“Going from lateral to medial, we have iliocostalis, longissimus, and spinalis,” Dr. Conlon says. “The mnemonic is ‘I Love Sex.’ Or if you’d prefer, ‘I Love School,’ depending on which you like better, school or sex.” He winks at us.
Okay, Dr. Conlon isn’t so bad. He’s kind of cool. Even though he wears bowties.
As he limps away, Rachel leans toward me and murmurs in my ear, “God, what a sexist pig. Who does he think he is?”
“Our anatomy professor?”
“It’s like they forget there are women in this class too,” Rachel continues to rant. “It’s not as if women make up… oh, I don’t know, half of all students entering medical school…”
I try to block out the sound of her voice as Mason’s steady hand draws the blade of the scalpel down the length of the cadaver’s back. There’s a layer of thick yellow fat beneath the skin, and I brace myself for that queasy sensation, but to my surprise, it doesn’t come.
I look up, and Abe is raising his eyebrows at me. I give him a thumbs-up sign.
Wow, I might actually get through this in one piece.
5
News flash:Medical school is really hard work.
I knew it would be. Obviously. But it’s really,reallyhard. Harder than premed biology. Harder than organic chemistry, and I only pulled a B in that through the skin of my teeth (and a lot of help from Landon).
The weeks pass rapidly, but the days are slow. And the labs are endless. We have anatomy labs three times a week, and each session feels like I’m stuffing an encyclopedia’s worth of information into my brain.
“If I have to memorize one more nerve or artery today, my head will explode,” I say to Abe at least once per lab. It’s become my catchphrase.
My brain just isn’t that big. But Mason’s is, apparently, because he knows everything before the lab even begins.
Dr. Conlon gives weekly quizzes for anatomy class so that students can assess our progress before the first big exam. They’re not going super well. I failed the first two and was pathetically happy when I eked out a passing grade on the third.
Well, not a pass exactly. It was alowpass. To make us feel less competitive, instead of A, B, C, and D, we have honors, highpass, pass, and low pass. But they’re obviously theexact same thing. Essentially, I got a D on the last exam, which is nothing to be proud of.
Why am I doing so badly? I’m studying nonstop. Literally. I take the lab manualto the toiletwith me. But somehow, it’s the wrong material. Or else I’m studying the right material, but it all flies out of my head seconds before the quiz.
The anatomy labs themselves don’t make me feel any more confident. Dr. Conlon is always sneaking up behind me to ask a question I can’t answer.
“Dr. McKinley,” he says to me one day. “What is that?”
I used to sort of like it when he called me “Doctor,” but with each poor quiz grade, I like it less.
I follow the path of his gloved finger, pointing deep into the cadaver’s abdominal cavity. I have absolutely no idea what he’s pointing to.
“The celiac artery?” I guess.
Dr. Conlon’s blue eyes widen.
“The main pancreatic duct,” I quickly correct myself.
His black eyebrows rise in horror.
I take one more stab in the dark: “The… gastroepiploic… vein?”
The usually patient Dr. Conlon, so befuddled by my answers, just stumbles away, shaking his head. Apparently, I’m unteachable.
“Whatisit?” I whisper to Sasha, who is standing across from me.
Mason would have known and likely shouted out the answer, but he’s at some other cadaver right now. He follows around his favorite teaching assistants in order to soak up as much information as he can. He only graces us with his presence for about half the lab, although he still manages to do most of the work.
Sasha looks down at where I’m pointing.
