“Maybe she has gone to Heaven,” Gregory said. “She has gone to Heaven,” he repeated. I think he was trying to convince himself and not us because that was the only way it made sense. It was the more reassuring thought so I replied him with “Yes.” We were seated in the back seat of the three-tyred keke maruwa with the driver in front of us. He peeked at us during the conversation and I’m pretty sure he thought we were mourning someone who was close to us. It was a Thursday afternoon, we had just finished classes for the day and the conversation happened in front of Heritage Park. It was an unusually busy day in the University of Ibadan as the convocation ceremonies were happening. That’s where we hoped to be one day, wearing that gown and the square cap with tassels, watching our parents smile proudly as they serve jollof rice to their friends who had come to celebrate with us. That’s why we were locked in the cadaver room to cut skin and identify muscles, nerves and vessels. So that six years later, they’ll call our mom “mama doctor”. That’s how we met the woman who had to have gone to heaven.
She was on table 9. There are 12 tables in total, one cadavers per table so 12 cadavers. As medical students, we have practicals for all our preclinical courses. The practical for Gross Anatomy is the one with the cadaver. We ought to have started the dissection much earlier but it was delayed because we had to take our anti-tetanus shots. I remember now that Sharon asked on the group if we would be injected. I remember that Jason, another classmate, shouted as soon as the needle was introduced to his arm, or more specifically (name of vein that is there). A week after we got our tetanus shots, we got our arrangements and we were ready to start dissecting.
We were all excited. I doubt if anyone wasn’t scared but excitement covered the fear. I walked in before most people entered and I was greeted with 12 dead bodies. I had to run out because it was too much for me. The stench, the faces, everything. I was assigned to the left part of the body, table 8. I was greeted with the almost-scaly skin of the cadaver laid in anatomical position, sunken hollows in place of his eyes that probably used to hold his story, an unmoving face that still bears an expression that only I could see. His body was cold to the touch and when I reached for his palm, I half expected him to hold me. The smell is a mixture of formalin with rotten meat. It was hot in there. I looked away from the cadaver in a bid to feel human connection and be returned back to my world. My classmates were wearing nose masks, single or doubled and hand gloves.
Some were far away from their table but some had already started opening the dissection tools bag. I didn’t know how to feel but I walked around, away from table 8. I walked to table 9, the one right beside me and she had rosaries wrapped tightly around her wrist. Another table, the man still had his wedding ring on, on another the woman still had her tattoos on. They were all nameless but they weren’t faceless. They all seemed like they had a story to tell. My eyes were itchy from some chemical that was used to preserve the bodies, my nose was almost choking but breathing got easier the more time I spent in there. I was overcome with a sadness that I myself can not describe. The room was hot with close to 80 students oozing out body heat at various degrees, I was sweating despite the fan. In spite of the heat, there was a coldness in the air.
Dr A reminded us that we were to be respectful to the bodies. She then showed us how to cut through the skin. Soon after that, we were left to our own devices, with the Cunningham’s manual as our guide. And the Netters atlas of anatomy as our walking stick. We were to start with the lower limb and we did. I took the surgical blade and I cut through this skin with no remorse or irritation at the stench. We cut through the superficial fascia and then the deep fascia and we saw.
I would come back to the same room on Friday and I would watch my classmates clap excitedly whenever they saw a structure in the textbook intricately represented in the cadaver. I would watch as they all took turns cutting. I would watch as they got comfortable with the stench and the sight. I would watch as our excitement reduce and dissection becomes a chore. I would watch my classmates morph into someone new. I would visit table 9 to check the lady with rosaries around her wrist. I would notice that both lower limbs were cut through to the bone by curious medical students.
I returned to my room on Thursday after the dissection and after the conversation with Jason. I hurriedly pulled off my clothes and changed into a towel before showering. I lathered myself in soap and tried to scrub the stench and the memory off my skin. I narrated the experience to my roommates and they listened excitedly. I can’t sit with myself without my mind wandering to my body. Not the one that’s actually mine but the one I’ve started calling mine because I would be dissecting it for the next 9 months. Occasionally, I would ask myself if I would give my body to science when I died. Death has started crossing my mind more often. I wonder if that’s what medicine is going to take from me in exchange of the Dr title. I wonder if it’s going to take other things too. I wonder if my classmates or initiates also see death more often now. I think about the lady on table 9 with rosaries wrapped around her wrist and I pray that she is in Heaven.
