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Traffic was unusually slow this morning. The highway wound like a ribbon of lights, red from behind and white from in front, as taillights and headlights crept along. Exhaust from the countless combustion engines rose up like fog before quickly vanishing beneath the early morning sunlight. Every once in a while a car horn would sound from somewhere along the line, accenting the otherwise monotonous droning.

Dr. Hensley tapped out the rhythm of whatever music was playing on the radio in an effort to remain calm. As a funeral director, driving slowly was commonplace enough that it was hardly a bother most days. Today, however, was different. The call had been expected but there was still an unavoidable amount of surprise when it came. Now, sitting in traffic and counting down the exits, Dr. Hensley found the slowness difficult to ignore.

The highway curved around a hill, on the other side of which was the hospital. As the tall, stone building came into view, Dr. Hensley’s heart rate increased.

“Steady on,” Dr. Hensley said aloud and began taking very deliberate, deep breaths in and letting them back out slowly.

At times it seemed a dispassionate part of the job, always appearing calm and unaffected, but those who got to close to their work, who let themselves feel the powerful emotions tied up in it all, tended not to last very long. Most of the people Dr. Hensley worked on were strangers who would always be strangers. There was no getting to know them. Their families, on the other hand, often required a significant amount of support and it was a significant part of Dr. Hensley’s job to help them through it all, answering their questions and walking the fine line between detachment and empathy. For better or worse, today’s trip to the hospital was personal.

The song on the radio changed and Dr. Hensley happily changed drumming patterns on the steering wheel. This song was faster and had a couple of secondary beats underlying the primary one and it took a few seconds before the tapping matched the song. Decades ago, it would have been unimaginable to live without a drum set. Playing in one band after another, the dream of fame and fortune never really died out until bills and the need for groceries outweighed everything else. A full drum set was worth a decent amount back then. Dr. Hensley wasn’t sure what they cost these days. Surely it was an affordable expense now but, without a band to play with, there didn’t seem like much point. Drums were not often a soloist instrument for a reason. Besides, where would the drums go? There was the spare bedroom but that got used often enough to not be a good spot for it.

At last the exit came and Dr. Hensley was able to get off the highway. Traffic in the city wasn’t much better. It seemed as though every traffic light was red. It took considerable restraint not to begin honking if the car at the front of the line didn’t immediately begin moving once the lights had finally turned green.

“Traffic’s not that bad,” Dr. Hensley had to repeat a few times. “Don’t clench you hands. Relax your neck and shoulders. Everything is fine and I’ll get there when I get there.”

Parking should have been the easiest part of the entire trip but finding an open stall proved maddening. The maternity ward wasn’t on the usual side of the hospital that Dr. Hensley frequented and it took a few more agonizing minutes to get parked and find the right entrance. Even with this not being the usual side that Dr. Hensley entered through, the staff behind the reception desk didn’t need to ask for identification. Anyone who worked in a hospital long enough came to recognize the local funeral directors fairly quickly.

It was easy to tell who were the ones who worked with the patients and who were the ones that just handled the paperwork. The paperwork people gave Dr. Hensley a mild look that brought to mind the forthcoming documents that would need to be filed. For the others, their silent stares spoke of empty beds and disconnected monitors as they envisioned which of their patients Dr. Hensley had come to collect.

“We don’t usually see you come through here,” the head nurse said in careful tones that seemed to convey her disapproval for the breach in the usual protocol. She lowered her voice and then added, “It can upset the mothers.”

Dr. Hensley froze, finally picking up on the tense posture and clenched facial muscles in many of the nurses faces. They were upset to see a funeral director not because they weren’t expecting one at this particular moment but because they didn’t want the other mothers to know what had happened.

“I’m not here on that sort of call,” Dr. Hensley stated, wondering if some sort of appology was in order. “I’m here to meet my granddaughter.”

There was an awkward pause as everyone reoriented the conversation in their minds. Of course the nurses and receptionists would assume Dr. Hensley was here on business. It was easy to get so used to seeing a person in one way that it became second nature to always assume that that was who they were at all times.

“Rachel Drew,” Dr. Hensley supplied after another moment. “I think she said they were in room two twenty-five.”

“Right,” one of the receptionists said finally. “Rachel and baby Claire. Just down the hall there and on your right.”

Dr. Hensley nodded to them and walked off in the direction indicated. Along the way, passing closed door after closed door, it was difficult not to wonder which one held the unspoken tragedy. Those were always the hardest ones.

“…must be strong enough to carry even the smallest of caskets…” Dr. Hensley remembered being told by an old mortician years ago. “The weight of all those unlived years is a heavy burden passed on to us who are left behind. And do you know how we keep going with all of that grief?”

It took a few moments for Dr. Hensley to realize they’d reached the door to room 225 and were now standing there, staring at nothing.

“We don’t forget to also carry life’s joys,” Dr. Hensley whispered before knocking on the door and going in.