It took a bloated body on the beaches of Thailand to make me rethink my ‘dream career.’
I always thought I would make an excellent forensics professional working in crime, and this was long before CSI was a show. I grew up watching true crime shows with my mum. City Confidential and American Justice were our favorites. The best part for me was when the nerd in the lab coat would describe the feeling of elation when they found that hair/ blood/ fiber match.
When I wasn’t watching those shows, my nose would be buried in an Ann Rule novel. In my opinion, she is the best crime writer - no drama, no fluff, just the facts.
While my mum shared this interest with me, my Dad would often comment that I was too soft to pursue a career in crime. I refused to agree with him, despite the fact that my empathy is so strong that I once blacked out from witnessing a middle aged woman fall off her bike and scrape her knee. I wasn’t repulsed by the blood. In fact, the image that is seared into my brain is her bewildered expression and the way she sat on the sidewalk with her helmet on - her legs stretched out in front of her the way a child would sit. I remember feeling so sorry for her that it broke my heart. My mind immediately began wondering what her day was like, how happy and excited she would have been to go to the park and how it had all come literally crashing down.
Despite this incident, I continued to think I’d excel in forensic sciences. I reasoned that I wouldn’t feel an empathetic with a dead body. Once that person isn’t alive and suffering, then there would be no need to feel particularly sorry for them.
Fast forward a good 20 years later. I didn’t go into Forensic Sciences, opting instead for a degree in Business Administration. (Also equally useless for an introvert like me).
I am vacationing in Thailand with my husband and two kids when I notice a small gathering of people a few feet down the beach from us. We are the only other people on the beach, so the activity catches my attention. Soon I realize they are gathered around a person lying on the beach.
A local working on the beach states quite calmly, “They find a body. Somebody drown.”
Immediately, the blood drains from my face and I immediately feel what can only be described as fear. As is my custom, I begin catastrophising an already grim scenario. In my mind, the man on the beach died while on a party boat with several other people. The boat went down, meaning there are surely at least another dozen bodies somewhere in the water.
I look towards my husband and kids splashing in the water and I imagine what it would be like if they bumped into another dead body in the water. I try to persuade them to stop swimming, but my husband thinks it’s ludicrous to assume there would be more corpses around. I can’t help looking down the beach continually, staring at that body and once again I formulate a background story to the man on the beach.
I am caught up in his back story - who he is, who his family is, who will miss him and receive the devastating phone call today? I am also stunned by the casual manner in which the locals gather around the body. Sipping drinks, talking and laughing.
Back at our car, we are brushing the sand off our feet when my husband asks why I’m so quiet. I can’t believe he didn’t notice the dead body or understand my frantic gesturing. (He thought I was telling them they were swimming too deep). He shrugs it off and says it was probably a drunken tourist that drowned during a night swim. No biggie.
And I sit there, still stunned, soft as a poo sandwich.
