"I was a janitor at a shopping mall for about a month when I was a teen in the late 90s. While cleaning the bathrooms one Saturday I walked in and saw an unconscious older man lying on his back on the floor. It looked like he had been using the urinal and just fell backwards. I left the bathroom and grabbed a security guard. He came in and took one look at the guy and froze. He was dumbfounded, didn't know what to do. I raised my voice for him to call 9-1-1. When the paramedics showed up, one of them asked if I wanted to help by holding his IV bag while they wheeled him out. I asked if the guy was going to make it because he was making groaning sounds. The paramedic said he's already dead but they couldn't pronounce him because they needed a doctor to do it when they got to the hospital. When I got home, later that night, I was pretty shaken up by the experience. My dad, who survived Vietnam, said I was lucky that my first experience with death was such a clean one. He wasn't there, of course, and he didn't hear the body's moans. That was the end of my janitorial career. I felt so bad about a man dying in his own piss, alone, in a strange bathroom that I tried to find out who he was and maybe contact his family. But I eventually gave up that idea when the hospital stonewalled me because I wasn't a family member."