This ‘Reporter’s Notebook’ was written by Kerry Alexander, USF Health Communications Intern, Summer 2008. Honoring the wishes of Alexander’s maternal grandfather, the family donated his body to science after his passing earlier this year. With that personal story in mind, Kerry attended & wrote about the May 21 Silent Teacher Ceremony. The ceremony was held by students in the USF College of Medicine as a tribute to their “silent teachers” – individuals whose bodies have been donated for medical research and study.

May 21 Outdoor Ceremony, USF College of Medicine campus, Tampa FL. Silent Teacher Ceremony & Dr. Christopher Phelps Memorial Service.

The ceremony began with music. The whispery warble of a flute solo marked the occasion as both solemn and celebratory. It was a celebration of a group of teachers that have given so much to the study of medicine, without ever uttering a word…solemn because of the circumstances in which they offer their education. Wednesday marked the day of the annual Silent Teacher Ceremony, held as a formal “thank-you” to those individuals who surrendered their bodies to the advancement of the medical sciences.

In my mind…
In my mind, thoughts of cadavers and human dissection have forever nestled themselves comfortably beside the images of Frankenstein…Black & white silent movie scenes flash forward, and the crazed scientist laughing maniacally to the moon as he rips apart the bodies he forcibly exhumed from a stormy cemetery the night before.

But on Wednesday I was experienced a very different view of human autopsy and the individuals who make it possible.

In addition, the May 21 ceremony served as a special tribute to the late Dr. Christopher Phelps, a man who offered his knowledge and his generosity to all he encountered. I learned much about the life of Dr. Phelps through spoken tributes delivered by friends, colleagues and students. One friend focused on Phelps’ interests. He had a love of fish. Whenever his gaze took to wandering, it always seemed to find itself on the outside of the glass tank, looking in. Tropical fish with unfocused stares fixated him. He equally admired the adventures of Chuck Yeager, an ordinary man who ran a race against the speed of sound, and won. These were the things that captured Chris Phelps’ attention. Phelps was also a man who, despite his professional passion for science, was a great admirer of the humanities.

Under a gazebo, a framed photograph reflected the bits of sunshine dripping through the clouds. A circular composition revealed an abstract field of golden red rectangles, like a cityscape set ablaze in the Chicago fire. According to the artist, Paul Glass, the image was actually a microscopic portrait of chemically treated nail-polish. The work was a favorite of Dr. Phelps, and it was to be donated in his name to the Lisa Muma Weitz Advanced Microscopy Cell Imaging Lab. The donation was an apt testament to Phelps’ love for both science and art and a powerful statement on the beauty of scientific discovery.

Always a passionate devotee to the English’s and Histories in school, I’ve never once felt any great piece of sentiment towards the sciences. In fact, I’d always been under the impression that science was void of all emotion, hence my prolonged disinterest in it. But I was astounded by the range of feeling expressed at this simple ceremony. Before it even began, I was struck by a new inspiration. On the programs handed out were medieval carvings detailing contemporary studies in anatomy. The engraving on the front, titled “Tabulae Anatomicae,” shows a young and muscular man, lifting his abdominal flesh to reveal his jumbled innards. The man is almost boyish in his pose, staring curiously at his exposed inside, tenderly fingering his cut skin. He is vulnerable, willingly opening himself to the possibility of misuse. The act is thus noble, the man unassuming. The image makes many statements about the nature of man as a tool for discovery. Ultimately my time spent flipping through the program and listening to the words and thoughts of others gave me a newly discovered reverence for those who give themselves for the sake of others.

This new feeling was wonderfully summarized in a moving letter by medical student, Heather Maroney. She wrote that, upon first meeting her “body,” (the human corpse assigned to her as a medical student) she promised herself she would distance herself from its identity. But over time, and after a prolonged study, she realized the generosity of her Silent Teacher and the brave decision they opted to make: to give up a comfortable eternity in a cushioned coffin in hopes their sacrifice might yield a more comfortable world for future generations. Her Silent Teacher became not only her mentor, but her friend.

My Grandfather – A Silent Teacher…
I never would have guessed that, in the shadow of my grandfather’s death, I wouldn’t be awaiting a funeral service delivered over an open plot of earth in the hushed open air. I’d imagine him, dressed in his best suit and made up like some ghoulish geisha, tucked snuggly in the plush interior of a honey brown casket. Growing up, though, an enthusiastic recipient of his loving embraces and constant good humor, I should’ve guessed he’d pick a route more appropriate for his demeanor. My grandfather recently entered the ranks as a Silent Teacher. A man so admired for his mentoring in life, is continuing his dedicated service to others in death. Attending this ceremony not only helped me put his unusual decision into perspective, but also provided me with important closure at the outset of a greatly hated loss. My childhood friend is gone, but that death could save the life of another child’s idol. The love we give to the individual is great, but the love we give to humanity as a whole is the greatest kind of love man can offer. This is the love the Silent Teachers give without hesitation.

The ceremony ended with music. A humming cello ushered the attendants to a table covered with small candles for lighting. The music was elegiac and moving and wrapped up the feeling of the afternoon into a lulling harmony. Streaming across the green, Bach’s “Sarabande” provided me with a beautiful catharsis and a perfect conclusion.

Though unfortunate, the deaths of the Silent Teachers and Dr. Christopher Phelps are in no way a limitation to their inspiration. Even in death they teach us what it means to give, to love, and to learn. And for that, I give my own unlimited thanks.

Story by Kerry Alexander, Communications Intern