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Today I’m learning
a new lesson —how
plants can look just
like organs, the part
of our bodies we know
and don’t know
So begins the poem “Anatomy in Nature” (Spring 2018 Intima) by writer Jesse Holth. In her stunning poem, the writer draws parallels between human organs and the surprising ways in which these forms are repeated in ecology:
How frond and fern
can be phalanges, just as
reaching, branching out.
© Seeds of Life by Elli Youngeun Lee. Oil and colored pencil on canvas
“The first time I saw a dead body was in the cadaver lab. Behind fogged glasses, I felt my chest tighten as I faced my willed donor. But soon after, I found myself dissecting layers of skin and rifling through organs with the detachment of studying pages of a textbook. Anatomy lab is a pivotal step in our medical education. In fragmenting the human body as deidentified pieces of knowledge, it guides our hands through the otherwise unseen subjects of disease and reinforces our interconnectedness. In ‘Seeds of Life,’ the flowers honor these physical bodies as vessels of the donors’ time on earth—reminders that, through their gift, our growth and our future patients’ healing take root.”
In “Seeds of Life,” I reflected on the first time I encountered death—not as a moment of mourning, but as an educational threshold. In the anatomy lab, my donor’s body became a site of learning: layers to be dissected away, structures to be identified, systems to be mastered. Standing before the body, I dreaded the day we would come face-to-face with our donor and dissect his facial structures. Yet when that day arrived, the emotions I anticipated were absent. Without my noticing, a transition had occurred: this encounter with death was no longer about loss, but about participation in an educational ritual. Though this shift felt necessary and even expected, it left behind a quiet unease. In learning to see the body clearly, I wondered if I was learning to stop seeing.
Read moreAnatomy lab is a medical school rite of passage. Every year, as summer cools into fall, thousands of naïve, eager First Years across the country meet their very first patient. Facing one’s donor is an emotional moment for many. It can be a carousel of apprehension, fear, gratitude and peace, but there is also an inevitable feeling of loss as the semester progresses and those poignant aches settle into a cooler, business-like approach.
Our donors are our first patient, our teachers—and they can also be our loved ones, our family, our friends, ourselves.
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