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I was in seventh grade in 1993 when 2）Marie C Wilson and 3）Gloria Steinem launched the 4）Ms Foundation’s 5）Take Our Daughters to Work Day， intending to show us young women that a big， wide world existed beyond our gender and our bodies. For me， it did just that， although it also seeded a lifetime obsession with bodies in a different sense. For while many of my classmates were sitting with a parent in a tidy office， I spent that 6）inaugural daughter-at-work day in an 7）autopsy room watching my father， a 8）pathologist and a former county 9）coroner， dissect a dead man.
For me， the memory is clear. I remember that the farmer was the first dead body I’d seen. I remember standing at the edge of a cold room in oversized 10）scrubs rolled up at the ankles and watching my dad， similarly dressed， struggle with the legs of the man’s overalls. I remember thinking that dead bodies don’t bend. I can see the farmer’s generous 11）potbelly smiling at the ceiling after my dad finally stripped the clothes from him and laid him out， fully naked， on a metal 12）gurney. I remember watching my dad as he wheeled the gurney to the centre of the room and transferred the man to an autopsy table. I can hear my dad dictating each step to a tape recorder in a business-like tone and， although I can’t make out the words， I remember that they seemed to be in a foreign language. I especially remember watching my dad 13）cleave through the outer edges of the man’s ribs with an electric 14）Stryker saw and then lift off his chest like the lid of a box. I also remember thinking： is that really my dad？
At the end of the autopsy， Dad rooted around the farmer’s still heart. Then he presented me with two 15）grisly lumps in his gloved hands while earnestly explaining the difference between them. One was a tiny pre-mortem blood clot and the other a larger， post-mortem blood clot. If Dad found more of these pre-mortem clots and if the microscope confirmed what they were， we’d know that the farmer had died of a heart attack.
I don’t remember feeling scared or uncomfortable， but rather 16）in awe at the scene in front of me. At the work my dad did. At the things that can happen to your body once you’re gone. And for the first time， it hit me that， after I die， part of me will remain.
Some of my strongest childhood memories involve gathering around the dinner table with my family and listening to stories of death. Of course this sounds 17）morbid， but we were just doing what many families do over a shared meal， which is to talk about the kind of day each of us had. And for my dad， the day usually involved the dying or the dead. Twenty years after my Take Our Daughters to Work Day experience， although I am still young and in good health， I’ve been reliving that autopsy scene as I contemplate what will happen to my body when I die. What path might my body take once whatever makes me“Me” is gone？ What I’m talking about is what will happen to my shell， my physical remains， when I die. The thought of being immediately sealed in an expensive box or cremated does not appeal. I understand that such 18）longstanding cultural traditions 19）console the people who remain behind， but to me it seems that my body would be wasted in either case. Before it reaches its final resting place， I want my body to be useful.
To do this， I need to think of a way for my death to make life better for the living. One option is to donate usable organs to someone who needs them： 20）corneas for the blind， skin 21）grafts for the badly burned， or a variety of other organs， from the heart to the kidneys to the lungs， for the diseased. I’ve already been an organ donor for as long as I can remember； it’s printed on my driver’s licence under a red cartoon heart. But lately， when I’ve thought about dying， I’ve wondered if， for me， this is the most meaningful donation. Coincidentally， my driver’s licence is due for renewal at the end of this year.
It’s a heavy decision， to choose where you’ll go when you die， and a deeply personal one. Many people don’t want to bother， and some don’t even get a say. For me， I choose an active role， and I’m lucky to have that opportunity. I haven’t made a final decision yet， but a medical school body donation application form is saved on my computer desktop. Maybe， by December 31 of this year — the day my driver’s licence expires， as well as my birthday — I will fill out this application and drop it in the mail.
