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Last night, in the elevator on my way to my car after work, I had a very lucid thought. I have thought a LOT about death and taking my own life over the years. I have said to myself a MILLION times that death would be a way out. However, last night, as I contemplated the fact that no matter what is going on in my life I am not happy, I realized that it is very likely that I will take my own life someday. I will probably die at my own hand. Not for a while because I am a coward. I selfishly don't want to leave my kids and I am terrified of death. You know, on the boards that I frequent for the eating disordered, I read things from young women that refer to death as something nice, better then here. I don't think they really know what death is. Last night a lady that was supposed to get better and go home died. She had a pulmonary embolism. She told us that she was dieing before we knew that her condition had worstened. That was the day before yesterday. Last night she died. I have taken care of several people while they died. Its not pretty. Its not romantic. Its death. Its the end. THE END. And after the life leaves, the body is.... is... I don't know how to describe it, its empty I guess is the best description. I clean them up, make them as dignified as possible and then I take them to the morgue and put them in the big body fridge. What is great about that? They will never talk again. They wont smile, get a hug, see their family. They are turned off. The skin gets waxy, mottled sometimes as the blood pools in the lower extremities. Sometimes the eyes pop open and frequently the mouth opens up too. After the stiffness goes away, the body begins the process of rotting. No, they don't know what death is about if they really think its some wonderful, romantic, way out. Its not.