I'm a bit like this, my father was as well. It bothers me sometimes that I may be "off", but I just rationalize it I "think". Luckily, I haven't had to find or cleanup a loved one, but I've found two drowned children (6 and 14), carried out dead hikers after messy falls, etc. Perhaps it's the distance to the person, but it honestly doesn't bother me much. I found myself trying to force anguish, particularity around their families.

I did feel for their families, but I didn't know the individuals,so I couldn't find any 'mourning' within myself. The gore didn't bother me, it was just meat, the person was already gone.

I did see bodies sporadically growing up while traveling, and my father (career army) always explained the circumstances and gave me a non-spiritual rundown, much like you would talk about any other dead pet or animal.

I worked for a long time that I was a sociopath, because others did get fucked up over it. But I do empathize, I do love, I do care, and I have and will mourn and cry over those I know and love.

A body though simply doesn't bother me, other than the smell, the mess, and the expectations of others on how I should react.

I haven't told that to anyone, ever.

Like I said though, my father was the same way.

One of the things I remember most about him is that he had enormous hands and never worried about getting them dirty (I always liked to keep my hands clean because I picked my nose and bit my nails). He'd stick them in nasty tree trunks to grab something, he'd pull catfish out of holes, and he'd yell at me whether I reached for gloves on a messy project. Gloves were for protection, not to stay clean.

He probably got accustomed to bodies on a road cleanup crew in highschool, and he dated a mourtary's daughter in college for a couple years.

Well, it turned out that he would obviously take the jobs no one else wanted to do and I was one of the only people he could talk about them to without it being weird, so it eventually rubbed off I guess.

The last that I can think of was in Iraq. One of the new arrivals was apparently a raging alcoholic and did not want to be there, at all. He threw a fit, they put him in a holding room, he slit his wrists, and he wasn't found for awhile. It was a bloodbath and no one wanted to clean it up. My father was a GS-15 at that point, but still he told them to get him 4 bottles of bleach, two trashcans, a mop, and a hose. He never told me how long it took, but everyone called him Sir and saluted him (huge break of protocol) for the next year he was there.