当玛丽·C·威尔逊和格洛里亚·斯泰纳姆发起妇女基金会的“带女儿上班日”运动时，那是1993年，我正读七年级，该运动旨在向我们这些年轻女性展示在我们的性别与躯体之外，存在着一个巨大、广阔的世界。对我来说，这个运动确实发挥了这样的功用，但换个角度看，我这一生对于人体的痴迷也始于这一运动。我的很多同学都是跟着父亲或母亲坐在整洁的办公室里，而我却以看着父亲在一间解剖室里解剖死人开始了“带女儿上班日”，他是一个病理学家，也当过郡政府验尸官。
对我来说，这段记忆很清晰。我记得那个农民是我见过的第一具死尸。我记得自己穿着超大的手术服站在一个冰冷房间的边边上，超大的手术服卷至脚踝，我看着父亲，穿着和我同样的衣服，摆弄着那个男人工装裤的裤腿。我记得自己当时在想怎么那具尸体硬邦邦的。当我的父亲最终将他的衣服扒光，使其全身赤裸躺在金属轮床上，我能看到那个农民的大肚皮对着天花板微笑。我记得自己看着父亲把轮床推到房间中央，把那个男人移到了一个解剖台上。我能听到父亲以一副专业口吻口述出的每一个步骤，并用磁带录音机录下，虽然我理解不了那些词句，但我记得那就像是一门外语。我尤其记得的是看到父亲用史赛克电锯锯开了那具男尸肋骨的外缘，而后像打开盒盖一样将其胸腔打开。我还记得自己当时在想：那真的是我父亲吗？
尸检结束后，父亲翻看着那个农民停止跳动的心脏。而后，父亲给我展示在他戴着手套的手中那两个可怕的肿块，同时认真地给我解释它们之间的区别。一个是死前形成的微小血块，而另一个则是死后形成的较大血块。如果父亲能再找出更多死前血块，并用显微镜证实其确实为死前血块，我们就可以知道那个农民是死于心脏病发作。
我不记得自己有觉得害怕或者不舒服，我反倒是对自己眼前的场景感到敬畏；对于我父亲从事的工作感到敬畏；对于一个人死后在其身体上发生的事情感到敬畏。而且这体验令我第一次想到，在我死后，我的一部分将会留在这世上。
在我童年最深刻的记忆中，有一部分就是和家人一起聚在晚餐桌旁，听关于死亡的故事。当然这听起来有点变态，但我们也只是在做许多家庭在聚餐时会做的事情，讲述每个人度过了怎样的一天。然而对于我的父亲来说，这样的一天通常会涉及到将死之人，又或是往生之人。
现在距我那段“带女儿上班日”的经历已有20年，尽管我还年轻，身体也还康健，但当我思忖自己死后我的身体会怎样时，我便会一直重温那次尸检的场景。一旦所有那些使我成为“我”的东西消失之后，我的身体会去向何方？我所说的是当我死后，我的躯壳、我实实在在的遗体会怎样。死后立马被封在一个价值不菲的盒子里或是被火化的想法并不怎么吸引我。我明白这种为时甚久的文化传统给生者以安慰，但在我看来，上面的两种做法，无论哪一种，我的身体似乎都被浪费掉了。我希望我的身体在到达它最终的栖息之所前能发挥作用。
要做到这一点，我需要想出一种方法，使我的死能够让活着的人活得更好。其中一个选择就是把可用的器官捐献给需要它们的人：眼角膜给失明的人，皮肤移植给严重烧伤的人，又或是将包括心、肾、肺在内的其他各种器官赠予生病之人。如果我没有记错，我已经是一个器官捐赠者了；那就印在我驾照上红色卡通心形标记的下面。但最近，当我想到死亡的时候，我就在想，对我来说捐赠器官是不是最有意义的捐赠方式。巧合的是，我的驾照今年年底也就该到期换证了。
选择死后去往何处既是一个沉重的决定，也是一个相当私人的决定。很多人不想为此而忧心，有些人甚至连提都不提。至于我，我选择积极地面对，我也有幸获得了这样的机会。我还没有做出最后的决定，但是一张医学院的遗体捐赠申请表就保存在我的电脑桌面上。也许，到了今年的12月31日——我的驾照到期的日子，同样也是我的生日——我会填好这张申请表并把它邮寄出去。
For me， the memory is clear. I remember that the farmer was the first dead body I’d seen. I remember standing at the edge of a cold room in oversized 10）scrubs rolled up at the ankles and watching my dad， similarly dressed， struggle with the legs of the man’s overalls. I remember thinking that dead bodies don’t bend. I can see the farmer’s generous 11）potbelly smiling at the ceiling after my dad finally stripped the clothes from him and laid him out， fully naked， on a metal 12）gurney. I remember watching my dad as he wheeled the gurney to the centre of the room and transferred the man to an autopsy table. I can hear my dad dictating each step to a tape recorder in a business-like tone and， although I can’t make out the words， I remember that they seemed to be in a foreign language. I especially remember watching my dad 13）cleave through the outer edges of the man’s ribs with an electric 14）Stryker saw and then lift off his chest like the lid of a box. I also remember thinking： is that really my dad？
