Human dissections in the anatomy lab are a feared component of medical school. It’s an intellectual challenge—the idea of cutting open another human being is jarring to the core—as well as an academic one—becoming versed in the minutiae of muscle, tendon, and bone is not an easy task. The medical student is naive as they enter; I was unsure of what to expect, what my human donor’s body would look like, and my reactions to it all. Yet, after 3 months of labor, the medical student leaves with a better understanding of himself and an appreciation of the fallibility and resilience of the human body. Anatomy lab is a rite of passage in the pursuit of medicine, and I was empowered to know I had undertaken this experience and lived to see the other side. I felt stronger.

Nothing prepared me for the first uncovering of the human donors. I stood, with a scapel in one hand and the dissection manual in the other, above the gleaming metal coffin. As my team uncovered the plastic tarp surrounding her, I took in this human. Grey, wrinkly, and thoroughly smelling of formalin, her body felt more like a moldy wax sculpture than a breathing human she once was. Truthfully, it was better this way. It helped the mind draw a distinction between what was living and what was dead. It helped compartmentalize the egregious things we would do to her body for the sake of learning.

We didn’t leave any body part untouched as we dissected her away, bit by bit of fat, skin, and fascia. Starting with the chest, we peeled away the ribs to uncover her heart. I could place the heart in the palm of my hand. It was small and strong for this lady of 70 years. I felt powerful, even more so when cutting further to view the coronary vessels and tracing them back to their origin. We then moved to the inguinal region and the femoral vessels, watching as they curved back to innervate the lower extremities. The most gruesome dissections were saved for last. We dissected the head and the hands with care. These were the most undeniably human parts of the body, making it the most jarring to take apart. Understandably, some students passed the blade to a peer for these sessions, while others (future surgeons) took over.

The lab was open all day and night. Teams of students would be huddled over bodies, engrossed in the tasks at hand. In the back, students would peer into the pools of formaldehyde, plunging in a gloved hand to remove human prosections, usually hands and feet. Others would be working with the human anatomy professors, straining their ears to catch every word for fear they would miss out on an exam hint. These professors had been around as long as some of the sample bones in the lab, that is to say, as old and wise as the bodies we were dissecting. They were characters. One professor couldn’t smell the formaldehyde from years of work, we saw another inadvertently ingest human remains, and the last would host an anatomically correct puppet shows for learning purposes. The “Miss Uterus Show” was a fan favorite among the students; I left not only knowing female reproductive anatomy, but with a chocolate rose and sparkly tiara.

As someone who won’t pursue surgery, I still feel anatomy dissection was one of the most valuable and unique experiences I’ve ever had. Understanding the human body (my body) to the level of detail required was a worthwhile challenge and a fundamental part of my training as a physician. It brought me to eye level, literally, with my patient. It renewed in me a sense of humility and gratitude—for the donor’s final gift to my education, for my peers who shared in this experience, and for the vast knowledge made possible by standing on the shoulders of giants.