the ketamine is successfully administered, the mouse tumbles out of your hand, staggering in the first minutes before falling still on its side or belly, its inhalations sharp and pronounced. When you hit the sweet spot, itâs a good omen.
Once the animal is sedated, there is nothing you canât do to it. I study cystic disease, and because the mouse has been engineered, I hope to find cysts on its kidneys and liver. I pin the mouse, belly up, to the Styrofoam board I use for my dissections. With forceps, I pinch the loose skin below the abdomen, pull it up into a tent, and reach for my scissors.
I cut from the groin to the neck, across the shoulders, then hip to hip, so the final product is an incision in the shape of the letter
I.
The body speaks indisputable truths. To examine the workings of a body is to experience the logic, the divine order, of nature. When the flaps of skin are pinned down, you have a window into the animal, its mechanics more intricate, more intelligentâyet cruder and messier, so more difficult to appreciateâthan the clean, articulated movements behind the face of a watch.
I perform harvests, not surgeries, and at some point during the removal of organs the mouse will die. I have performed countless harvests alone, but itâs much easier when someone stands over your shoulder, someone interested and experienced, his or her excitement contagious, so much so your nerves masquerade as anticipation. You peel away layers of fat and see what you have, the person beside youâhand on your backârooting for cysts.
Â
9.
Â
God is taking my mother in pieces.
First her kidneys, now her eyesâher organs are failing her. She loses perspective, colors, and words on the page. It seems to happen overnight: one morning I discover her left eye has drifted off-center. Iâm suddenly aware of the shape of her eyeball, elliptical and oblong, the distinct pointedness of the pupil. I no longer know how to look her in the eye. I have a choice: stare into the eye that is dying or the one that still has life.
With the loss of her vision, her prayers increase in frequency, and I buy her a large-print Bible in the hopes it will sustain her. She doesnât want anyone operating on her eyes. She says, in the strange and beautiful way she has of phrasing things, that she had always thought her eyes would outlive her.
She talks at great length about her childhood and tells stories Iâve never heard. She misses her parents, her father more so, and when she says that all she wants is to see him again, I canât know for certain which world sheâd prefer to see him in.
Several times in my life, a deceased relative has visited me in a dream. I remind my mother of one of these times, of one particular dream:
Â
Itâs my wedding day. It looks and feels like the wedding day of my memory, except that in this version there is no turbulent weather; the mansionâs French doors are wide open, and long, white drapes billow in the breeze. As I walk from room to room, Iâm met by family.
I enter a room, and there before me are my maternal grandparents, who died long ago. My grandmother is in a white dress, my grandfather in a white suit and fedora. And though I never met my grandfather, I recognize him. He says,
Tell your mother I am proud of her.
Â
Upon waking from this dream, I phoned my mother to relay his message. As I described the details, she cried. When she was calmer, she told me that it was her fatherâs birthday.
My mother hears the end of this story now as if for the first time. For a short while she feels the presence of her father, and there is distance between her and her suffering. In the following days her prayers maintain their frequency, but now they are inflected with hope.
She decides to fight for her vision. While she prays to retain whatâs left of her sight, she seeks out doctors who hope to save her eyes with surgery. This is her
Once the animal is sedated, there is nothing you canât do to it. I study cystic disease, and because the mouse has been engineered, I hope to find cysts on its kidneys and liver. I pin the mouse, belly up, to the Styrofoam board I use for my dissections. With forceps, I pinch the loose skin below the abdomen, pull it up into a tent, and reach for my scissors.
I cut from the groin to the neck, across the shoulders, then hip to hip, so the final product is an incision in the shape of the letter
I.
The body speaks indisputable truths. To examine the workings of a body is to experience the logic, the divine order, of nature. When the flaps of skin are pinned down, you have a window into the animal, its mechanics more intricate, more intelligentâyet cruder and messier, so more difficult to appreciateâthan the clean, articulated movements behind the face of a watch.
I perform harvests, not surgeries, and at some point during the removal of organs the mouse will die. I have performed countless harvests alone, but itâs much easier when someone stands over your shoulder, someone interested and experienced, his or her excitement contagious, so much so your nerves masquerade as anticipation. You peel away layers of fat and see what you have, the person beside youâhand on your backârooting for cysts.
Â
9.
Â
God is taking my mother in pieces.
First her kidneys, now her eyesâher organs are failing her. She loses perspective, colors, and words on the page. It seems to happen overnight: one morning I discover her left eye has drifted off-center. Iâm suddenly aware of the shape of her eyeball, elliptical and oblong, the distinct pointedness of the pupil. I no longer know how to look her in the eye. I have a choice: stare into the eye that is dying or the one that still has life.
With the loss of her vision, her prayers increase in frequency, and I buy her a large-print Bible in the hopes it will sustain her. She doesnât want anyone operating on her eyes. She says, in the strange and beautiful way she has of phrasing things, that she had always thought her eyes would outlive her.
She talks at great length about her childhood and tells stories Iâve never heard. She misses her parents, her father more so, and when she says that all she wants is to see him again, I canât know for certain which world sheâd prefer to see him in.
Several times in my life, a deceased relative has visited me in a dream. I remind my mother of one of these times, of one particular dream:
Â
Itâs my wedding day. It looks and feels like the wedding day of my memory, except that in this version there is no turbulent weather; the mansionâs French doors are wide open, and long, white drapes billow in the breeze. As I walk from room to room, Iâm met by family.
I enter a room, and there before me are my maternal grandparents, who died long ago. My grandmother is in a white dress, my grandfather in a white suit and fedora. And though I never met my grandfather, I recognize him. He says,
Tell your mother I am proud of her.
Â
Upon waking from this dream, I phoned my mother to relay his message. As I described the details, she cried. When she was calmer, she told me that it was her fatherâs birthday.
My mother hears the end of this story now as if for the first time. For a short while she feels the presence of her father, and there is distance between her and her suffering. In the following days her prayers maintain their frequency, but now they are inflected with hope.
She decides to fight for her vision. While she prays to retain whatâs left of her sight, she seeks out doctors who hope to save her eyes with surgery. This is her
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