我的身后之事

I was in seventh grade in 1993 when 2）Marie C Wilson and 3）Gloria Steinem launched the 4）Ms Foundation’s 5）Take Our Daughters to Work Day， intending to show us young women that a big， wide world existed beyond our gender and our bodies. For me， it did just that， although it also seeded a lifetime obsession with bodies in a different sense. For while many of my classmates were sitting with a parent in a tidy office， I spent that 6）inaugural daughter-at-work day in an 7）autopsy room watching my father， a 8）pathologist and a former county 9）coroner， dissect a dead man.

For me， the memory is clear. I remember that the farmer was the first dead body I’d seen. I remember standing at the edge of a cold room in oversized 10）scrubs rolled up at the ankles and watching my dad， similarly dressed， struggle with the legs of the man’s overalls. I remember thinking that dead bodies don’t bend. I can see the farmer’s generous 11）potbelly smiling at the ceiling after my dad finally stripped the clothes from him and laid him out， fully naked， on a metal 12）gurney. I remember watching my dad as he wheeled the gurney to the centre of the room and transferred the man to an autopsy table. I can hear my dad dictating each step to a tape recorder in a business-like tone and， although I can’t make out the words， I remember that they seemed to be in a foreign language. I especially remember watching my dad 13）cleave through the outer edges of the man’s ribs with an electric 14）Stryker saw and then lift off his chest like the lid of a box. I also remember thinking： is that really my dad？

At the end of the autopsy， Dad rooted around the farmer’s still heart. Then he presented me with two 15）grisly lumps in his gloved hands while earnestly explaining the difference between them. One was a tiny pre-mortem blood clot and the other a larger， post-mortem blood clot. If Dad found more of these pre-mortem clots and if the microscope confirmed what they were， we’d know that the farmer had died of a heart attack.

I don’t remember feeling scared or uncomfortable， but rather 16）in awe at the scene in front of me. At the work my dad did. At the things that can happen to your body once you’re gone. And for the first time， it hit me that， after I die， part of me will remain.

Some of my strongest childhood memories involve gathering around the dinner table with my family and listening to stories of death. Of course this sounds 17）morbid， but we were just doing what many families do over a shared meal， which is to talk about the kind of day each of us had. And for my dad， the day usually involved the dying or the dead.

Twenty years after my Take Our Daughters to Work Day experience， although I am still young and in good health， I’ve been reliving that autopsy scene as I contemplate what will happen to my body when I die. What path might my body take once whatever makes me“Me” is gone？ What I’m talking about is what will happen to my shell， my physical remains， when I die. The thought of being immediately sealed in an expensive box or cremated does not appeal. I understand that such 18）longstanding cultural traditions 19）console the people who remain behind， but to me it seems that my body would be wasted in either case. Before it reaches its final resting place， I want my body to be useful.

To do this， I need to think of a way for my death to make life better for the living. One option is to donate usable organs to someone who needs them： 20）corneas for the blind， skin 21）grafts for the badly burned， or a variety of other organs， from the heart to the kidneys to the lungs， for the diseased. I’ve already been an organ donor for as long as I can remember； it’s printed on my driver’s licence under a red cartoon heart. But lately， when I’ve thought about dying， I’ve wondered if， for me， this is the most meaningful donation. Coincidentally， my driver’s licence is due for renewal at the end of this year.

It’s a heavy decision， to choose where you’ll go when you die， and a deeply personal one. Many people don’t want to bother， and some don’t even get a say. For me， I choose an active role， and I’m lucky to have that opportunity. I haven’t made a final decision yet， but a medical school body donation application form is saved on my computer desktop. Maybe， by December 31 of this year — the day my driver’s licence expires， as well as my birthday — I will fill out this application and drop it in the mail.

當(dāng)瑪麗·C·威爾遜和格洛里亞·斯泰納姆發(fā)起婦女基金會(huì)的“帶女兒上班日”運(yùn)動(dòng)時(shí)，那是1993年，我正讀七年級(jí)，該運(yùn)動(dòng)旨在向我們這些年輕女性展示在我們的性別與軀體之外，存在著一個(gè)巨大、廣闊的世界。對(duì)我來說，這個(gè)運(yùn)動(dòng)確實(shí)發(fā)揮了這樣的功用，但換個(gè)角度看，我這一生對(duì)于人體的癡迷也始于這一運(yùn)動(dòng)。我的很多同學(xué)都是跟著父親或母親坐在整潔的辦公室里，而我卻以看著父親在一間解剖室里解剖死人開始了“帶女兒上班日”，他是一個(gè)病理學(xué)家，也當(dāng)過郡政府驗(yàn)尸官。

對(duì)我來說，這段記憶很清晰。我記得那個(gè)農(nóng)民是我見過的第一具死尸。我記得自己穿著超大的手術(shù)服站在一個(gè)冰冷房間的邊邊上，超大的手術(shù)服卷至腳踝，我看著父親，穿著和我同樣的衣服，擺弄著那個(gè)男人工裝褲的褲腿。我記得自己當(dāng)時(shí)在想怎么那具尸體硬邦邦的。當(dāng)我的父親最終將他的衣服扒光，使其全身赤裸躺在金屬輪床上，我能看到那個(gè)農(nóng)民的大肚皮對(duì)著天花板微笑。我記得自己看著父親把輪床推到房間中央，把那個(gè)男人移到了一個(gè)解剖臺(tái)上。我能聽到父親以一副專業(yè)口吻口述出的每一個(gè)步驟，并用磁帶錄音機(jī)錄下，雖然我理解不了那些詞句，但我記得那就像是一門外語。我尤其記得的是看到父親用史賽克電鋸鋸開了那具男尸肋骨的外緣，而后像打開盒蓋一樣將其胸腔打開。我還記得自己當(dāng)時(shí)在想：那真的是我父親嗎？

尸檢結(jié)束后，父親翻看著那個(gè)農(nóng)民停止跳動(dòng)的心臟。……