Three years ago, I stood outside my workplace in Florida talking on the phone to my grandfather, Papa Doc. We talked as if nothing was wrong, reminiscing on his days as a physician and delving ourselves into the new healthcare topics and procedures I was learning at my job. He reminded me how proud he was of me and told me to never give up on my dreams. I told him how much I loved him and missed him, and he reassured me that we would see each other again one day. Papa Doc left us the following day to be with his Lord and Savior.
At the time, it seemed easiest to imagine nothing was different. My husband and I lived states away, and focusing on my normal routine seemed to ease the pain. When we went home for his funeral, I refused to let anyone see my emotional wounds. I wanted to celebrate the man he was and the inspiration that he was to me. Once we returned to Florida, it was easiest to swallow my pain and grief and bury them deep down.
Throughout all of this, I had one comfort. Papa Doc had made the decision to donate his body to the local School of Medicine for the anatomy cadaver lab. We had talked about this openly before, and I knew how much it meant to him to sacrifice his body for the benefit of others. No one else in my family, except my step-grandmother, is medical. It was difficult for some of them to understand why he would decide to donate his body, but he and I were always on the same wavelength.
When I walked into my cadaver anatomy lab the very first day this summer, I looked at the donors and their silver boxes with excitement, but my heart was crying out in sadness. Other classmates were saying how sad it was to see someone who had passed away; I, however, saw every donor as Pop. He had been in that very room three years before. On one of those very same tables. In one of those big silver boxes. The thought of him laying there was not the part that hurt. It was the thought that this was the last place he was before his cremation. I was able to have one final connection with him in that room. It was a happy kind of sad. Something only he and I would share.
As I began working with my donor, I had him in my heart encouraging me. “Don’t be timid. She wants you to learn.” From then on, I submerged myself in anatomy. It was my favorite class. The coarse cutting but also the fine-motor work invigorated me. And through it all, Pop continued as my motivation to be the best PA I could be.
Up until I started classes, I had yet to really grieve Papa Doc’s death. I had lived in Florida for almost 2 years after his death, and once we moved back, my job kept me occupied. I thought of him often, but never dealt with the pain. I was not able to face my step-grandmother for quite some time after his death. I have yet to return to his home or his grave since the funeral. However, anatomy, and my cadavers, had a very special way of helping me work through my grief.
This past week, I was given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Every year, the School of Medicine hosts a memorial service for all of the donors who gave their bodies for anatomy. My mother had attended this service a few years ago when Papa Doc had passed and had told me how meaningful it was for her. While I was unable to attend at that time, the Lord had a special suprise in store for me. My professor approached me a few weeks ago and asked if I would be willing to give some remarks at this year’s Cadaver Memorial Service as the representative for my PA class. I almost giggled when I realized God’s hand in all of this. I accepted with great joy, and attended the service this past Saturday delivering the following remarks:
“Three years ago, I stood in your shoes, I felt your pain and your grief, but, just as you are, I was also able to find solace in the selfless act of a loved one. My grandfather, who we called Papa Doc, had passed away and fulfilled a life-long goal of donating his body to the School of Medicine. Before his passing, we often spoke of his decision to donate his body to medicine and what it meant to him, as I am sure many of you had similar conversations with your loved ones. Papa Doc, who had been a physician for almost 50 years, saw this as his final act of service for all of his patients. He wanted to help future medical professionals improve their knowledge of medicine in order to better serve their patients. I am confident that many of your loved ones had the same belief and goal, and the IU Physician Assistant students want to express their thanks to them for their selfless act.
Knowing my grandfather provided me with the sense that I knew every one of your loved ones and the kind of people they were. My group decided to call our donor Joy because I could only imagine that her spirit and passion for medicine filled every room. We all formed everlasting connections with our donors, as they were viewed as people – amazing people who were willing to make this selfless sacrifice so that we may learn anatomy, and in turn, be the best Physician Assistants we could be.
To all of the families: thank you. Your sacrifice has not gone unnoticed. You have given up time with your loved one to allow us a better education. Your support of their sacrifice is an amazing testament not only to their character, but also yours. And to Joy, George, Rosie, and all of the other donors: The IU Physician Assistant students are forever indebted to you for the sacrifice that you made for our education. Your selflessness has made an impact on all of our lives, and we hope to carry your memory and legacy into our practice. As John F. Kennedy once said, ‘As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.'”
While preparing my remarks for the ceremony, I realized something so extremely unique about Papa Doc’s selfless act. His decision to give his life so that others may live has a striking resemblance to that of our Savior’s sacrifice. Pop loved the Lord so much that he decided to take on the love and persona of Christ so that others may live to know the Lord. Pop’s sacrifice may save future lives on this earth, just as Christ’s sacrifice has saved all those who accept him from eternal death separated from his love.
I couldn’t help but smile inside when I realized that it was so like Pop to always have a spiritual lesson/application to teach me from whatever he was doing. It was almost as if he and God had hatched this little plan for me before he passed, knowing that I would struggle through the loss. Pop knew how much I loved medicine and understood my passion for healing, but he always knew how to bring me back to heart of medicine – Christ as the ultimate Healer. He is not just the healer of our physical bodies, but the Savior of our lives and the healer of our hearts.
I have been a bad patient. I have been non-compliant. I have allowed my condition to stay static, not addressing it or treating it with the most precious of medicines, Christ’s encompassing love. God had been providing me the medicine all along, but I did not start to accept it in my heart until I met my donor Joy. While all of these recent events have resurfaced my pain, it has allowed me to finally start to properly grieve the loss of my beloved Papa Doc in the presence of Christ’s love. I do not expect this process to be short or painless, but I have an amazing Healer ready and waiting to aid me in my journey.
I miss my Pop, and that probably won’t change. But Christ had a plan laid out for me – the anatomy class, the memorial service – all providing me with the perfect outlet to begin my grief process. It was the perfect way to say goodbye.
Faith, Fashion, & Forceps 