Untimely.
That’s the public safety euphemism here in New Hampshire for someone who is dead.
Not freshly dead, mind you. Not a ‘cardiac arrest’ or a ‘code’, the terms we give someone who may be salvageable. The ‘may be’ part is important, as successful out-of-hospital resuscitation rates are abysmal. Three per cent is typical – 15, in a good system, maybe in a great one. But those people are still patients. Still people. We try our best.
An untimely is dead. Fully dead. Obviously dead. ‘Dead on arrival’. Typically cold and stiff. They are not a person anymore. Not a patient. They are an object.
A body.
We don’t try. We’re just there to make sure that they really are dead, do the paperwork documenting the fact that they are not salvageable, and pass the body over to the police. The police do any investigation they deem necessary, and wait for either the medical examiner or the funeral home.
The body is then taken away and the unwelcome evidence of mankind’s mortality safely removed from the view of anyone who might be disturbed by it. The space becomes safe again. Clean. Pure.
Tidy.
*
‘Hmm, haven’t been on the tracks in a while, could be interesting…’ my partner says as she slides our ambulance into gear.
It’s true. I haven’t worked a call on the tracks in a while. Here, in one of the largest cities of New Hampshire, the many homeless often settle themselves along the tracks in certain areas: disused spur lines; abandoned sections of track; forgotten remnants of our city’s industrial past, providing small pockets of privacy for the forgotten remnants of our city’s decaying present.
‘ALS 3, be advised, the railroad has shut down the line, you are clear to enter.’
We pull up to a rusted chain-link fence in the back parking lot of a bank. Two police officers and a fire crew pull in at the same time. The officers lead the way, we squeeze through a cut in the fence. As I scrape through the rusted chain link, I idly wonder if my tetanus is up to date.
The mood is relaxed. Routine. We carry our gear, and move with a purpose. But we don’t expect to be able to do much. When someone gets called in as an untimely – as opposed to a cardiac arrest – usually even a layperson can tell the person is gone.
We pick our way down a steep embankment, the descent made treacherous by the bright sunlight reflecting off of the granite rip-rap. The ground levels off into glaring coarse gravel, littered with rusting railroad spikes and decaying iron plates. I can feel the sharp stone edges on the soles of my feet even through my heavy boots.
Suddenly we are in a moonscape, a gully of crushed stone. Visibility is limited up and down the tracks, the city visible only as rooftops over the edge of the high embankments. Little wonder why they chose to set up here. In a city where being spotted by the police, a railroad cop or a criminal can lead to hassling, arrest, robbery or death, privacy is highly valued.
Still, we don’t see anyone. The tracks, several feet above the ground on a mound of stone ballast, partially obscure the other side; the top of a twisted and stunted pine is the only visible landmark. We walk up the ballast and step onto the tracks.
We stop.
*
Leaned up against the twisted and gnarled tree is our untimely. He sits on a pile of packs and bags, his back leaned against the trunk of the tree. His legs spread casually open, his arms resting by his side, he looks for all the world like a Norse jarl lounging upon his throne.
We approach, more reverently now, our gazes fixed upon him.
His many layers of clothes and jackets give the appearance of robes. Pins and patches adorn him like medals, honours known only to himself. Heavy black military boots are planted firmly on the gravel, rooting him to the spot. Claiming it as his own. His long blond hair frames his face.
His face!
The source of our awe. Our trepidation. Our reverence. Our horror. His face is jet black, contracted and partially desiccated. Tight, dried lips part to reveal moon-white teeth in a mocking grin. His right eye is closed.
His left eye is gone.
Shadows from the gnarled branches and his own skull conspire to form his eye socket into a black hole. Inky black darkness, rimmed by a sliver of the yellowed bone of his eye socket. The black pit, utterly out of place in the bright glare of the gravel, is irresistible. We can’t help but stare into it.
The black pit, utterly out of place in the bright glare of the gravel, is irresistible. We can’t help but stare into it.
