Rachel T. Smith is an American creative writer and physical therapist living in Germany, temporarily.
Future Surgeons
The smell doesn’t seem to bother me, dries out my sinuses and burns my throat at first. Her face doesn’t seem to bother me like I thought it would, like it does my partner. The body, Her, has no name; an age and cause of death, but no name. There is a clear rule about not nicknaming them, but we all do, give them nicknames. And we all get attached, possessive even.
Of the fifteen bodies, I dissect one half of Her body with my partner. When we leave two more students share the same side of Her. Between the four us, in the first few weeks, we make a real mess. Occasionally, I get to cross to Her other side for organs like the spleen and descending colon but for the most part this one half of a person is mostly mine for two semesters.
I feel bad that I am not good at dissection. I severe Her cephalic vein before I can trace it down the arm. I apologize for it, a soft whisper under my breath I hope my partner doesn’t hear. I take a needle and thread and sew the vein. My first surgery.
My partner cuts too deep with the bone saw, damages her right lung. Another first surgery. I apologize for this too. The needle and thread are not going to fix Her mutilated tissue.
We trudge on, following the instructions, pacing ourselves but not rushing.
The more I slice and scrape, the more accurate I become, the less apologies I make to Her. I learn I can grasp the edge of Her skin with my tweezers, pulling, while sliding my gloved finger through her spider-web of fascia. No need to cut.
I don’t always rush to use the scalpel. I feel things before I move them, recognize the slimy worm of a nerve, the coagulated pebble of blood trapped in an artery and I begin to say, thank-you.
The pearlescent sheen of Her iliotibial band brings tears to my eyes and I thank Her again. I keep thanking Her at every new discovery, every new realization that I have read in a textbook but never really appreciated until she came along. Reciting the instructions aloud, I perform.
My partner says she just can’t when we arrive at the face. Her face. A towel my partner never worked without has been there since we rolled her supine. It is time I remove the shroud and expose Her beauty and Her boldness at allowing us our lessons. Her thin white hair is matted against Her cheek and I brush it aside. My partner, my friend, is pale and shaking whispering, “Why must we do this?”
I tell her to get the guide, start reading. I stay focused knowing once we’ve started, our deconstruction will be easier. Her face will become muscles, nerves, landmarks to identify and be tested on.
If this part had been in the beginning, we would have mangled Her, made Her unidentifiable by bumbling fingers and careless use of the blade. But this is the end, we are all better, skilled even, in our abilities to flay Her without destruction.