A photographic exploration of the physician’s inner life
I entered my Manhattan apartment around midnight, roughly an hour after observing a transplant team recover kidneys and a liver from a young patient newly pronounced dead. Still wearing scrubs, I sat down on my bed, and, like a ghostly twin or guardian angel, watched myself spill tears.
The scene I witnessed in the operating room that evening as a second-year medical student was at once grotesque and hallowed, shocking and …