‘Jesus!’, my partner exclaims, followed by cursing and chatter among
everyone else. My pagan beliefs put an entirely different deity into my mind. My eyes flick up into the tree branches, half expecting to find a pair of ravens. The scene is intense, even for those of us used to such things. We are nervous. Off guard.
Spooked.
It doesn’t last long. The others distract themselves with practicalities, abandoning their reverence and milling around the man. He is dead, that much is obvious. There is nothing for us to do but the paperwork. A used needle is found next to him – this is clearly an overdose. The firefighters head back up the embankment. I catch them looking back as they climb. The police wonder aloud how long he has been here. This line is in use, but not many pay much attention to a homeless man sitting under a tree, especially from the cab of a train.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. There will not be an investigation. The examiner will visit, observe the formalities, and the body will be taken away. The awe is gone, replaced by procedure. Reverence transformed into boredom in the space of a minute. A man reduced to a problem to be solved. An object to be moved. A box to be checked. The trains must run. They cannot run while he is here. Things are not neat. This space must become neat. Clean.
Tidy.
So the trains can run.
While my partner gets the necessary information from the police for our report, I study the man’s face, avoiding looking at his eye.
Who are you? What is your name? How did you end up here, dying amongst stone and iron? What was the first step on the path that ended in this gully? Were you offered help? Was the last thing you heard the rhythmic rumble of a train? Were diesel fumes the last thing you smelled? Did you find peace? Did you find wisdom deep in the fentanyl haze? Or just an ending? And was that end welcomed?
My partner motions me away. We have what we need and she will write the report. There is nothing else for me to do. As we climb out of the gully, I look back. There is dignity in his posture. I take solace in that. Soon he will rest, and the trains will run.
We climb back into our ambulance, and are immediately sent elsewhere. The living call for help, those we actually can help. Those we can save. He is out of my thoughts by the end of the shift.
I ran two more overdoses that day.
*
For the destitute and unnamed dead such as him, no grand funeral awaits. No fine words, no accolades. No weeping family and friends. A small posting in the local paper, a month’s wait, and then cremation. There is no potter’s field in our city, only a plain, numbered urn in a communal mausoleum. Once a year, a small service is held on All Souls’ Day where those nameless dead are interred.
In my decades of service I have run many ‘untimely’ deaths, along with hundreds of working cardiac arrests that did not make it. I remember few faces, few details. Even fewer names. A fact for which I am very grateful. But this man’s visage shines out through the haze of time and memory like a beacon.
Was it the shock of his appearance? The gore? Macabre fascination?
My overactive imagination? My religious beliefs? Did I ascribe something divine to the mundane? Did a simple trick of light and posture give unusual dignity where there was none, burning it into my memory? Or was there a spark of something sacred there after all?
I don’t know.
But I know this; I have something to offer that man. He is nameless, his body reduced to ash and disposed of as cheaply as possible. He is likely forgotten by all who knew him. Perhaps for good reason, perhaps not. But I can, at least, offer him something more than a numbered box in a forgotten crypt: I can offer him a place in the memories of an old paramedic; I can offer him a few words, scribbled on the page, so that others may know he existed. A meagre memorial, but better than nothing.
IMAGE
Ibby Lanfear
Shrouded Mole During Burial
Shroud: hand spun nettle fibre warp with daffodil leaves, plaited and woven; dandelion stems, twined and woven
The photograph originates from the project ‘Mad Enough to Cry for anAnimal?’ whichexamines human practices of mourning for animals in an age of extinction.Demonstrating an overt and ongoing practice of attention and care, the projectchallenges dominant Western myths of human exceptionalism and beliefs around thelegitimate ‘grievability’ of wild animal bodies.
Ibby Lanfear is an environmental artist and writer based in the UK. Her work has previously been published by Wild Roof Journal, Dark Mountain and forthcoming by the Center for Humans and Nature. Her drawings are held in public and private collections. She can be found at ibbylanfear.com.
Dark Mountain: Issue 27
Our spring 2025 issue is a hardback collection revolving around bodies, human and creaturely, plant and mineral, in an era of planetary breakdown.
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