When Research Crosses the Ick Factor

I have to do some research for a chapter I need to write in the manuscript I am currently working on. Now, when I say "research" I often mean "experience." Much of what I research cannot be done online or from books. I do not write historical stories. I do not write paranormal or science fiction, I write about carriage drivers set in a real city working for a company based loosely on the one I work for. My main character is a widow with brain damage who is missing her left foot. I am not any of these things (okay, people who know me will argue about the "brain damage" trait…) But, be that as it may, I can pull many of the events that occur from real life.

One example of my research:

I got a tattoo because I needed to experience what it was like. Ended up I did not use the "experience" in a scene but it made me more appreciative of the process. And what I discovered was this: The "pain" was not that big of a deal (although my Tat was placed in a meaty part of my body, so it did not entail much nerve/bone contact, which I understand amps up the "owie" factor exponentially) What I did learned was this: The itching while your tattoo heals surpasses the boredom, pain, and other mildly annoying things one puts up with during and after the process. No one told me this. In fact, the itching was never even mentioned by anyone. So, that’s was what I learned from that specific endeavor. And you cannot scratch it— it scuffs the ink.

Another example of my research was unintentional, but informative. I try to visit former carriage driver Wease twice a year. She lives in the beautiful Cache Valley 90 minutes north of me. On my last visit I was accompanied by The Fabulous Todd. Now, several of my minor characters are gay. So is TFT. During our weekend visit I learned more about the life of a homosexual man than, as a middle aged heterosexual woman, I ever needed to know. I will not elaborate, but I will never be able to watch baseball the same way again. Anyway, the one thing I took away from our weekend is the phrase "Strictly Dickly," which it turns out applied not only to TFT (never had sex with a woman, only men) also applies to me. It will be used in dialog in the current WIP.

Now I need to research a funeral. Not your everyday, "Great Aunt Mildred died, we're going to her wake, we're bringing a casserole" kind of a thing, but specifically utilizing a horse drawn hearse during a quasi-military funeral. For this I need to have three things aligned:

1) Someone has to die
2) They had to have been a member of the military
3) The family wants to incorporate a horse drawn hearse in the ceremony.

Not as easy as it sounds.

So I have asked Ro, barn manager extraordinaire, to include me, if at all possible, the next time these three pre-requisites are met. She advised me to pick the brain of the carriage company owner because he is an encyclopedia of knowledge concerning these tributes, as he should be. Knowing proper procedure and protocol is essential when bestowing honor.

We do "regular" funerals;


Uncle Bob was a horse lover; his family knows he would have appreciated the gesture, so they hire us to carry the casket to Bob's final resting place. This type of thing I can get first hand from Ro. She is a widow, and the carriage company performed this service for her at her husband's funeral. So she has described the event for me. But that, to me, is not the same as riding up top with the driver, viewing the cemetery from that vantage point. Watching the mourners walking behind the hearse. The smell of the flowers, the feel of the wind, the sound of the wheels on the asphalt/gravel/dirt as we slowly roll down the road/path/pasture we are driving on.

Because considerable time has passed and her emotional wounds have healed, I can talk to Ro about aspects of her husband's passing; the anger she felt about the way the Utah Highway Patrol informed her. The shock, the disbelief, the panic at realizing that she was a widow and their six-month old son was now fatherless. The relief she felt because her friend was there with her the day she received the autopsy report in the mail. The utter lost and fragile feeling she experienced while waiting in the social security office, papers in hand, baby on her hip, to file a claim. The overwhelming reality of it all.

So my question is this: When does research take a dive and end up as morbid curiosity?