By Ryan Vergara
Bones are the piece of human anatomy I find most fascinating. They are among the last elements to materialize, remaining unformed in the years of our infancy, yet they are the last remnants of human decay. From forensics to fossils, bones are the final voice of a departed soul, their last chance to say, “I am here. I was here.” A skull the size of a softball sits as though it should speak. A pronated finger reaches out to point with desire – or accusation, as if to blame the world for its fate despite the exhilaration it once received from the same. Fresh bones are pale specters, bare and brutal reminders of your fate – my fate. Only after about a month or so do they turn to the creamy color that we’re accustomed to from articulated classroom models.
They say inside we’re all the same, but each specimen of bone is different when compared side by side. Different shades, different lengths, different textures – genetics and lifestyle depending. On the table were four legs, each with varying degrees of originality (authenticity?). The first was wholly intact, a perfect articulation of someone who grew their own parts, walked about on them, and perhaps set them down personally on this table when they had finished. The second had a common knee arthroplasty. Smooth pieces of plastic and metal shaped and bolted in place to mimic the failed joint that eroded faster than its owner could. Next to it was a double arthroscopy specimen, though the ankle didn’t look quite right, and the presenter demonstrated that the range of motion was comparatively limited to what is natural. He pointed out a fracture along the femur that had healed over during the owner’s lifetime as well, perhaps foreshadowing the final specimen in line.
Had he not personally shown us the first three, I would have only closely examined the last. “Obliterated” was the word he used to describe it. Intertwined with the fragments of bone were titanium plates spaced out nearly the entire length of the limb. Its heft was at least twice that of the first specimen, perhaps more. Miraculously, the joints were intact, though for all the fractures I doubt the leg was of much use to the owner in later years. Suffering through such a catastrophic injury and wondering how long it would take to heal, or if the leg would be purely cosmetic in the months and years to come. Imagine the pain waking up on a winter morning with a cold, stiff limb, of bones struggling to ossify into cohesion, and the exacerbation of placing weight on it all. Perhaps that was why the gently used joints were in such good shape. I wondered at the proportion of bone to titanium, if this leg had become more man-made than man made. Living with such a limb would be a nightmare.
And it was so beautiful. It glistened like a freshly struck coin, or shimmering shells on a beach. Whatever imperfections the bones had were amplified by the smooth, unscathed surface of the titanium implants. This was the physicians attempt at reshaping what came from the hands of another craftsman, a medical kintsugi. Bones of metal joined to bones of dust. My admiration was not for the owner of the leg who doubtless would not have placed these plates had it not been for their catastrophic accident. More that I admired what had been done by the hands of another, what was now left behind. Perhaps I could track down the craftsman and show him the leg once more. He might remember the effort it took to rebuild this shattered limb, the process and the payoff. But why would I want to do that? Who would take a painting back to Picasso and ask who sold him the pigment, as if this knowledge could unlock his talent? More than raw materials, it is the masterpiece that remains. The rest is just a hollow echo of clattering bones.
