Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?
Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.
I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.
One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."
Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed.
I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.
After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.
The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.
During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.
This was a far cry from chicken marsala.
This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.
But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.
I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.
But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.
We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.
I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.
I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.
