Hands

Original entry date: October 9, 2008

We looked at the cadaver again today, or at least a part of it this time. The arm and shoulder of the cadaver we looked at on Tuesday was today, disarticulated, and Dr. Petti brought it out to the front of the classroom so that we could look at the musculature of the arm, glenohumeral joint, and scapula.

The hand was only partially dissected, and the fingertips still had their skin and fingernails intact. With my gloved hand, I gingerly held it as we turned the specimen over to look at the muscles on the posterior aspect of the arm. The hand was stiff, cold, wrinkled due to preserving fluids, yet it was in every way human. I ran my thumb over one of the fingernails, even though I knew I wasn't going to get a capillary refill response. But the moment I did that, I was overcome with emotion. Dr. Petti came up to Andrea and I and asked what we thought.

I wanted to cry.

Now I'm a big girl, and I'm not emotional sort (yay for being a tomboy), but seeing the hand of this cadaver moved me. When this man was alive, those hands held those of the ones he loved, maybe they cradled a baby or two, caressed the face of his lifebonded, held flowers or kleenex for them, depending on the occasion. That hand maybe strummed a guitar, played piano, drove to endless school or sports functions for the kids, worked an entire lifetime at a job that allowed him to provide a life for himself and the ones he loved. That hand held on to somebody when they passed, and it probably held on to somebody as he passed. The hands, along with the face, are what make us human. Seeing this hand, even in death, affected me on a very deep and visceral level.

I didn't cry. I stuffed down that rebellious emotional streak and put on my professional clinical face as I curved my hand to the outside of the cadaver's hand. I told Dr. Petti and Andrea what I thought, and Dr. Petti said that yes, it is the hands and the face that make us human. His eyes lit up as he said that, as if I was the first in this semester to bring that up with him.

He then asked if we'd read the book Stiff, The Curious Life of Human Cadavers. I read it 4 years ago when it was given to me as a gift from a friend for Christmas, since I had decided to return to school to pursue nursing. As a recovering goth, I tend to get strange and morbid gifts from the loved ones, but I digress. In the book, the author describes what cadavers donated to science undergo, and she puts that human element back into the cadaver. She also points out how the doctors, students, interns, morticians, etc. who work with the cadavers don't go about it cold heartedly. The part of the book which stands out the most to me was the first part, where she was talking about heads that were cut off and placed into roasting pans for chickens because they were in the same size.

I gave away my chicken sized roasting pan the day I finished reading the book. Most people who know me know how I feel about decapitation. Something about it can turn my stomach, and if I'm not one to cry, I'm even more adamant about being one not to vomit. I think since puberty I've vomited about twice in my adult life. I can deal with evisceration, disarticulation, amputation, burns, decomposition, putrefaction, but not decapitation. It's something I have a very, very, difficult time dealing with.

I still think about the hand of that cadaver. He was a tall man in life, with long, well proportioned limbs and good muscular structure. We each held his heart, which was enlarged, as well as his left lung, his foot, and his brain. There was another wave of wonderment as I held his heart and brain... what kind of memories were stored in there and lost forever? Who was left on this earth that his heart once beat for, in a figurative sense? We did not see his face, but there was no need to. I already knew he was once a beautiful human being.

His muscular structures were are beautiful. Years ago I would have had nightmares about dealing with cadavers in the prosectorium, as I've seen too many horror movies in which the hands come back to life and kill the living. But as I held the hand of the cadaver, that fear wasn't with me. The only feeling I had was the small sadness in knowing that I would be one of the last to maybe hold his hand, and a deep sense of gratitude for his ultimate sacrifice after death. That sacrifice was in donating his remains so that students going into the medical field could learn about the human body.

Growing up Catholic, and having accepted other theories of death from various religions, I am ready to acknowledge that there is some sort of afterlife, and that something does become of our soul after we leave our bodies.

Wherever that man's soul is, I hope he can rest well knowing what kind of an impact he's had on the students in my class. What kind of impact he left on me. Somewhere in the world beyond the living, beyond the nether, I hope that soul understands that I am deeply appreciative, almost beyond words, for allowing me to touch his body to learn more about how human bodies work. Even though we will never meet in this lifetime, I hope I was able to communicate to his physical shell that I am thankful for his sacrifice, and that's why I cradled his hand in mine.