At the end of the autopsy， Dad rooted around the farmer’s still heart. Then he presented me with two 15）grisly lumps in his gloved hands while earnestly explaining the difference between them. One was a tiny pre-mortem blood clot and the other a larger， post-mortem blood clot. If Dad found more of these pre-mortem clots and if the microscope confirmed what they were， we’d know that the farmer had died of a heart attack.
I don’t remember feeling scared or uncomfortable， but rather 16）in awe at the scene in front of me. At the work my dad did. At the things that can happen to your body once you’re gone. And for the first time， it hit me that， after I die， part of me will remain.
Some of my strongest childhood memories involve gathering around the dinner table with my family and listening to stories of death. Of course this sounds 17）morbid， but we were just doing what many families do over a shared meal， which is to talk about the kind of day each of us had. And for my dad， the day usually involved the dying or the dead. Twenty years after my Take Our Daughters to Work Day experience， although I am still young and in good health， I’ve been reliving that autopsy scene as I contemplate what will happen to my body when I die. What path might my body take once whatever makes me“Me” is gone？ What I’m talking about is what will happen to my shell， my physical remains， when I die. The thought of being immediately sealed in an expensive box or cremated does not appeal. I understand that such 18）longstanding cultural traditions 19）console the people who remain behind， but to me it seems that my body would be wasted in either case. Before it reaches its final resting place， I want my body to be useful.
To do this， I need to think of a way for my death to make life better for the living. One option is to donate usable organs to someone who needs them： 20）corneas for the blind， skin 21）grafts for the badly burned， or a variety of other organs， from the heart to the kidneys to the lungs， for the diseased. I’ve already been an organ donor for as long as I can remember； it’s printed on my driver’s licence under a red cartoon heart. But lately， when I’ve thought about dying， I’ve wondered if， for me， this is the most meaningful donation. Coincidentally， my driver’s licence is due for renewal at the end of this year.
It’s a heavy decision， to choose where you’ll go when you die， and a deeply personal one. Many people don’t want to bother， and some don’t even get a say. For me， I choose an active role， and I’m lucky to have that opportunity. I haven’t made a final decision yet， but a medical school body donation application form is saved on my computer desktop. Maybe， by December 31 of this year — the day my driver’s licence expires， as well as my birthday — I will fill out this application and drop it in the mail.
