Going to the morgue is one of the most nasty parts of my job. I pawn it off on new orientees and escort services when I can. The morgue is not a place like they show in TV shows. Our morgue is this weird, cramped space with stainless steel tables set up with overhead shower sprayers. It has fluorescent lighting, sloped tile floors with a central drain to wash away bodily fluids. Walls are lined with shelves of glass containers that contain various organs, labeled with names of people I have taken care of. There are tables with cutting devices, pliers, hammers, and saws. It is straight out of a Frankenstein movie, and it really freaks me out.
Of course the times that I do go, it is at night when there is no other staff to force into it. I walk down with the escort, pushing the draped and wrapped body. We don shoe covers and go into the dark morgue past all the jars and dissecting equipment, to the body refrigerator. We open it, and look for an open shelf to place the body. The floor has a small pile of various wrapped limbs. Legs and arms wrapped in hospital sheets. The worst part of this experience is transferring the body to our archaic, rickety lift that deposits the body on our chosen shelf. We must slide the body onto this metal tray and use a manual lever to lift the body up to the proper elevation. This lift was designed for a 175 pound person, not the 300 pounders that frequent our establishment. The tray wobbles back and forth, barely making it to the needed height, and yes, it has almost tipped someone out. We reach up with gloved hands and shove the tray in place. Our friend is deposited with the other six for either autopsy or delivery to the funeral home. I wash my hands twice as I leave. I shudder at the thought of going there.
Despite the distaste I have for the morgue, one of my favorite lunch breaks is spent on Fridays at the weekly autopsy review. This is usually the haunt for doctors and eager medical students. Nurses don't much come to these briefings, but I always feel welcome, and some doctor who knows me will pat the stained cloth seat for me to sit next to them. The debriefing that follows consists of a medical history, circumstances during hospital stay, and a run down of the death events. The radiologist pulls up CT's and x-rays, and then the fun begins. The resident step up eagerly and a large metal tray is pulled out of the fridge across the room. The organs of importance are unveiled and I see the patient I took care of in smaller pieces. The forensic doctor, or whatever he is, stands by and talks about the cool findings during the autopsy. He is a pudgy short man wearing a plastic apron and boy, does he love his job. He picks up each organ and carefully plys away at the intricate dissection. he shows blocked arteries, enlarged livers, and even the surprise necrotic brain tumor they never expected. He encourages the residents to put on gloves and feel the rubbery nature of the spleen, inviting them into his magical world. The last time I came however, he stood by without touching, and let the forensic medical students do the displaying. He was instead holding his miniature terrier dog lovingly against his white apron. The dog was well behaved, as this is commonplace apparently, and did not once try to take a nibble.
I don't really know how to end this after that visual, but I will say that I will try to attend next week.
