The Anatomist - Bill Hayes [4]
Henry Gray and his anatomy students, St. George’s Hospital, 1860
PHOTOGRAPH BY JOSEPH LANGHORN
PART ONE THE STUDENT
Self-knowledge can, and ought, to apply not only to the soul, but also to the body;
the man without insight into the fabric of his body has no knowledge of himself.
—JOHN MOIR, student of anatomy, notes from opening lecture,
Anatomical Education in a Scottish University, 1620
One
ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASS, I AM MISTAKEN FOR A TEACHING assistant six times, which, on the one hand, simply tells me I’m old—a good twenty years older than the average student—but, on the other hand, seems to imply that I look as if I belong. Choosing the glass half full, I smile through each mistaken identity.
The class size is 120 (150 if you count the cadavers). We had been warned that some students are overwhelmed by the first sight of the dead bodies. And sure enough, some students clearly are. But I am more freaked out by the woman in the gas mask. What does she know that the rest of us don’t?
“Class? Hello?” comes a disembodied voice, tinnily amplified. This is Sexton Sutherland, one of the three professors, although I cannot see him for the crowd. “Before we get started, some housekeeping rules…”
The first thing he mentions is the color-coded wastebaskets: red is for tissue (the human type) and white is for regular garbage, and, please, please don’t mix them up. Likewise with the sinks: use only the stainless steel for this and the porcelain for that, though I cannot catch the specifics for all the rustling. The mention of first-aid protocol finally brings the room to complete silence. And when Dr. Sutherland directs everyone’s attention to the emergency biohazard showers in each corner of the lab, I find a sea of eyes sweeping over me, as I happen to be standing right next to one of them. Towel, anyone?
“Finally, just some basic etiquette for the weeks to come: No eating your lunch in here.” This elicits a collective ewwwww. “No music. Please don’t take any pictures. And try to keep your voices down. Laughter’s okay,” Dr. Sutherland adds. “We love laughter in the lab—it’s a great way to release emotions. But not at the expense of the wonderful people who’ve donated their bodies to our program.” He lets that sink in for a moment. “Okay, let’s get going.”
A class orientation had been held the day before in a lecture hall downstairs. Afterward, we were invited to check out the lab and, as Dr. Sutherland had said in a masterful sweep of understatement, “to get comfortable with ‘the surroundings,’” by which he meant the reclining dead. About half the class had made the trip up to the thirteenth floor, myself included. I was anxious to put glimpsing the cadavers for the first time behind me. And I am glad I did.
If that was the orientation, however, this is more like disorientation. I am not sure what to do or where to go exactly, so I grab the crisp new scrubs from my gym bag, pull them over my head, and join the large group being led by Dana Rohde, interim director of the anatomy course for the University of California–San Francisco School of Pharmacy, whom I had met earlier. Using one cadaver as a demo model, she gives a brief overview of the afternoon’s assignment; pauses to explain how to put a fresh blade onto a scalpel; does a quick scan to see that we are all wearing the mandatory rubber gloves; and adds finally, “I’ll be back to see how you’re doing in half an hour.” Dr. Rohde then stands there for a moment, wearing the look of a swimming instructor who finds her class still standing on the deck of the pool: Why aren’t you wet yet?
Six of us arrange ourselves around cadaver number 4, but rather