双语·当呼吸化为空气 这些病人是自愿免费捐献遗体的

当然，活着的时候，这些病人是自愿免费捐献遗体的——我们面对这些尸体，用词也很快变成这种现实的反映。教授告诉我们，不要再“尸体尸体”地叫，最好说“捐献者”。当然，如今的解剖课堂比过去那些黑暗的年代进步很多了。（首先，现在的学生不用像十九世纪那样，自己带尸体来。医学院也不再支持去挖人家的坟找尸体。不过挖坟的行为本身，相比直接谋杀已经是巨大进步了。后者曾经特别流行，甚至有个词应运而生，“burke”，《牛津英语词典》上的解释是：“用勒颈或使人窒息的方式秘密杀人，或为了将受害者尸体卖为解剖之用而秘密杀人。”）然而，知道个中细节最多的人，也就是医生们，几乎很少捐献自己的遗体。那捐献者们到底又知道多少呢？一位解剖学教授对我说：“如果血淋淋的过程细节会让病人不同意手术，那你一个字都不能说。”
Of course, the cadavers, in life, donated themselves freely to this fate, and the language surrounding the bodies in front of us soon changed to reflect that fact. We were instructed to no longer call them“cadavers”; “donors” was the preferred term. And yes, the transgressive element of dissection had certainly decreased from the bad old days.(Students no longer had to bring their own bodies, for starters, as they did in the nineteenth century. And medical schools had discontinued their support of the practice of robbing graves to procure cadavers—that looting itself a vast improvement over murder, a means once common enough to warrant its own verb: burke, which the OED defines as “to kill secretly by suffocation or strangulation, or for the purpose of selling the victim’s body for dissection.”) Yet the bestinformed people—doctors—almost never donated their bodies. How informed were the donors, then? As one anatomy professor put it to me, “You wouldn’t tell a patient the gory details of a surgery if that would make them not consent.”

不过这只是一个解剖学教授说的话，捐献者们知道的信息应该还是足够多的。不过就算他们知道了，真正感到屈辱的，不是这些最终被解剖的人，而是他们的亲属。你想想，你的母亲、你的父亲、你的祖父母，被一群插科打诨的二十二岁医学生给大卸八块。每次我读实验前的计划，看到“骨锯”这一类的词汇，都会想，这堂课上我是不是最终会吐出来。然而，真正走进实验室，我却很少烦恼，就算发现此前令我坐立不安的“骨锯”不过就是一把生锈的普通木头锯子。有一次我真的快吐了，但离实验室很远，是祖母去世二十周年，我去纽约给她扫墓时的事。当时我情不自禁地弯下腰，几乎要哭了，不停地道歉，不是对我曾经解剖过的尸体，而是对那具尸体的孙辈。事实上，就在我们实验的过程中，有位儿子就希望把他母亲解剖到一半的尸体要回去。是的，母亲是签了同意书的，但儿子接受不了。我觉得我也和他一样。（尸体最后还给他了。）
Even if donors were informed enough—and they might well have been, notwithstanding one anatomy professor’s hedging—it wasn’t so much the thought of being dissected that galled. It was the thought of your mother, your father, your grandparents being hacked to pieces by wisecracking twenty-two-year-old medical students. Every time I read the pre-lab and saw a term like “bone saw,” I wondered if this would be the session in which I finally vomited. Yet I was rarely troubled in lab, even when I found that the “bone saw” in question was nothing more than a common, rusty wood saw. The closest I ever came to vomiting was nowhere near the lab but on a visit to my grandmother’s grave in New York, on the twentieth anniversary of her death. I found myself doubled over, almost crying, and apologizing—not to my cadaver but to my cadaver’s grandchildren. In the midst of our lab, in fact, a son requested his mother’s half-dissected body back. Yes, she had consented, but he couldn’t live with that. I knew I’d do the same. (The remains were returned.)

解剖实验中，死者被具体化，真正被分解成器官、组织、神经、肌肉。第一天，你的确无法否认尸体身上的人性。然而，等到你给他们的手脚剥了皮，割开碍事的肌肉，拿出肺脏，剖开心脏，摘除一片肺叶，你很难再说这一堆东西是“人”了。最终，你会觉得，与其说解剖实验是对神明的冒犯，倒不如说这是欢乐时光中一件不那么愉快的事情。这种意识令人产生挫败感。很偶尔地，我们可能会反思，大家都在默默地向尸体道歉，并非出于罪恶感，而是出于我们没有罪恶感。
In anatomy lab, we objectified the dead, literally reducing them to organs, tissues, nerves, muscles. On that first day, you simply could not deny the humanity of the corpse. But by the time you’d skinned the limbs, sliced through inconvenient muscles, pulled out the lungs, cut open the heart, and removed a lobe of the liver, it was hard to recognize this pile of tissue as human. Anatomy lab, in the end, becomes less a violation of the sacred and more something that interferes with happy hour, and that realization discomfits. In our rare reflective moments, we were all silently apologizing to our cadavers, not because we sensed the transgression but because we did not.