The Cadaver's Journal

THE CADAVER’S

JOURNAL

EMMA CARLSSON

Copyright © 2015 Emma Carlsson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-3326-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3327-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3328-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907825

Balboa Press rev. date: 6/19/2015

Contents

The Journal

My History

My Mother

My Father

My Veins

My Voice

My Heart

My Skin

My Hands

My Kidneys

My Neck

My Female Organs- The Good, The Bad, The Ugly, The Redeemed

My Stomach

The Sense of Sight

The Sense of Hearing

The Sense of Smell

The Sense of Touch

The Sense of Taste

My Sixth Sense – My Dreams

My Feet

Goodbye

Epilogue

The Cadaver’s Journal is a deeply-moving account of one incredible woman’s life and the passion and commitment she found to give it meaning and a mission. I saw myself in the pages of this book and realized, when one’s eyes are open, they can perceive a gift in every person and circumstance they encounter – only to realize that we’re all here to make the world a better place. Praise to Emma Carlsson for finding the courage and strength to tell a story that will shift the course of countless lives and expand our awareness of the ills of a socially-endorsed substance. I was deeply touched and awakened by each chapter.

Christopher Jackson,

Senior Minister at Unity On The Bay,

Miami, Florida

Dedicated in gratitude to Dr. Amy Boyers whose brilliant light guided a child safely home….

Special thanks to my family for all of their patience in this endeavor, to my writing coach, Joyce Sweeney who believed in the importance of telling my story, and to Professor W.P. Kinsella who inspired my creativity.

Elsie M. Clarke. It was my name I was seeing on the folder that was passed out the first day of anatomy class. Elsie Mary Clarke to be exact. My name was given to me the day I was born - not the original name chosen by my mother. Elsie Mary was the name of my maternal grandmother who left this earth two hours before I arrived and in one emotional moment, my mother changed my name. Before being rushed into the delivery room, my mother made my father promise that my name would be Elsie Mary.

Not only was I the only daughter, but also the only child of Betty Ann Harmon and Stanly Robert Clarke. They were early high school sweethearts and to this day my father still says that Betty Ann was the most beautiful girl in his class. While she was a stunning young woman, that honor was slightly diminished by the fact that there were only ten girls in the class of eighteen in the graduating class of their small Kansas town.

My parents married when they were both twenty and between his father’s banking money and her father’s farming income, they were helped in purchasing a beautiful bungalow home on a quiet street in town that was shielded from much of the prairie dust. My mother was content to be a homemaker. She was up in the morning, dressed, with make-up and perfectly styled hair to make a bacon and eggs breakfast for my father before sending him off to follow in his father’s footsteps as a banker. On Friday she would add a stack of pancakes or French toast as a treat to end the week. After my father left for work, she would busy herself cleaning the breakfast dishes, making the bed, and would check if she needed to do laundry. After that routine she would tend to her vegetable garden and flowerbeds in the summer and to her quilting, sewing, and craft-making in the fall, spring, and winter. She kept her house immaculate. Friday nights were set aside just for the two of them to have a date in a larger town about thirty-five miles down the road. They would sit beside each other in the car with my father’s left hand steering and his right arm embracing his beautiful Betty Ann. The town had many more choices of restaurants and there were two movie theaters that each had only one movie showing, a bowling alley, a roller rink, and the stores on the town square stayed open until nine pm on Friday, so they could do some shopping. Saturdays, while my mother prepared the dinner and the covered dish they would take to the after-church potluck lunch, my father would mow the lawn or shovel snow, put on or remove window screens, and no matter what season, he would work on his car. Saturday nights found them with friends; sharing meals, playing cards, and often going to a square dance. After church on Sunday and the potluck lunch, they toured the county, visiting parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. It always seemed funny to me that they would do that since our town was so small and we could hardly ever go anywhere without running into at least one person from one side of the family.

That life was fine for my mother, but from a very young age I knew I wanted more. The first time I told my Grandma Clarke at age nine that I wanted to be a doctor, she suggested that maybe I should consider being a nurse, or even better, the wife of a doctor. Even though times had changed elsewhere in the world, my little town in Kansas was a bit caught in a time warp and women didn’t become doctors. By the time I reached fifth grade, my decision was solidified due to a tragedy in our class. One of our classmates, Timmy Judson was diagnosed with cancer. It started with him being tired and his body bruising. He started losing weight rapidly as he could not eat from being so nauseated. And as this was happening, his skin became a grayish color and his lips turned blue. When he could no longer come to school, his mother would come and pick up his assignments. It was never clear to me as if she did this to try and keep his life a bit normal or if she was in denial and believed somehow he was going to get better and she didn’t want him to get behind in his school work. Our class would make him cards and parents took turns making meals for the family. Two weeks before fifth grade ended, Timmy Judson died. All of our class attended his funeral, each wearing our Sunday best, and the high school band played. When a young person dies it seems that there is always more to mourn and therefore, more mourners. It was not seeing his small casket lowered in the ground that bothered me as much as seeing the face of his poor mother. Later that night I overheard my father say on the phone that no one should ever have to bury a child. If there was something I could do to change that, then so would be my destiny.

