Death Doula...

 

“…yeah, a death doula. I’m meeting her at one near the station.”

…

“Death. Doula.”

…

“DOU.LA. You know what a doula is right? For pregnant women. This is like that but for people in hospice. Super interesting.”

…

“No, I hadn’t heard of it before either. When she called, I had to do some research to see if it was a real thing.”

 …

“Yeah, she called me. Thought it would make an interesting story, I guess. I have to admit I’m looking forward to doing a little lighter fare than my normal stuff. I’m sure someone at the station passed my number on to her. They all know I’m ready for a break.”

…

“No break. BREAK. I swear the connection is so bad through here. Let me call you back tonight.”

…

People were starting to stare, which she was sort of used to, to be honest. She had been a reporter for the past 10 years. People tended to treat her as a celebrity because they saw her on their TVs. A minor celebrity, to be sure, but still, a celebrity.

That was unless they treated her like they knew her. Watching the evening news while eating dinner made a lot of people feel like they were actually friends.

She preferred when they treated her like a minor celebrity to be perfectly frank. Because the people who acted like they knew her were imperfectly frank. They felt no shame letting her know that her hair was wrong, the color she was wearing was wrong, her outfits were wrong. On and on and on.

But now they were staring because she had shouted death doula at least 5 times. Her sister kept hearing meth dealer and couldn’t understand why she would be going to interview a meth dealer. She swore she was going to replace her phone, or at least change her coverage plan soon.

She was really excited about this interview. She had never heard of a death doula and thought most of their viewers would be the same. What a lovely service to offer people though. They walked their clients through the transition. That was what she had found on the web, they used terms like client instead of patient and transition instead of dying. Though they would use dying if that’s what their client preferred.

They also helped the family or friends who were left behind. All of the steps that you don’t realize you have to go through once someone you love dies. The very practical parts, getting a death certificate, who do you have to notify, how do you notify them, how do you plan a funeral. All of those things, but also, they’d provide counselling on the grieving process. Sometimes that would just mean sitting with people, but sometimes more.

She was very much interested in hearing her story. And the stories of the people she had worked with. She wished she had known there was a such a thing when her parents had passed. She had been overwhelmed by the whole process and it had taken her so much longer to get the estates closed out and everything handled than she thought it would.

She thought, not for the first time, that maybe it was time to transition into doing just these sorts of stories. Just human-interest pieces. No more travelling to war zones to report from the latest bombardment. No more being the go-to reporter on the spot when a natural disaster hit. No more stories that made her sister think she was on her way to interview a drug kingpin like that was a normal thing to do. She’d met enough dictators and demagogues to last her a lifetime. She was ready for the dog show circuit.

But that was a backwards career path. You started on human-interest and moved up to the wars. Even the doula herself had been a little shocked at how eager she had been to meet her and get her story. What a fucked-up world we live in. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought that either.

She walked into the coffee shop they had agreed to meet to start the interview process. She’d get the background information and story before getting a camera crew to film another interview and some b roll footage to weave into the story. She already had a few ideas on shots but wanted to have this preliminary interview in the bag before starting. Just in case the story took a different turn.

She set up at a secluded table in the back and got out her notebook. She looked down at the list of questions she wanted to ask and when she looked back up her subject was sitting across from her.

“Oh, you surprised me, I didn’t see you come in.” She gave her her best smile and held a hand out to shake, “I’m Rebecca Rogers, nice to meet you.”

The woman across from her reached out and shook her hand leaving behind her card. Okay, smooth but weird.

She looked down at the card wondering what the business card of a death doula would look like, already forming the picture in her head, crisp white or ivory, heavy card stock, and it was, an ace of spades.

Rebecca looked at the card then looked at the woman. As the woman stood and shot her, she thought, “Oh death DEALER. Well fuck..”