holding a man's aorta

For some reason, I'm standing in an autopsy room.

A man who was alive up until a few days ago, is lying naked on a slab with excrement on his inner thighs and his entire torso cut open. The sight is horrifying and utterly sad.

The only sane way to deal with it is to pretend that he is not real, just a very authentic-looking dummy. So that is what we do. The medical examiner and her assistant dig out the important organs one by one, cut and study them, while doing a running commentary to us two outsiders who have no medical experience whatsoever.

At one point, I get to hold the aorta so I can see for myself how calcified and hard it is. It's absurd. I'm holding a man's aorta in my hands.

It is fascinating. I'm thrilled about the experience. Not to mention relieved to find that I can handle the sights and smells without fainting. What a piece of work is man! What an intricate puzzle of complicated pieces that all function seamlessly together - until they don't. (And even then they can usually be fixed, even heal themselves.)

Even more fascinating is the fact that it is so clear, looking at this poor man, that he himself is long gone. Whatever the soul is, it has left the building.

Afterwards I enjoy the sun on my face. I feel happy to be alive, and away from the smell of decay. And I feel sad. We pretended that the man wasn't real and in a way he wasn't - but he used to be.