For those with the privilege of having participated in a longitudinal cadaver dissection, the connection you build with the donor’s body is known to be a truly unique experience. That bond is part of what I attempted to capture in my poem “Through Damp Muslin.” Especially reflecting on how to express gratitude to the person who once was—and now who is, or at least whose body is—lying before you.
We dissect and note and test ourselves on the various structures within, with the donor’s body as a representative for our live patients to come. In none of our textbooks or diagrams or PowerPoint slides is there a convenient arrow pointing to the coordinates of the essence of a person. What some may call a soul is not identified no matter how masterfully you separate and navigate between tissue planes. As such, I mentally grasped at some tangible part of the body to thank in lieu of that live person’s presence—the heart, the brain, or simply addressing their face.
The anatomy lab taught me many new terms, including “muslin.” The thin cloth with which most anatomy groups chose to cover the donated body’s face and hands. We conferred as a group and decided that in order to promote the body’s humanity, we would not follow suit, and thereby be viscerally reminded by an uncovered visage.
This thought drew me to Ryan Brewster’s painting “The Patient Is Sacred.” In it, Ryan paints a patient in the operating room, eyes closed, halo of light holding their face in the moments before operation. The surgical instruments are left in shadow as we are drawn to the patient’s face and reminded of the true and steadfast protagonist in the healthcare story—the patient. The work drew me to deepen my gratitude for the donations of many, so we may learn in still tissue what we will need to know to help live people.
The OR for me these days is a sign at which I turn left en route to the cafeteria (I’m an internal medicine resident). But the anatomical lessons from the days of dissection I carry with me throughout the hospital. It affords us a way in which we can face our patients with see-through vision of sorts, as we visualize the structures within as our patients point to where the pain gnaws and the malady lies.
Rodolfo Villarreal-Calderon is from Mexico City and after immigrating to the United States as a child, grew up with one foot on each side of the border, balancing both sides' languages, cultures and identities. He is currently thoroughly enjoying writing in his spare time while being an internal medicine resident at Boston University Medical Center—where he will continue to stay, as a Medical Education Fellow. He would like to have a dog to warm his feet as he writes but for now as writing companions, has two plants. Which he regularly over-waters. He previously had four plants.