The skin is often referred to as the largest organ in the human body. At the dissection table, we explore this remarkable organ in greater depth. The skin, along the dermis and its thin integument, tells the story of the person who once inhabited the form before us. How we interpret these stories is ultimately up to us.
Scars from surgeries, deep skin folds, stretch marks, tattoos and other markings frequently appear, each reflecting the years etched in the skin. Most cadavers are donated by elderly individuals who passed away in hospitals, and their stories are as distinctive and intricate as their wrinkles. Sometimes, internal conditions like jaundice manifest outwardly on the skin, altering its color and texture.
Beyond the common surgical scars—hip and knee replacements, open-heart surgeries, rotator cuff reconstructions, and caesarean sections—we occasionally find evidence of accidents. While we can never know the exact stories behind these marks, we can imagine them. For instance, a scar on a man’s right thigh might be from a childhood bike accident during a carefree summer afternoon with friends— or perhaps from something more dramatic, like his wife discovering an affair and running him over in her fury. The truth could be anything. There are endless possibilities.
I have a one-inch scar on my right breast from a biopsy. It never faded and serves as a constant reminder of a specific moment of my life. I remember waking up in the recovery room to the sudden commotion of EMS personal rushing in. The sliding door to the recovery room opened, and another door to the operating area followed. An old man in the waiting room looked panic-stricken as he tried to grasp what was happening on the other side.
A medical staff member explained that they didn’t have the equipment needed for the emergency his wife was experiencing and might need to transfer her to another hospital. My then-boyfriend, who had been waiting with the man, was in shock. “That man probably had coffee with his wife this morning, like usual,” he said. “He never thought it could be the last time.”
I don’t know what happened to the wife, but the experience stayed with me. Life is fragile. It could have been me who didn’t come back that day. My one-inch scar is a reminder of the delicate boundary between existence and nonexistence.
Skin: An Archive of Life
Our skin keeps records of life events. If you spend a lot of time outdoors, the sun will leave its mark on your skin. If you’ve had children, stretch marks may tell the story. If you smile or frown often, wrinkles will document those emotions. Skin is an archive of our lives.
Boundary: Skin as the First Line of Defense
For a manual therapist, an open cut on the skin is a nightmare. Any wound, no matter how small presents a potential danger—for both therapist and client. It’s an open door for pathogens. Something inside me could find its way onto someone else’s skin or vice versa. Cutting. in essence, is an act of vulnerability.
Before the HIV pandemic, it wasn’t uncommon to see movies where characters cut their palms and held hands to mingle their blood as a gesture of ultimate trust and commitment. Sharing pathogens in this way was seen as a bond of loyalty. But cutting someone else’s skin is also a violation—a breach of boundaries.
Cutting one’s own skin is different. It’s an act that teeters on the edge of those boundaries. For some, it might be a way to reclaim control, to affirm that the boundary exists. By intentionally breaking the barrier of my own body, I can remind myself that I am alive. For those disconnected from their physical selves, self-harm might be a desperate attempt to feel real.
Skin as a Sensory Organ
As I lie on the ground, I feel the weight of my body pressing against it. Heat transfers from my skin to the moist earth, and I sense coolness creeping back. Sunlight warms my exposed skin, while a gentle spring breeze takes some of the heat away. Grass brushes agains my arms, tingling lightly, and small pebbles beneath my back press into me with dull discomfort.
The skin is a vast sensory organ. Its receptors send signals of pressure, temperature, touch, and pain to the brain, which interprets these sensations. As a manual therapist, I must remember touching a client’s skin is a direct form of communication with their brain. Skin and nerves are inseparable; they form a continuous connection from receptors, through peripheral nerves and the spinal cord, to the brain itself.
When assisting with a nerve dissection project, I noticed how some nerves perforate into the skin. In typical gross anatomy dissections, we often overlook these structures, but they’re there, like delicate threads stitching the layers together. Touching one of these threads is, in essence, touching an extension of the brain itself.
Skin as Canvas for Expression
Occasionally, we encounter a cadaver with tattoos. One donor, “Z,” had multiple tattoos covering his body. Z was a local donor, and one of the dissectors knew him personally—a rare occurrence. Z had lived a colorful life, full of adventures, rebellion, and humor. Before succumbing to cancer, he was a bulky, tough man.
When we uncovered his body, we saw an emaciated figure. A chemotherapy port protruded from his chest, and his gaunt face reflected the fierceness of his spirit. Though his body lay silent, his tattoos spoke volumes. They seemed to demand our attention: “Look at me. Read my life’s stories.”
Every piece—every image, every word— told a story. As we began the dissection, we took care to preserve his tattoos, treating them as the storybook they were. Though they would eventually cremated with his body, the tattoos deserved our respect.
Tattoo ink remains permanently in the dermis, where macrophages engulf the pigment, making it a part of the person’s identity. Some pigments migrate to lymph nodes, where they can become trapped—sometimes visibly. Even in death, these marks persist, embodying the life they represent.
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Somatic Awareness 