Momento Mori

[piasharn]

Friday last was a landmark of sorts. I finally got to go down to the morgue.

See, for eight weeks of this semester, I have to rotate from my usual hospital to a different one. Lucky me, my rotation is at the same hospital which houses the county morgue. Occasionally, a tech has to go down there to x-ray a cadaver for various reasons. I've been trying to get down there for weeks. I'm morbid like that.

My reaction was different than I thought, but not because I was nauseated or faint.

The cadaver was of an old man who was in a car accident. The fuel tank had caught fire, and the body was very badly burnt. The smell was not nearly as bad as I expected, and, for those who are curious, it was reminiscent of charred chicken barbeque. (An advantage of being a vegetarian is that I won't associate my dinner with this experience.)

The cadaver did not elicit the disturbed feelings that one would assume. Perhaps this is because it was so badly burnt that it almost didn't seem real. It was a human-shaped lump of charcoal, flesh flaking blackly onto the sheet and body bag that enclosed it. Skin burnt completely away to expose the lines of the muscles underneath. In some places, such as the top of the head and the lower left leg, all that remained was blackened bone. The forearms were mangled: twisted and nearly snapped in half.

When the morgue techs rolled it up so that we could slide a cassette under it, viscous liquid dribbled out of what had been its ear.

I kept looking at its face. (Or what had been its face.) A moment later, I would find myself looking at the other (living) people in the room as a comparison of sorts. Less than 24 hours ago, the charred remains on the table had been alive. Breathing. Moving. Thinking.

At one point, I found myself next to a small table on which lay a set of glass jars filled with something. (It looked almost like body parts, but, in hindsight, I don't think that was accurate as they hadn't begun the autopsy yet.) Also laid out was the man's wallet (which sustained little damage) and its contents. Several bills. Some discount cards. A driver's liscence.

It was the latter that drew my attention. I looked at the photo with its awkward smile, the shakey signature at the bottom. I couldn't stop wondering what his last moments were like. What did he think as his vehicle went out of control? What went through his head in those last moments? Did the crash kill him, or was it the fire? (For his sake, I hope it was the former. Being burned alive does not sound like a pleasant way to go.)

How quickly events can unfold. You're going along as usual when, BAM, you lose control of your vehicle and end up contorted piece of charcoal on a stainless steel tabletop in the local morgue.

We had to take several images. Chest, abdomen, upper and lower legs, front and side views of the skull. Then we headed back upstairs to process and print them. By the time we got back downstairs to bring the x-rays to the morgue techs, they had already started the autopsy. They were lifting out his liver as we came through the door, sleek and dark and glistening, with the blood still vivid crimson against the blue of their gloves.

I found myself a bit uneasy. Not because of the blood and gore. Not because I was in close proximity to a dead body. I'm not sure what exactly it is, but it has something to do with wondering about this man alive and only seeing him dead. I don't know how much sense that makes, but I can't find the words to describe it better.

Unsurprisingly, I've been thinking a lot about death since then. About the suddenness of it all. About the existence of a soul, an afterlife, of something beyond this, something more.

I envy religious people sometimes. Specifically, I envy the certainty that they have concerning what happens to us after we die. The peace of mind that accompanies it. I don't have that faith, and I doubt I ever will.

Comments

A familiar feeling...

[saltysea.livejournal.com]

I had the priviledge of touring a large autopsy lab in a major naturopathic college as a spectator and photographer a few years back, and the images and impressions I came away with have (melodramatically) haunted me ever since. What I came away with was less than horror of seeing bodies disassembled in all manners, and fatal illenesses of many kinds, but that a person was laying there, their memories and history stored in their bodies open like a book to read. I am no doctor, aspiring or otherwise, and I perceive that the process of educating doctors removes them somewhat from grasping the depth of death and life, the apparent randomness at times of our own mortality.

In a way, over time, it's become comforting, and I look at the faces of the people I photographed with deeper appreciation.