I needed to review a bit of anatomy to accurately describe and analyze a complex surgical specimen I had received in the lab. I opened the farthest cabinet in my office and pulled out a slim green volume that I had not touched in years, “ANATOMY A Regional Atlas of the Human Body” by Carmine D. Clemente.

And before I could even open the book I was carried away. The lingering odor of formaldehyde hiding the scent of slight decay filled my nostrils. I was immediately back at the University of Illinois Medical School in Chicago, a very young and raw first-year medical student, riding the elevator to another anatomy dissection.

Prior to medical school, I was ignorant and relatively uninterested in the interiors of the human body. Most of what I knew came from playing the game “Operation,” removing funny bones and Adams Apples while trying not to set off the electro-probe buzzer. If I knew my heart was on the left side of my body, it was only because I was used to placing my hand over it while saying the “Pledge of Allegiance.” It was pretty clear I was not headed for life as a surgeon.

But the anatomy lab was a fascinating place. The elevators took the 400 of us in my class to an enormous room with row upon row of elevated rectangular metal boxes. Within each was a human cadaver, semi-embalmed, semi-decaying. As part of a team of four, I was assigned a corpse, and given nine months to learn what had made her tick.

My squad had a mixed background: Nina, a short-bubbly brunette from the East Coast, Dwight, a downstater from Effingham, Tom from the outer ring of Chicago suburbs, and myself. We showed up for each session in our lab coats and reusable rubber gloves — only the lucky few in our class had access to disposables. In our pockets were small dissection kits in black plastic wallets; scalpels, tiny scissors, a set of forceps. And in my hand, the anatomy atlas, soaking up the odor of the room as I tried to soak up the knowledge.

Our lab section met two times a week. In each session we would focus on a different part of the body: one day dissecting out muscles, tendons, nerves, and arteries from an arm, then a few weeks later analyzing the chambers, valves, and vessels of the heart. Proctors roamed past the metal tanks, answering questions and making morbid comments.

We were expected to learn the position, name, and function of each item we came across. Every few weeks we had a practical exam, each student walking from cadaver to cadaver to identify structures that had been marked by the proctors with a snip of twine. Many times the twine was thicker than the tiny nerve we were asked to identify.

It was a privilege to have had the opportunity to examine, dissect, and come to know those bodies. I do hope I have honored that privilege throughout my career. I’ll always treasure my green anatomy atlas–for the memories and the scent of those earlier days.