当玛丽·C·威尔逊和格洛里亚·斯泰纳姆发起妇女基金会的“带女儿上班日”运动时，那是1993年，我正读七年级，该运动旨在向我们这些年轻女性展示在我们的性别与躯体之外，存在着一个巨大、广阔的世界。对我来说，这个运动确实发挥了这样的功用，但换个角度看，我这一生对于人体的痴迷也始于这一运动。我的很多同学都是跟着父亲或母亲坐在整洁的办公室里，而我却以看着父亲在一间解剖室里解剖死人开始了“带女儿上班日”，他是一个病理学家，也当过郡政府验尸官。
对我来说，这段记忆很清晰。我记得那个农民是我见过的第一具死尸。我记得自己穿着超大的手术服站在一个冰冷房间的边边上，超大的手术服卷至脚踝，我看着父亲，穿着和我同样的衣服，摆弄着那个男人工装裤的裤腿。我记得自己当时在想怎么那具尸体硬邦邦的。当我的父亲最终将他的衣服扒光，使其全身赤裸躺在金属轮床上，我能看到那个农民的大肚皮对着天花板微笑。我记得自己看着父亲把轮床推到房间中央，把那个男人移到了一个解剖台上。我能听到父亲以一副专业口吻口述出的每一个步骤，并用磁带录音机录下，虽然我理解不了那些词句，但我记得那就像是一门外语。我尤其记得的是看到父亲用史赛克电锯锯开了那具男尸肋骨的外缘，而后像打开盒盖一样将其胸腔打开。我还记得自己当时在想：那真的是我父亲吗？
尸检结束后，父亲翻看着那个农民停止跳动的心脏。而后，父亲给我展示在他戴着手套的手中那两个可怕的肿块，同时认真地给我解释它们之间的区别。一个是死前形成的微小血块，而另一个则是死后形成的较大血块。如果父亲能再找出更多死前血块，并用显微镜证实其确实为死前血块，我们就可以知道那个农民是死于心脏病发作。
我不记得自己有觉得害怕或者不舒服，我反倒是对自己眼前的场景感到敬畏；对于我父亲从事的工作感到敬畏；对于一个人死后在其身体上发生的事情感到敬畏。而且这体验令我第一次想到，在我死后，我的一部分将会留在这世上。
在我童年最深刻的记忆中，有一部分就是和家人一起聚在晚餐桌旁，听关于死亡的故事。当然这听起来有点变态，但我们也只是在做许多家庭在聚餐时会做的事情，讲述每个人度过了怎样的一天。然而对于我的父亲来说，这样的一天通常会涉及到将死之人，又或是往生之人。
现在距我那段“带女儿上班日”的经历已有20年，尽管我还年轻，身体也还康健，但当我思忖自己死后我的身体会怎样时，我便会一直重温那次尸检的场景。一旦所有那些使我成为“我”的东西消失之后，我的身体会去向何方？我所说的是当我死后，我的躯壳、我实实在在的遗体会怎样。死后立马被封在一个价值不菲的盒子里或是被火化的想法并不怎么吸引我。我明白这种为时甚久的文化传统给生者以安慰，但在我看来，上面的两种做法，无论哪一种，我的身体似乎都被浪费掉了。我希望我的身体在到达它最终的栖息之所前能发挥作用。
要做到这一点，我需要想出一种方法，使我的死能够让活着的人活得更好。其中一个选择就是把可用的器官捐献给需要它们的人：眼角膜给失明的人，皮肤移植给严重烧伤的人，又或是将包括心、肾、肺在内的其他各种器官赠予生病之人。如果我没有记错，我已经是一个器官捐赠者了；那就印在我驾照上红色卡通心形标记的下面。但最近，当我想到死亡的时候，我就在想，对我来说捐赠器官是不是最有意义的捐赠方式。巧合的是，我的驾照今年年底也就该到期换证了。
选择死后去往何处既是一个沉重的决定，也是一个相当私人的决定。很多人不想为此而忧心，有些人甚至连提都不提。至于我，我选择积极地面对，我也有幸获得了这样的机会。我还没有做出最后的决定，但是一张医学院的遗体捐赠申请表就保存在我的电脑桌面上。也许，到了今年的12月31日——我的驾照到期的日子，同样也是我的生日——我会填好这张申请表并把它邮寄出去。