The experience of anatomy is one of transformation. Within the first week of starting medical school, we are given our short white coats and recite an oath to promise to do no harm to our patients. We are indoctrinated into a new culture that begins with learning the complex language of anatomy.

There was the initial trepidation involved with actually cutting another human body, the inevitable smell (a mix of formaldehyde and rotting tissue that can be unbearable), the crowded table of inquisitive first year medical students asking questions, negotiating scalpel time and spending countless hours navigating the body looking for structures.

And there were all the moments of realization that we were becoming doctors.

I never knew I would one day be cutting some one's face. Before we began the face dissection, we removed the gauze, strip by strip, to reveal the face of our cadaver, the same face that has remained hidden from our view and from our thoughts through the entire year of anatomy.

It was so odd looking down at her swollen face; she was frowning. As I made the incision on her pasty white skin, I did not even flinch. This is not normal, I thought. Just a year ago, I would not have been unable to look at our cadaver's face. And today, I was actually dissecting a part of the body that is so personal and unique. Seeing her face reminded me that we are working on individuals, who each had very different lives.





We all start anatomy with our fresh blue scrubs and wide-eyes ready to visualize the human body from the outside to the inside. We learn fast to detach the human identity from the body that looks up at us from the metal table. We quickly dissect and cut away, looking to uncover the particular artery or nerve or muscle, dirtying our scrubs and getting our gloved hands covered in body juices during the process.

We initially struggled to make sense of the complex language of anatomy. And with time, continued exposure to our bodies and repetition, we memorize terms and locations of key structures- sometimes at the expense of looking at our cadaver as a vessel of parts.

When I looked down at the opened face, I began to wonder about her life. Seeing her face evoked some deep questions. What was her name? Where was she from? What made her smile?

And then I thought about myself and how far I had come from the first year medical student that grimaced every time we opened our white body bag to the one holding the scalpel.

We easily forget the human story of the individual, when we have three hours to plow through a list of objectives and bold-terms. And yet, in the back of mind I cannot help but feel guilty.

I still wonder about her story and her life. I know all about the intricate structures of her anatomy; I have cut her face, touched her heart, removed her lungs, felt her uterus, cut thin slices of her brain. It is remarkable what she has taught us and yet it is so sad to have done so damage to her body. I know nothing about her as an individual, aside from the cause of death (renal failure) and gender (female).

We all have those moments of human realization, when we are startled by what is in front of us. Seeing the hands, face and toes remind us about the truth that we sometimes suppress. We realize that we are opening up the bodies of other human beings, individuals who were once mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, and members of the same society we live in. But we learn to not be bothered and continue to expose the body.

I will never forget our cadaver's face; she has watched over us all these months and has seen how we have changed and now we have seen her. I still wonder about how I could I so easily take a scalpel and destroy her face?

Anatomy has given me more than just knowledge of the structures of the body; I walk away with a deeper appreciation for the fragility of life.

I am deeply indebted to the family that donated the ultimate gift for the sake of our learning; I cannot even begin to express my gratitude for what I have been bestowed from complete strangers.

In the end, anatomy has taught me to always remember the human within ourselves, especially when it stares right back at you from the dissecting table. As we move forward in our medical education, we must remain empathetic and compassionate to our patients, asking ourselves how we would want our bodies treated when we are exposed.

Even as students, dissecting a body, we cannot completely detach the human spirit from the bodies that have taught us so much. And we cannot disconnect ourselves completely from the human within ourselves.



*The images in this essay are intended to celebrate the lives of the families and donors that gave so much for the sake of medical education. --- Eisha Zaid