Free The Anatomist: A True Story of Gray's Anatomy by Bill Hayes

into usable energy; produces and secretes bile, a substance that helps the intestines digest fats; and performs hundreds of other functions. But the liver also possesses a remarkable ability that can compete with the fantastical beliefs of old: alone among the major organs, it can regenerate. In a liver transplant, for example, if you remove half a liver from a healthy donor, the donor’s remaining organ will grow back to its former size. And, even more amazing, the half liver transplanted into a recipient will grow to the exact size of the recipient’s own original liver. Now, it is impossible to explain
why
the liver would do this. (As Dana would say, “In anatomy, you can’t ask
why.
It just
is;
that’s how we were made.”) But to me, it is hard not to see something of the miraculous in it. We are each meant to
be
a certain way, and our bodies make it so, as if predestination were encoded in our anatomy.

             
    PONDERING HIS FUTURE on the eve of his nineteenth birthday, H. V. Carter summed up his prospects in two sentences: “With energy and perseverance much may be done and without either, nothing can be done. Two roads: to mediocrity and [to] eminence.”
    Which one would he take?
    Mediocre or eminent: which would he
be
?
    Though the occasion was special, the dichotomy was typical. To young Mr. Carter, as exacting as he is earnest, everything is black and white—and Gray. Henry Gray starts appearing in the diary almost every day after being promoted to house surgeon in late June 1850, two weeks into the spleen project. Carter goes on daily rounds with him and witnesses his bedside manner, no doubt, as well as how he interacts with medical students and fellow doctors. Less than a week goes by before Carter begins making inquiries about what it takes to become house surgeon; clearly, he has got a goal in sight. He approaches Dr. Tatum, Gray’s mentor, who says that it normally takes at least six years.
Six whole years?
Seeking a second opinion, he has the same conversation with Gray, with whom he has a growing friendship.
You
could do it in half that time, Gray tells him, paying the younger man a fine compliment—Gray, after all, had needed four and a half years to obtain the appointment. But in Carter’s mind, he had his work cut out for him. Compared to his friend, he saw many failings in his own character. He describes himself as “indecisive,” “very slothful,” “diffident,” “not confident,” and, over and over again, “idle.” Even after the busiest days, jam-packed with schoolwork, hospital work, and artwork, he reprimands himself. “Must work more.” “Must work better.” “Must be more exact.”
Must,
in fact, must be the most frequently used word in Carter’s vocabulary.
    So extreme is his self-criticism—and so contrary to the record of his achievements—I actually wonder if Carter had a kind of personality dysmorphic disorder. His diary is the mirror he looks into at the end of each day, and all of his accomplishments appear distorted. However, in his writing, I also hear the voice of a young man who is trying to push himself, to prove himself, to break the mold. A young man who is determined not to be like his father.
    Henry Barlow Carter does not make many appearances in his son’s diary, but when he does, he leaves an unforgettable impression. One need turn back only a few pages to find a choice example. It is a month earlier, May 24, 1850, and Carter has just learned that his father is going to be “in town” the next day. But the visit gets off to a rocky start. Rather than contacting his son directly with the details of the two-week visit, Mr. Carter instead notifies Dr. Sawyer. “Don’t see why Father not write to me,” H.V. complains on the eve of Henry Carter Sr.’s arrival.
    Carter had lived in London for two and a half years by this point, and although he did not consider himself as worldly as other Londoners, he had matured considerably. Just