In junior high it was customary for the girls to write our names as Mrs. and the boy we liked. For a while I would write my name as Mrs. Colby Mills. Colby Mills was by far the cutest boy in all of junior high and for the first time, someone had made my heart flutter. For a few short weeks the idea of becoming a doctor was side lined as I contemplated following the life of my mother and being the one who took care of Colby Mills and his offspring. Our junior high dance was just days away and rumor had it that Colby Mills had yet to invite anyone. Suddenly I noticed I was taking better care of myself. Many mornings I would go through my entire wardrobe just to be sure I had on the perfect outfit in case he would see me. Words could not describe how terrible I felt when Colby Mills invited Darla Olson to the dance. From that day on my name was written, Elsie M. Clarke, M.D. No one, not even a guy as cute as Colby would ever distract me from my dream.

One of the greatest gifts my parents got when they moved into their house was getting Violet Parsons as a neighbor. Mrs. Parsons stepped in from the get go to be like a grandmother to me since mine had died on my birthday. As long as I can remember, I called her Grandma Violet. It was such an appropriate name since her hair was a blue-violet color. The joints of her hands were swollen with age and years of hard work on a farm, and her dentures made a clicking sound when she would speak. She wore black old-lady shoes and hose held up with an elastic garter. Many of my days were spent with her, making homemade chicken and noodles, popping corn in bacon grease, playing the card game Flinch, and her reading me countless Nancy Drew stories from the collection of books I inherited from my mother. Not only did she fill a void for me, but I filled one for her as well. Her only son lived in Chicago with his wife, a son, and a daughter my age. She was lucky if she saw them once a year, and even then, it was for a short time. The summer I was thirteen, my life changed. My body began menstruating and breasts emerged from my chest like corn stalks popping through the Kansas soil. And second, Mrs. Parson’s granddaughter, Courtney came to spend a month with her grandmother. Most of my friends lived out on the farms and if they were not helping with the farm chores, their parents were too busy to bring them to town, so my summers were always more than dull. But not this one!

Even though Courtney had been born and raised in the big town of Chicago she had the home girl qualities of her grandmother and I felt completely secure trusting her. The first thing she did was to change my name. She felt Elsie was just too old of a name for me, so she changed the letters and made it Elise. Her hairstyle and clothing didn’t match the styles of our tiny town and I found copying her style much more appealing. There had never been color on my fingernails, no less toenails and my choice in make-up was rather bland and more to cover up blemishes. It was as if Courtney and I had transformed her grandmother’s modest home into a luxurious spa. We spent every waking moment together and often the sleeping ones, too. The month went by in a flash and what could have been a boring summer for me had been exhilarating. One thing was for sure; I didn’t look like I was in Kansas anymore! Now I had a look that matched my brains and a confidence in myself that I would need to pursue my lifelong desire to become a doctor.

My undergraduate work was done at the University of Kansas and I graduated the top of my class. While a part of me wanted to stay in Kansas for medical school so I could be close to my father, I decided to apply at my top choice school of Harvard. Never in my wildest thoughts did I think I would ever be accepted. While my father seemed pleased when I got my acceptance letter, I knew underneath, it would be hard on him as for sometime now, I had been his only girl. Getting into my packed car to start the journey to my new life was difficult, but once on the open highway I knew I had made the right choice.

So that is the story of how I arrived at anatomy class at Harvard and the reality of seeing my name on the folder! Nothing could have prepared me for what was going to happen in the next few minutes.

Before coming there I had already heard of the reputation of Dr. David Hardin. He would be my anatomy teacher. As he entered the room I had a sense that everything I had heard about him was true. While he was all business and could be quite demanding and difficult, he also had an air about him that let you know he really cared about his students and this class.

Tomorrow you will be receiving your cadavers. Please read over the folder given to you as to the proper care of your cadaver. Each one of these cadavers and their families consented to their bodies being donated to increase your knowledge and I expect these bodies to be treated with respect. Remember, these bodies were once people who were alive. They loved and were loved. You will not be given the cause of death or the death certificate until you complete your work on the cadaver. By the time you finish I hope that you will be able to determine the cause of death. And please keep all of the body parts you might remove so that very little will be missing when we send the bodies for cremation. We do have a rather unusual occurrence that I have never seen. One of our female cadavers has requested her body be given to a female student and she comes with a journal. Now I have read the journal and know her cause of death. There is nothing that would tell you what she died of, so I am satisfied giving the journal to the student who will be working on this woman’s body. He looked over the roster on his clipboard and his eyes fixed on a name. And the lucky recipient of this cadaver is Elsie Clarke.

The Journal

My name is Jane Doe and if you are reading this journal, it is because I am dead. When I reached the age of fifty,