The Morgue

It is not very often, thank goodness, that I have the experience of going to the morgue.  It is one of the most uncomfortable experiences in the world.   Shutting curtains (without explanation, mind you) to shield the view of bystanders isn't so uncomfortable.  I wouldn't say that being escorted by security guards who are pushing a giant silver box makes the venture unpleasant either.  Nor is it unpleasant that I have to sign a dead body away by placing a sticker in a book full of other stickers from dead body collecting.  The unpleasant part is wheeling a dead body through the hallway conjoining our very open cafeteria, as if no one knows what is really under the shroud.  What a way to kill an appetite, no pun intended.  

Equally unpleasant is arriving to the morgue to find four too-small holes on one wall of a room about the size of my bathroom--can this really be called a morgue?  Am I literally supposed to fit this person in there?  Before becoming a nurse, I envisioned morgues as these huge rooms with many places to store bodies, as if they stayed there for lengthy periods of time.  Not true, my friends.  And I never expected that my signature would ever be needed to "release" such delicate material.  I guess this simply reiterates that TV does not equal reality.