” is much less cool than it sounds. Basically, the body temperature falls to room temperature and the blood becomes more acidic as carbon dioxide builds up. This results in the cells literally splitting open. The body might look shiny due to the ruptured blisters, and the top layer of skin will begin to loosen.3 In a way, it reminds me of the last argument I had with Kaya. Like the blood in the cells, anger had built up until there was an explosion.

~

When the day of Kaya’s wedding arrives, I’m on edge and praying that there’s no call to work. So far, there hasn’t been, but it’s been two weeks since my last job. That makes the chances of getting one today exponentially higher. And, with no odd jobs for me to do before the actual ceremony, I have plenty of time to worry.

Occasionally, someone will come up to me and make polite small talk, but they leave quickly when they realize I’m not really paying attention. Most think that I’m worried about my wedding speech at the reception, but all I can think of is whether or not I’ll have to leave my own daughter’s wedding.

It seems like hours until everyone has arrived, even though I know it can’t have been more than an hour at most. By then, a false sense of confidence has fallen over me. I won’t be called in, I won’t. This, of course, is exactly when my phone rings. The sound seems unbearably loud despite the low buzz of chatter around me.

“Hello?”

“Dad! Where are you?” Kaya’s voice, frantic and irritated, filters through the phone, and I let out a sigh of relief. My shoulders relax, though I hadn’t realized they were tense until just now.

“I’m in the main hall. Do you need anything?” I ask, though I’m already walking towards the room Kaya is in.

“No, no, I’m fine,” she says quickly. There’s a brief pause, but she doesn’t hang up the phone. “Can you come here?” she asks after a moment, and a smile flickers across my face.

“Of course. I’ll be there in a minute,” I say.

When I enter the room Kaya’s in, the first thing I notice is the mess. Small and cramped, the room seems filled to bursting with one of those walking hangers for dresses, tiny petal filled baskets for the flower girls, bouquets and a large mirror with makeup scattered on the desk below it. In front of the mirror is Kaya, pacing back and forth so quickly I’m surprised she’s not stepping on her dress. When I close the door behind me, her head snaps up, and relief washes over her face.

“Dad!”

The next thing I know her arms are wrapped around my back, hugging me as though she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. I hold her just as tightly, and for a second it’s like the years of arguments and bitterness are gone. Then my phone rings again, and the moment disappears, like a balloon that has been popped. Kaya is silent as I answer, her head turned away from me. When I hang up, I can feel her eyes burning into my head.

“Are you leaving?” I stiffen at the question, turning slowly. Kaya is looking at me, eyes dark and tired, features twisted into resigned disappointment. The word ‘no’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite bring myself to say it. I had made a commitment to be here, but I’d also made a commitment to my job.

“Kaya-” I start, my tone placating.

“You missed my seventh grade concert, when I had my first violin solo.” The words are jarring in their unexpectedness, and my eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You missed the graduation party I threw when I was 18. You missed my birthday three years ago.” Bitterness pours out of every syllable, forming around each letter like a bullet. “Are you going to miss my wedding too?” It’s a question and accusation. The word missing comes out like she wants to slice me with the curves and sharp lines.

I deserve it too, for upsetting her like this. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of her life, and I’m ruining that for her. For a split second, I imagine staying here, making the speech written in my pocket and stumbling through a dance I didn’t take the time to learn. Then I think of my job, of how important it is too. And I know what I am going to choose.

A million, tired, useless apologies pile in my throat, but all that I can say is, “I’m sorry I’m going to miss the dance.” The mask of anger on Kaya’s face cracks, unhappiness and reluctant acquiescence taking its place before it resumes the stony expression of before, her body stiff and cold as a statue.

It’s rather sad, I suppose, that my job leaks into even my personal thoughts. Because even while I can feel guilt crushing me, all I can think is that she reminds me of bodies still in the rigor mortis stage: rigid and unyielding. Despite popular misconception, rigor mortis doesn’t happen right away; it generally happens a few hours after death when the calcium pumps, which functions as the active transport of calcium across a membrane, stop working and calcium floods the cells, making the muscles contract and stiffen.3

If I wanted to, I could write a book on what happens to the body after death, on how the body decomposes and where the body goes after decomposition. Maybe that’s why I’m not so good at human interaction. Maybe that’s why my relationship with my daughter has always been strained. Maybe that’s why I’m leaving her wedding to go take care of another body, another family that’s not mine.

As I leave the room, I don’t dare turn back. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll see her face again, maybe in the mirror, maybe looking at me, and I will still walk away.

~

After the heart stops beating, there are four stages to decomposition: autolysis, bloating, active decay, and skeletonization.

Autolysis is also called self-digestion and begins immediately after death. The body will be covered in small blisters, and the top layer of skin will loosen. Next, the body begins to produce gases including the ones that cause the body to smell. Skin discoloration happens, and the body can double in size because of the gases. Then comes the third stage, active decay. This is when fluids are released through the different orifices (openings in the body), and organs, muscles, and skin liquefy. Finally, after about a month after the initial death, comes the skeletonization phase. This is when all of the soft tissue is gone, and only the skeleton remains. There’s no set time for skeletonization because the skeleton has a decomposition rate based on the loss of organic and inorganic components.3

Similarly, there are stages of relationship deterioration: differentiation, circumscribing, stagnation, avoidance, and terminating.

Differentiating is when two people start to have differences in their way of thinking, like that moment when I realized Kaya was no longer a child who believed every word I said was law. Next comes circumscribing, when the differences become too much, and boundaries are set between two people. Topics like other father figures in my daughter’s life and why I wasn’t able to come to one event or another pushed aside to avoid arguments. Then stagnation and avoidance, when we both realized I was, in some ways, more devoted to my job as a CTS Decon Specialist rather than my job as a father. When I somehow went from taking care of my little girl to only seeing her when I absolutely had to. Finally, termination. Today. The moment I realized I wasn’t needed as a father anymore because I had never been a proper one in the first place.7

Endnotes

1. This is from the Aftermath website page titled “How Crime Scene Cleanup Works.” http://www.aftermath.com/content/crime-scene-cleaning-business

2. This is from the Aftermath website page titled “Suicide Cleanup Process” and is paraphrased. http://www.aftermath.com/content/how-to-clean-up-after-a-suicide

3. This is from the Aftermath website page titled “What are the Four Stages of Human Decomposition?” and the MNN article “5 Weird Things That Happen After You Die.” http://www.aftermath.com/content/human-decomposition and http://www.mnn.com/health/fitness-well-being/stories/5-weird-things-that-happen-after-you-die

4. This is from the article “Smelling Death: On the Job With New York's Crime-Scene Cleaners” https://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/07/the-smell-of-death-a-day-on-the-job-with-new-yorks-crime-scene-cleaners/374022/

5. This is from the Biooneaz website page titled “How To Clean Up A Crime Scene.” http://biooneaz.com/how-to-clean-up-a-crime-scene/

6. This is from questions answered from a crime scene cleaner on Topmania. https://www.topiama.com/r/1495/im-a-crime-scene-cleaner-ama

7. This is from the Communication Theory website page titled “Knapp’s Relationship Model.” http://communicationtheory.org/knapps-relationship-model/