Gross Anatomy--First Day
There were three other people besides me in my gross anatomy group, called my "tankmates". Chris, the son of two anesthesiologists, was there to become an anesthesiologist too. He was dark and wiry, about 5'9", with curly black hair and flashy eyes. He made it loud and clear that he was in it for the money and didn't see why he should have to cut on a dead body if his goal in life wasn't surgery.
Mark wanted to do medical research and viewed this class as a tedious but necessary step on the path to this goal. He already looked the part of the researcher--we all had to wear scrubs and/or white coats, but he didn't look like a kid posing in a costume. Mostly because he didn't move around much, didn't show much expression, and talked slowly in a deep voice. He was tall and solidly built, with light brown hair and gray eyes.
Bina wanted to be an obstetrician, or maybe a pediatrician. Small and shy, she quietly expressed surprise at Chris' opinions while looking at the floor. She gave the impression of a mouse, with wispy, mouse-colored hair, translucent pale skin, and light blue eyes behind tiny glasses--and she was shorter than the rest of us by at least 6 inches. Even when Bina looked one of us in the face, she had to tip her chin way up.
I wanted to be a medical illustrator, and couldn't wait to get started. Finally, after years of figure study in art classes, I'd get to dissect a corpse like Leonardo or Michaelangelo. I was about the same height and weight as Chris, and just as opinionated. Bina made sure to stand between his voice and my eye-rolling. When he wanted to know my plans, I spouted something about being "better than Netter", a surgeon who had become a medical illustrator later in life. His illustrations were required reading for the course, and nearly everyone had their copy of his Atlas of Human Anatomy with them.
I hadn't been satisfied with the same light blue scrubs that everyone else had stolen from the hospital stock. It was an accepted tradition, and though I'd even gone on a raid and seen the doctors grinning while they looked the other way, I couldn't bring myself to steal. Instead, I'd gone to a medical supply shop and bought two sets of scrubs, one each of black and dark red, that looked good next to my pale skin and dark brown hair. Stupidly, I hadn't realized just how different I would be, that nobody would wear death colors in a hospital. I wore the black scrubs on the first day, and by the end of it they were already too smelly to take back and too expensive to buy more. I decided it didn't matter--I was there to be an artist, not cure the sick. I could put up with the smirks and frowns from passing doctors and staff. The other students were too absorbed in themselves to notice, and the few that did thought it was cool. Or weird, which was fine with me.
We stood by our tank and talked about our goals in life while we waited for everyone to file in and find their assigned metal tank. There were probably around 200 people in the class, with 50 bodies to share between us. We'd already sat through a thirty minute lecture on what to expect and what behavior was expected of us. People milled around and talked loudly, nervously. We were ready to get on with it.
Mark wanted to do medical research and viewed this class as a tedious but necessary step on the path to this goal. He already looked the part of the researcher--we all had to wear scrubs and/or white coats, but he didn't look like a kid posing in a costume. Mostly because he didn't move around much, didn't show much expression, and talked slowly in a deep voice. He was tall and solidly built, with light brown hair and gray eyes.
Bina wanted to be an obstetrician, or maybe a pediatrician. Small and shy, she quietly expressed surprise at Chris' opinions while looking at the floor. She gave the impression of a mouse, with wispy, mouse-colored hair, translucent pale skin, and light blue eyes behind tiny glasses--and she was shorter than the rest of us by at least 6 inches. Even when Bina looked one of us in the face, she had to tip her chin way up.
I wanted to be a medical illustrator, and couldn't wait to get started. Finally, after years of figure study in art classes, I'd get to dissect a corpse like Leonardo or Michaelangelo. I was about the same height and weight as Chris, and just as opinionated. Bina made sure to stand between his voice and my eye-rolling. When he wanted to know my plans, I spouted something about being "better than Netter", a surgeon who had become a medical illustrator later in life. His illustrations were required reading for the course, and nearly everyone had their copy of his Atlas of Human Anatomy with them.
I hadn't been satisfied with the same light blue scrubs that everyone else had stolen from the hospital stock. It was an accepted tradition, and though I'd even gone on a raid and seen the doctors grinning while they looked the other way, I couldn't bring myself to steal. Instead, I'd gone to a medical supply shop and bought two sets of scrubs, one each of black and dark red, that looked good next to my pale skin and dark brown hair. Stupidly, I hadn't realized just how different I would be, that nobody would wear death colors in a hospital. I wore the black scrubs on the first day, and by the end of it they were already too smelly to take back and too expensive to buy more. I decided it didn't matter--I was there to be an artist, not cure the sick. I could put up with the smirks and frowns from passing doctors and staff. The other students were too absorbed in themselves to notice, and the few that did thought it was cool. Or weird, which was fine with me.
We stood by our tank and talked about our goals in life while we waited for everyone to file in and find their assigned metal tank. There were probably around 200 people in the class, with 50 bodies to share between us. We'd already sat through a thirty minute lecture on what to expect and what behavior was expected of us. People milled around and talked loudly, nervously. We were ready to get on with it.