Editor's Note: Chelsey Baldwin of Little River is a first-year medical student. This column follows the journey of her class in becoming doctors.

Behind the doors of the sixth floor human anatomy laboratory in the Basic Science Building, I have experienced sights and conversations that I don't believe I'll ever forget.

I've held every organ of the human body. I've witnessed the aftereffects of aneurysms and muscle wasting. I've also followed major nerves and vessels as they course through obscure foramens and canals, and have seen abnormalities of structures caused by disease processes. There is a plethora of material to learn in the human dissection laboratory, both medical and social. Spending several hours in lab each week, I have designated time for social interaction.

Throughout the course of our time spent together, I've come to learn that the clearing of fat is best accompanied by gossip. Long dissections double as much needed social time and "that's what she said" jokes never get old. Yet beyond the social pleasantries of lab, I have grown accustomed to the patterns of the human body through debates of nerve and vessel pathways and memory tricks (the more vulgar, the more memorable), and most importantly through the exploration of our cadavers.

I remember hoping that my cadaver would be a male. My reasoning—it would be less personal. Despite the fact that I got my wish, there is nothing about human dissection that isn't personal. Attempting to detach oneself from the reality that the specimen was a human being is a defense mechanism that is only temporarily necessary. However, acknowledging that my cadaver used to be a person and possessed all the details of life that make us human added depth to the experience.

And as a person, he needed a name. We began calling our cadaver Ebenezer, Ebby for short, for he was an elderly man with a hunched back, and we found the name fitting. Having examined his wasting muscles and various structural abnormalities, I constructed segmented pieces of his life, rarely taking the time to acknowledge that these beliefs about his personality and life story were of my own doing. Throughout the year I had grown attached to this body not only because of the minor bits of personality that I had concocted, but also because his body had provided the most unique learning experience that I had ever had.

I often translated the beauty of the structures into a masterpiece that was a product of my group's dedicated hours of work and Ebenezer's own desire to give us something great. And that he did. The donation of his body is truly the most generous gift that I have ever been given. It's a gift of such importance that seems to require a follow-up or repayment.

Yet how could I repay this debt? The answer fell quite uncomfortably in my lap in the latest installment of medical history given in a lecture in the Waring Historical Library. One of my favorite lecturers, Dr. Stephen Schabel, was discussing the staples of medical education—one of which he believed to be cadaveric dissection. Dr. Schabel viewed dissection as a crucial part of our education as physicians, however upon accepting such an educational opportunity, it is now a debt that we all must repay. Since we know nothing of our cadaver's life or family, this debt cannot even be paid back to them indirectly.

Instead, Dr. Schabel led us to his conclusion, that it's our bodies that we owe to future physicians. We must complete the cycle: from the scalpel to the table—the thought of which is often hard to embrace. I feel like it should be easier to commit my body to the dissection lab after experiencing the educational benefits of human dissection. I believe that Dr. Schabel's reasoning makes sense, and it is my opportunity to give future physicians an opportunity to learn the intricacies of the human body just as Ebenezer did for me. However, ironically enough when speaking of death, the fear of the known can be a quite terrifying place as well.

The MUSC Choir performs March 28 at a remembrance service held at St. Luke's Chapel to honor donors to the Anatomical Gift Program. Students shared music and their reflections to honor the donors and their families for their part in the advancement of medical science.

I hope that my hesitancy is a product of my age, and therefore my inability commit to a postmortem plan may be forgiven. For now through, I thank Ebenezer as best I know how: Our group's dissections are always done with care and tend to be a product we take much pride in. I feel like getting the most out of each dissection is a way to acknowledge and show appreciation for the magnitude of the gift we have received. I also plan to be an advocate for maintaining cadaveric dissection in medical curriculum. With rumors of change towards a computerized experience, I feel that this is a movement I must oppose. While it is true that digital specimens can augment anatomical learning, I don't wish to discount Ebenezer's gift in such a way as to insinuate that a computer screen can come close to replacing the experience his body afforded me. Human dissection is a part of a long tradition of those concerned with the healing of the human body and one in which I feel strongly about maintaining for future generations of doctors.

I attended the Anatomical Gift Program's memorial service and there among the poems and swirling notes of my musically-gifted peers, I thanked Ebenezer. I remembered all the beliefs that I had about him and then resolved that the only thing that I can be sure of was that Ebenezer was a generous man who had the courage to see past the immediate unpleasantries of dissection to the beauty of the knowledge which he has bestowed upon me.
For that I will always be thankful.