A Tribute to “My First Patient”: The Story of My Cadaver

Prior to seeing my cadaver for the first time, everyone kept calling her “your first patient.” Akin to a broken record, I kept thinking to myself, “My first patient?” What is everyone talking about? I have seen life, and I have seen death in many patients; why are faculty calling this “my first patient”? I pondered this notion: What makes a patient versus a donor versus a cadaver? Are they different or all one in the same?

Weeks later, my brown leather shoes clip-clopped on the blue tile floor as I traversed through the anatomy lab to the cold metal table with the white body bag placed so neatly on top. Inside the bag was my cadaver, and the only physical separation between us was a thin piece of Kevlar. 

The nervous energy in the room was tangible, hearts were racing, palms were sweaty, and faces had a pallor tint. This apprehension was being emitted by numerous students. On the contrary, I did not feel anxious, but rather eager. I felt as though I belonged. However, the realization that I was working with a real person was nonexistent in my mind. I kept thinking to myself, I have done CPR, bagged and suctioned patients, provided wound care and connected with patients after failed suicide attempts, so what was the difference here?

It would take some self-reflection to recognize that the difference was monumental.

Each cadaver offers a story like no other. When doctors and patients interact, most of the information is acquired through the symptom story. Yet this is not the case with a donor. A cadaver does not talk, cannot wince in pain or tell you what they think might be occurring. Yet the story that can be gleaned from exploring inside their body is far more powerful than any verbal story. Their story is one of discovery. A discovery of anatomy, and of myself.

Standing in front of my cadaver, I could see visible scars, each representing a battle fought and hopefully won. My mind was racing: Were the operations painful? Had she suffered? Did she have any functional deficits from the surgery? I yearned to know more about these invisible wounds. Each infliction, both visible and invisible, is a sign of bravery and strength that could never be taken away from the donor. I realized that the dichotomy with my questions was unsurpassed. These questions I pondered about my donor are likely the same things she asked her physician. While I hope she got answers to her questions, I know I will never get answers to mine.

The white Kevlar bag was unzipped yet again, and it crinkled beneath our hands. Our eyes were drawn to her face. Her mouth was ajar, with teeth barely visible and her eyes squinting as if to block out the sun rays entering from the large glass window up above. Yet those were familiar things. This time, we were looking at hair that had regrown. Granted it was not much, but it was enough to send a shiver down our spines. It was almost as though our donor was experiencing new life, a rebirth of sorts. It was clear she was trying to teach us something, yet we didn’t know what.

The cold scalpel blade gripped firmly in my hand penetrated her skin. Inside her body, my anatomy group poked and prodded at her intestines, muscles, fat and vessels. Body parts that were once warm with the stream of life were now stiff and hardened, containing only remnants of a life once lived. 

The first semester, I spent much of anatomy simply enjoying dissecting. I loved the discovery. I would have to find things in the donor that she was no longer capable of sharing with me. A hernia here, a blood clot there, more than just her anatomy, but her story, was slowly unfolding before my eyes, as was my appreciation for the blossoming of a new chapter of the book of her life, and mine. Knowing someone as a person or as a patient is multi-faceted; it was possible that my anatomy group knew things about her no one else in the world knew. That thought was scary, but it was also inspiring.

To the person reading, I encourage you to take a walk in my shoes and to wonder, what would a cadaver ultimately teach you? To value the precious gift of human life? To listen to your patients because only they truly know their body? To never stop learning and exploring for as long as you live? For me, my cadaver has given me the realization of all these things. She has shown me the power of living and dying. She has shown me that even after death, there is still a sense of life – one that teaches medical students about anatomy, and about their own humanity.

The semester ended and so did my thinking about anatomy. Christmas came, and I found myself in the warm embrace of family that I had not seen in months. I was showered with questions, basic at first, but soon they progressed to specifics revolving the cadavers: Are they naked? Do they have hair? Do they smell? Where do the bodies come from? How old are they? How did they die? Some questions I was more equipped at answering than others. I certainly expected the questions to come, but what I was not expecting was how much that simple conversation would persist in my brain.

Oddly enough, these questions saddened me, and at first, the reason why was unbeknownst to me. I loved anatomy; it fueled my passion for medicine. I had a deep appreciation for my cadaver, a special, indescribable feeling for her that I have not felt for any living person. So why did talking about her make my stomach churn?

She, along with the other cadavers, had no family to go home to this Christmas. But I did. She sat in a cold room on a metal table trapped in a body bag, unaware of anything around her. But I was home, surrounded by love, laughter and cheer. Her body was present, yet her soul long gone but never forgotten. 

I have seen these cadavers in death, but boy do I wish I had the opportunity to meet them in life. What kind of special person would sacrifice their body and their story to provide students with this ultimate gift?

So why have I chosen to refer to my cadaver as “my first patient” despite previously treating hundreds of living patients? Exploring this cadaver has shown me the intricacies of the human body and the concept of self beyond physical form. She has imparted on me the utmost importance of respecting her and acknowledging her selfless sacrifice. Calling her “my first patient” reminds me of the ephemeral nature of life and the tangible permanence of death. No living human could have taught this to me.

To my cadaver, my donor, and my very first patient: You are a gift, one of the greatest that medical students will receive in their careers. Few opportunities in life provide someone with such a deep connection with another person. This continues to be an unforgettable and irreplaceable experience. Thank you for letting me explore inside your body, to touch and to learn from your suffering, to live my life while you so graciously surrendered yours. May you rest in peace, forever and always.