I've been rehearsing how to explain my on-call schedule to my girlfriend without making it sound as if the funeral home gets first choice of every evening. It isn't quite that simple, but she isn't asking me to stop caring about the work. She wants to know whether a plan is a plan. I keep answering with examples of unusual calls when the real question is about ordinary weekends. I'm going to ask the director exactly which dates another person can cover before I promise anything. I don't need a speech about the profession. I need to know if I can take her to dinner on a particular Friday, which should not require this much private preparation.

The phone rang in the night and I was on my feet before I was completely awake. I handled the call fine, but back in bed my shoulders stayed tight and every small sound seemed to be the phone starting again. By morning I wasn't sleepy exactly, just slow. I went for part of my usual run and turned back early because my legs felt disconnected from the plan I'd made for them. At work I can pay close attention to lifting safely and then overlook what broken sleep does to the rest of the day. I ate breakfast at the table instead of standing in the kitchen. That helped more than the second coffee had, though I still left my keys in the refrigerator beside the milk.

A family thanked me for remembering which cup their mother liked to use while we talked through the service. It was such a small thing that I almost explained it away. Later I felt pleased, then oddly sad, because I remembered how grateful I'd been for little details at my grandmother's funeral. I don't usually connect every family to my own. That would be unfair to them and exhausting for me. This time it happened before I could choose. I sat in the car for a few minutes afterward, not crying or having some terrible crisis, just missing her and wishing I could tell her what my job is like now.