tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33226151.post116543939383928722..comments2024-01-12T11:26:35.176-05:00Comments on Working Stiffs: Teenage TragediesWorking Stiffshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03270595837074553752noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33226151.post-1165530364781731852006-12-07T17:26:00.000-05:002006-12-07T17:26:00.000-05:00Gina,I'm so sorry! I can only imagine having to go...Gina,<BR/>I'm so sorry! I can only imagine having to go through something so devastating. I'm glad that seeing him helped you, though.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33226151.post-1165525419982850312006-12-07T16:03:00.000-05:002006-12-07T16:03:00.000-05:00Car wrecks are rough. My younger brother died in ...Car wrecks are rough. My younger brother died in one when he was only 21. It's difficult enough to adjust to death when someone had been ill for awhile; it's something else entirely when it's sudden -- now you see him, now you don't. There was a closed casket, but my mother was concerned that the funeral director hadn't laid my brother out properly so, accompanied by my cousin's husband -- a Monroeville cop -- I was given a private viewing of his body. I was able to report that he had been laid out wearing the suit my mother had brought to the funeral parlor. I think seeing him helped me adjust to his death better than just being told he was dead. Luckily, he wasn't badly disfigured, just bruised as if he'd been in a fight. The funeral director explained that the main reason for closing the casket was the extent of his injuries -- embalming fluid kept leaking out. That really creeped me out, but I'm still glad I got to see him.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33226151.post-1165517148188301552006-12-07T13:45:00.000-05:002006-12-07T13:45:00.000-05:00I remember in a training I took on grieving, the t...I remember in a training I took on grieving, the teacher talked about one mother who lost her teenage son in a motorcycle accident. As she was cleaning up his room, she found a dirty pair of underwear under the bed. She put it in a plastic bag and, when her grief got too much, would take a "snort" of it. <BR/><BR/>I always wondered if I'd ever use it in a story, but I haven't found a place yet.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com