The D.R.
It wasn’t how I’d ever imagined it could be by far.
People lying lifeless under a blanket of death.
People who were kind enough to leave themselves as a bequest.
Ironic that in order to learn how to save lives,
One has to study death by dissection with knives.
A claw like hand reaches from under the sheet.
Their final grasp of life until they finally admit defeat.
Overgrown nails with chipped varnish bring the body to life.
Somebody’s mother, daughter, sister, aunty, niece or wife.
Oversized hearts and discoloured lungs show how a person may have died.
Evidence of past lifestyles and their effect on our insides.
The D.R. is where we train for our future careers.
The Dissecting Room is where we face our greatest fear.
I think that the process of thinking through my feelings on this matter was in itself valuable; as I in fact came to realise both the strength of those feelings, and that I had not been properly addressing them. As such, I found the first stages of exploring my ideas quite emotional. However I then truly enjoyed finding phrases and language to express, and lay down my feelings. I have been able to conclude from this exercise that perhaps my greatest fear is, and should be, to lose that initial emotional reaction, by becoming unaffected by such unusual sights and situations.
The Art piece is very poignant as it truly depicts what you might find in the dissection room; a piece of a person in their permanent sleep. To me it confirms that mine and the poet’s and likely many other medical students’ emotional experiences of the D.R are very similar, trying to objectively learn medicine but questions and emotions are impossible to escape. Who are the people lying on the table? Why did they decide to donate their body? Where are their family now? And the final line of the poem, something I’m sure everyone feels is, fear of our own mortality.