My First Patient

As I put on my first set of scrubs before entering the anatomy labs for my first dissection, I realized that I have never really examined my own body very closely.

However, this realization does not mean that I've never tried. The scars on my body are a road map to all of the ways that I have tried to figure out what lies beneath my skin. For example, I have a scar on my tongue from stapling it and messily extracting the staple on my own when I was six years old. My mom had just had surgery and I couldn't understand why she had staples across her belly. Weeks later, after I was told that doctors use instruments that look a little like kitchen knives to open and fix the body, I sliced my finger with the pizza cutter. Burning my cheek with my mom's curling iron not too long after the pizza cutter incident was the last straw. My parents very wisely remembered to add "don't try this" to any of their stories that could be interpreted as a new way to "test" something on myself. What I must have innately understood is that there is no better way to learn than to learn by doing.

With this dangerous streak of curiosity in me, I was surprised to find myself, 17 years later, walking with trepidation down the corridor towards the anatomy labs. The ultimate chance to learn was finally here. But, my steps had lost their usual spring (not just because my scrubs were too big) and rather than looking straight ahead, the scuff marks on the ground began to "fascinate" me. I couldn't contain myself when I thought about finally peeling away the skin to see how all of the different parts of our body worked together. Anatomy has a tangible tie to the practice of medicine, much more than sitting in a lecture hall learning about protein structure. So, what was I waiting for?

It wasn't the smell, the fear of cutting, becoming intimate with death, or even the overwhelming amount of material that was soon expected to become second nature to us. I was afraid of this gift: a complete stranger and her family have given me the opportunity to examine a body and know it far better than my own. The cadaver I was to spend the next few months with was not just going to be my teacher, but also my first patient. However, unlike my future patients, I will never know anything about her life except for what I can infer from her road map of scars. Her stories will remain a mystery. She has allowed me to crack open her spine, poke through her muscles, dig deep to find bundles of nerves--all things that she herself will never have the privilege of doing. Yet, her laugh, her voice, and the sparkle in her eyes are not even things that I can imagine and ascribe to her.

Perhaps it is this asymmetry of information that makes our relationship unique.While these missing pieces make it easier to objectively and academically canvass her body and focus on the science of the human body, I find myself inserting a piece of me into every gap of knowledge. For every incision I make and for every intricacy I am able to uncover, I am mentally making the same incision and discovery in myself. Her spinous processes are now also my spinous processes. Even though I have the exhilarating chance to remove each piece and uncover the delicate spinal cord, I must respect and care for each piece as if it were my own. I do my best to be attentive just in case I'm lucky enough to illuminate a precious pearl about her life.

After understanding and appreciating this special relationship with my first patient, I walk into anatomy lab with a sense of humbleness to accompany my geeky excitement. In anatomy, we are learning by doing. We are learning and practicing how to listen and learn from our patients by doing just that.

There really is no better way to learn.