Gross Anatomy, Part 2
I was going to make my recollections of gross anatomy into a longer story, but I doubt I'll ever summon up the motivation to do so. It would make a small novel, and I'm not that ambitious yet. Instead, I'll just give you some impressions and collect them over several days. I hope they don't become too disjointed.
After we raised the cadavers from the depths of their tanks and pulled back the wet sheet, the first thing I noticed: all the cadavers were shaved. That's somewhat expected, but whoever shaved them (and I want to know, who does that?) took off everything--head hair, arms, legs, pubes. The only things left were eyelashes and the ear hair on the old men, and the thoroughness struck me as odd. As we poked and prodded, we found the skin was less pliable on the older cadavers, as in, nearly like wood. Hell, everything was less pliable. For extra surrealism, the formalene solution in the tanks had turned cadaver skin pink, even African skin, and the older the cadaver, the hotter the pink.
The solution itself was clear, but it wasn't changed out during the fourteen week course, only topped off. It quickly turned murky from dissolved fat, random body fluids, and blood sediment. It smelled like cured meat and chemicals, a kind of sweet, fatty smell. It put me off tuna for the duration of the course, but other people were reminded of ham, or spam, or some kind of potted meat. Depends on your olfactory glands, I guess. The TAs made their rounds that first day and advised the gagging people to put Vicks on their upper lip or chew strongly flavored gum next time they came to lab. I tried the gum thing once, and only once, because I tend to leave my mouth slightly open when I chew. Naturally, while I bent over the body, somebody dropped a piece of something in the tank, it splashed, and I got some of the fluid in my mouth. Utterly nasty. And since I couldn't put up with the feeling of the Vicks greasing up my nose or lip, I just had to acclimate to the odor.
My tankmates and I hit the psychological jackpot when we were assigned our cadaver. Ninety-five at his age of death, he was the oldest cadaver in the room, and therefore the pinkest and stiffest. Despite those clues, he didn't look ninety-five; he looked like he was maybe sixty-five, tops. You could tell he'd led an active life because he was still heavily muscled and only had a slight gut. I forget what was listed as his cause of death exactly; the tag on the tank probably said pulmonary insufficiency or something like that. When asked about it, our professor laughed and said "That's what the coroner puts down when they die in bed of old age. One day, his heart stopped. The end." Excellent. Nothing to feel sorry for. In fact, the professor was surprised at how good he looked for his age, and had to assure himself by poking the body that he was really as old as the tag claimed.
We could imagine he'd been fairly prosperous while he was alive because all of his teeth had been replaced with dental implants, a procedure that costs between $60,000 and $80,000, depending on how often he'd had to have the crowns redone. He was about 6' tall, had regular features and blue eyes. The stubble on his head even indicated he'd had a full head of hair. On top of all that, he was well-hung. (I'd feel bad telling you so, but since it was the second or third thing my mom asked me about the guy, I know you were wondering. The embalming fluid makes the penis somewhat turgid--slightly more than half-mast--so I'm not making an educated guess either.) We easily assumed he'd lived a long, fruitful life with plenty of companionship, instead of feeling bad that he'd died painfully or before he was ready to go. I think the unluckiest people in the room had the forty-two-year-old woman who died of breast cancer. Every time I even looked at her tank, I imagined the family she'd had to leave behind. Well, for the first couple of weeks, anyway. Over time, they all became simply disparate parts for objective study, but it was a gradual transformation.
After we raised the cadavers from the depths of their tanks and pulled back the wet sheet, the first thing I noticed: all the cadavers were shaved. That's somewhat expected, but whoever shaved them (and I want to know, who does that?) took off everything--head hair, arms, legs, pubes. The only things left were eyelashes and the ear hair on the old men, and the thoroughness struck me as odd. As we poked and prodded, we found the skin was less pliable on the older cadavers, as in, nearly like wood. Hell, everything was less pliable. For extra surrealism, the formalene solution in the tanks had turned cadaver skin pink, even African skin, and the older the cadaver, the hotter the pink.
The solution itself was clear, but it wasn't changed out during the fourteen week course, only topped off. It quickly turned murky from dissolved fat, random body fluids, and blood sediment. It smelled like cured meat and chemicals, a kind of sweet, fatty smell. It put me off tuna for the duration of the course, but other people were reminded of ham, or spam, or some kind of potted meat. Depends on your olfactory glands, I guess. The TAs made their rounds that first day and advised the gagging people to put Vicks on their upper lip or chew strongly flavored gum next time they came to lab. I tried the gum thing once, and only once, because I tend to leave my mouth slightly open when I chew. Naturally, while I bent over the body, somebody dropped a piece of something in the tank, it splashed, and I got some of the fluid in my mouth. Utterly nasty. And since I couldn't put up with the feeling of the Vicks greasing up my nose or lip, I just had to acclimate to the odor.
My tankmates and I hit the psychological jackpot when we were assigned our cadaver. Ninety-five at his age of death, he was the oldest cadaver in the room, and therefore the pinkest and stiffest. Despite those clues, he didn't look ninety-five; he looked like he was maybe sixty-five, tops. You could tell he'd led an active life because he was still heavily muscled and only had a slight gut. I forget what was listed as his cause of death exactly; the tag on the tank probably said pulmonary insufficiency or something like that. When asked about it, our professor laughed and said "That's what the coroner puts down when they die in bed of old age. One day, his heart stopped. The end." Excellent. Nothing to feel sorry for. In fact, the professor was surprised at how good he looked for his age, and had to assure himself by poking the body that he was really as old as the tag claimed.
We could imagine he'd been fairly prosperous while he was alive because all of his teeth had been replaced with dental implants, a procedure that costs between $60,000 and $80,000, depending on how often he'd had to have the crowns redone. He was about 6' tall, had regular features and blue eyes. The stubble on his head even indicated he'd had a full head of hair. On top of all that, he was well-hung. (I'd feel bad telling you so, but since it was the second or third thing my mom asked me about the guy, I know you were wondering. The embalming fluid makes the penis somewhat turgid--slightly more than half-mast--so I'm not making an educated guess either.) We easily assumed he'd lived a long, fruitful life with plenty of companionship, instead of feeling bad that he'd died painfully or before he was ready to go. I think the unluckiest people in the room had the forty-two-year-old woman who died of breast cancer. Every time I even looked at her tank, I imagined the family she'd had to leave behind. Well, for the first couple of weeks, anyway. Over time, they all became simply disparate parts for objective study, but it was a gradual transformation.