Beatrice

Scalpel in hand, I made the first cut.

As the body's internal juices quivered out of the incision, my heart felt as though it would stop any minute. Here I was, this novice twenty-something cutting into this woman's body. Amidst the palpable fear and disturbed anxiety amongst my group mates, I started to understand the task at hand.

She had lived a long life--eighty years, at that. She had died of septic shock secondary to lymphoma. As I pressed the blade into the now plastic skin, it was surreal that I was cutting open another human being. Perhaps she had been a teacher or a lawyer or even a writer. She had been somebody's mother and another's friend. Her body came nameless, so we named her Beatrice. As I cut deeper and deeper into her with my classmate, another snickered at how much adipose tissue we had to excavate. I darted a dirty look in his direction and continued cutting through fascia, layer after layer.

I don't think she had ever imagined lying dead on the cold counter, being cut open by experience-hungry dental students. I continued dissecting and separating her muscles: sternohyoid, sternocleidomastoid, omohyoid, platysma...

My hands still reek of formaldehyde, perhaps as a reminder to reflect on today. As I sit here collecting my thoughts and making sense of why it's necessary for me, in this profession, to be cutting open other human beings, I'm seeing the sanctity of life (as trite as that is, especially in the written word) and how privileged I am to be learning the skills to serve others. It's haunting to be dissecting into the human body (let alone, touching one), but there's something so graceful behind our Creator's imagination. Each muscle, each nerve, each vessel enables us to breathe, speak, live and be...

Thank you, Beatrice for teaching me today of the sacredness of grace.