Life is Like a Box of Prostates...

We kicked off the new term in PCM last week learning how to perform breast, prostate and gynecological exams. They started off the class informing us that we would not, in fact, be practicing on each other as we had when learning previous physical examination skills (oh what a shame). Instead, we would use a series of very expensive, somewhat lifelike models.

As if performing these exams on lifeless, fleshy-plastic figurines wasn't weird enough, the models had a particular feature (or lack thereof) that made the experience even stranger: they were completely cut off both above the waist and below the knees, like some Old Navy commercial gone horribly wrong: "OK, Bill, put the cute dog with the Christmas sweater over there, aaaand let's go ahead and have the talking mannequins stand right over here, right next to the running wood chipper. Yeah, yeah, right there. Perfect.".

It was really quite the sight. The classroom was filled with these truncated teaching aids--dismembered, yet strangely anatomically correct--on which we spent the good part of an afternoon performing finger-orifice explorations. In addition to the models, we had some other fun learning aids as well. At one point we passed around a single, fleshy, lifelike breast in order to practice feeling palpating ("now I'm going to feel your breast, ma'am") for lesions. There were six lesions total in this particular breast model; we were instructed to employ to the aptly named "lawnmower" pattern in order to ensure a thorough examination (gotta catch 'em all!).

But my favorite part of this is-this-seriously-happening-in-real-life? afternoon wasn't the shaming of pelvic amputees; nor was it the disembodied breast, the dangling testicles, or even the bag of scrotums (about which our professor actually said: "hey, you don't happen to have any scrotums over there, do you? Oh, you do? Great. Could you toss me one"). No, in thinking back, my favorite part of this laughably educational day was, without question, the box of prostates. It was a small, white box, housing six heart-shaped prostates of various sizes, colors and consistencies. At first glance, it might even have been mistaken for something one might receive as a Valentine's gift, or perhaps as a token of apology after a particularly distressing argument. In fact, the over-sized, discolored one (prostate #4, I believe) even had a light-brownish tint to it, giving it a distinct caramel-like appearance (dulce de próstata, anyone?).

They were arranged in neat little rows--the prostates, I mean--each more interesting than the last. And so we passed the box down the line, taking our turn at trying to commit to haptic memory the difference between the feel of spongy, healthy prostate from that of hypertrophied, tumorous one. And though I will likely soon forget these tactile distinctions, the memory of this ridiculously outlandish day will forever remain. In fact, I'm sure it has already been stored safely away in my memory vault--filed appropriately under "P", for prostate--right along with other favorites like M:milking bowels, D:disarticulated heads, and S:skullcap removals. 

But never fear: I was sure to leave some room in the vault for the many more wacko, mysterious adventures that are surely to come. For if my medical education thus far has taught me anything, it's that life truly is like a box of [prostates]: ya really never know what you're gonna get.
 
Let's just hope it's not cancer. ...Or coconut.