The reeking smell of formaldehyde lingered in the hallway outside of the anatomy lab. To an outsider, this may have seemed like an ordinary afternoon at the medical school. But to me, this day was momentous: I was meeting my anatomy donor for the very first time and I was unsure how to feel. On one hand, I was genuinely excited to begin learning the anatomy of the human body. Anatomy dissection lab would be my first real dive into the world of medicine, and I was eager to begin. At the same time, I felt uneasy because I would be learning about the human body not from a textbook, but from the body of an actual human being. After taking one final deep breath to calm my nerves, I slowly entered. Laying silently on the table in front of me was our donor, Ann. The body that experienced every memory, feeling, and thought, from her first breath to her last, lay still on that cold, metal surface. When I first viewed Ann’s body, I was taken aback by her duality: While it appeared strangely inhuman due to the preservation process, she was, and is, a unique individual. Despite my internal discomfort, I tried my best to listen earnestly as the professor spoke. Still, my mind began to wander from the present conversation toward ponderings of Ann’s personality—What was she like? Did she have any family? What brought her joy? When I walked out of the anatomy lab that day, I quietly offered my sincerest gratitude for Ann’s willingness to donate her body for my medical education. As the course progressed, I became more accustomed to studying Ann’s anatomy, although certain dissections—particularly those of her head and neck—posed a challenge for me as I balanced remembering Ann’s humanity and learning her anatomical structures. While my hands carefully performed each step of the dissection, my mind grappled with the notion of reducing Ann’s face to a group of muscle fibers and nerves. How could I, a first-year medical student, be worthy of cutting into such a sacred part of Ann’s body? At times, I had to pause my dissection to allow an overwhelming wave of guilt to pass. Though I still sought to learn as much as I could, I decided to focus less on the anatomy comprising Ann’s face and more on appreciating the feelings that the muscles of her face had expressed: joy, laughter, hope, and serenity. Regardless of how much needed to be done in lab, I made it my daily goal to see Ann as a person and acknowledge our shared humanity. To me, she was much more than just the sum of her anatomical components. Even though I never knew Ann while she was alive, I, in a way, came to know her in a more intimate and personal way than even her closest friends and family did. Over time, Ann’s humanity became strangely comforting to me. As we examined the muscles of her face, I contemplated what her smile would have looked like. As we dissected her tumor, I grieved over the pain and suffering she likely experienced in her final days. As I looked into her pale blue eyes, I realized that we had both seen the same brilliant sunsets and starry night skies. The realization that Ann and I are not so different underneath our skin brought me a sense of peace. Despite the emotional challenges that my anatomy course presented, I feel reaffirmed in my desire to pursue medicine and now understand the beautiful complexity of the human body in a way I never could have before. Although I still struggle with the fact that I used Ann for my own learning, I remember how truly blessed I am to have had the opportunity to learn from Ann’s body and enter a profession of service. I have a newfound appreciation for the common humanity that all patients, both living and dead, share with one another and for the differences that make each of us unique. I feel called to ensure that all patients are treated not as a series of body parts or a list of problems, but as a valued and respected human being. Finally, I remain eternally grateful for Ann’s final gift.
Read full abstract