She grabbed my wrist with her double gloved hand and I twitched. In my soul, that is, for my body was already misplaced. As she poised, ready to strike, I took a moment to look her over: wide-eyed, bold, and driven. Medical students typically were. She carves into my first line of defense with her crisp scalpel. Shaving away fat lobule after lobule, her blade glimmers under my melted tissues. I can feel as the fascia is revealed, muscles torn open and bone scraped against. My body has become another type of vessel. Debating with her partner, she slices into a heterogonous bundle of fat, muscle and blood vessels in hopes of making it more distinguishable. Soon my cocoon is unrecognizable as I let her mold me into a tactile textbook. My heart would cringe under the sheer implications of her actions had I been alive but, alas, my frozen heart will soon be removed. I let the waves of focus and careful navigation strike my organs and feel my muscles pulled and stretched, one by one by one. I am a tool of instruction, a vat of knowledge, a body slowing losing its body, piece by discarded piece. Can she feel my memories of childhood scrapes and broken bones? Does she understand my pain when she sees my CABG and pacemaker? Am I still a person to her?