Tara Phillips
Autopsy
The morgue is located in an older part of the building and metal strips fasten pieces of the floor together at the threshold. As I roll the rickety X-ray machine over the bump, the floor changes from fresh glossed waxy white to a neglected dull gray, making it apparent where the new addition meets the old. The stinging sterile scent of floor disinfectants remains, but it’s suddenly mixed with the dank smell of something like dust… something aged, and it’s darker. Or so it seems. Following the signs that lead me to the morgue and subsequently the autopsy rooms, I stop outside the one marked Autopsy Room 2. Please press buzzer and wait for personnel. I press the tiny button and wait.
A woman opens the door and hands me a pair of powder blue disposable shoe covers, a matching surgical hat that looks like a flimsy shower cap, and a pale yellow paper mask to wear over my mouth and nose. I put the items on and the woman hands me a container of alcohol wipes. She tells me to wipe down the x-ray machine.
“Okay,” I say.
I walk in behind her then, pushing the machine in front of me. I wonder what her job title is, but I don’t ask. She whistles a peppy tune as she leads the way, and as we enter Autopsy Room 2, she introduces me to the room as The New X-ray Gal. At once, there’s an unforgettable stench, which I assume is formaldehyde, mixed with the sterile odor of alcohol and something else... something… sour. The sharpness of it, even through the mask, is enough to make my eyes water. There are three or four women standing at various stations with sinks and metal countertops, working with small plastic bags and labels, and wearing hats and masks like the ones I’m wearing. There’s a towering black man with at least a week’s worth of stubble on his face, singing along with a tune on the radio… something from the eighties. The man bobs his head to the music, and stops singing just long enough to greet me. He’s wearing a long white, fluid- resistant gown, and a blue hat and yellow mask like the rest of us, and he stands over a silver examination table, holding a large empty plastic bag. I wonder what his job title is, but once again I don’t ask.
“Hi,” I say through my mask, and I look down at the table. What I see, I’ll never forget. On the table is a young girl. I’d guess she’s about nine or ten years old, but I’d be wrong. The girl lies still on the cold sterling table, naked… pallid skin, limbs stiffened. Her hair is matted and brittle. Her mouth is slightly opened, and her eyes closed. A thin blue paper sheet lies considerately over her pelvis. I think about how uncomfortable she would be if she were aware… if she could feel the chill of the table beneath her, the hardness of it… if she could smell the rankness of the air in the room… if she were aware that she is naked in a room, with this man and the others, and me. If she were alive, I wonder, would she cry out for her mother or father and struggle to get off the table and out of the room. I wish she could. People say that in death there is peace, but there’s nothing peaceful about her. She doesn’t belong here. I eject the thoughts, force them away and continue the job I am here to do.
The tall man starts telling me the stats: “African American female, age seven. Found by uncle in her home. No apparent abrasions or other obvious injuries. Respiratory failure, cause unknown…” He speaks of more details, about the date and time she was found, and about the approximate time of death, and that the home she was found in was quite filthy and poor, and that there were indications of neglect. I am asked to do several X-rays as part of an investigative autopsy on the suspicion of child abuse. The X-rays will indicate whether there was unusual trauma to any part of the girl’s body.
The man holds out his hand and asks me to give him the first X-ray cassette. “We’ll be starting with a skull: AP view,” he says. I hand him the proper sized cassette. He slips it into the plastic bag, and places it under the child’s head. I position my x-ray machine over her face and adjust the collimator and exposure factors, stand back, and make the first exposure. He removes the X-ray cassette and hands it back to me. I label it and set it aside. “Next, a skull: Lateral view.” I hand him another cassette. We repeat this process for fourteen or fifteen X-rays, different views of various body parts, from head to toe. The man continues to sing along with the radio between exchanges of the X–ray cassettes.
When I’m finished, the tall man and the women at their stations thank me. I thank them for their help and give the man a nod as I back my machine out into the corridor. One of the women helps me with the door.
“See ya’ next time.” She says, and disappears back into Autopsy Room 2. I wipe down my machine again, wash my hands, and head back toward the Radiology department.
The halls seem particularly quiet. The silence feels appropriate… necessary. I think about the girl. Who is she and how did she end up this way, naked and lifeless on a cold metal table, alone? And if there is a God, how could he have let this happen to her? Neglected or not, she was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s granddaughter… somebody’s playmate at school on a swing set or singing rhymes while jumping rope.
I think about all of it. I wonder how many more times in my career I’ll be expected to test my tolerance of these things… and whether I’ll always pass with such grace. Will this kind of thing harden me over time, into someone cold and unfeeling? Will it have to? Someday, will I sing along to a song on the radio like the man in that room while a seven-year-old child lay helpless on a cold hard table? Will I somehow stop picturing my own family members in the helpless situations that I see strangers struggling through every day? Do I really want to become so detached? I walk down the hall, and I remind myself that it can be quite rewarding, working in health care… and that there’s satisfaction in helping people, and seeing people who are sick become well.
© 2009 Tara Phillips