Medical Alumni Stories

Medical Alumni Stories is a new forum for graduates of the UVM Larner College of Medicine, where they can share their stories of key events or moments in their medical education – both during medical school years, or during the long lifetime learning process of medical practice.

Are you an alumnus of the College with a story to tell? Share your by writing to:

Benjamin Brown MD, ’15 MPH 

Benjamin Brown MD, '15 MPH

Family Medicine Resident PGY-2, University of Utah

It was early in our first year of medical school. We were deep into our anatomy course located on the 4th floor of the given building in the cadaver dissection room. We had been at this course for some time now and we felt fairly comfortable with the work we were doing exposing muscles and identifying nerves. Occasionally we enjoyed the presence of Dr. Green, Dr. Black, or Dr. Ezerman behind our shoulders helping guide our every move. One particular fateful day we were going about our business when my lab partner says "Ben, I need to tell you something." I look up to see her and our other lab partner looking at me with slight embarrassment but also there was a hint of humor. I look up from my work and say, "Ok, what is it?" She said, "I may have accidentally flicked a piece of fat into your hair...” Sure enough, there was a glob of fat resting in my frazzled, non-gelled hair. She proceeded to use her forceps (which were not clean) to delicately grab and extract the piece of cadaver fat that had landed on my head. In the process she grabbed a few of my hairs as well! To this day I am not sure how she managed to fling a piece of fat from her dissection area to my head. We all had a good laugh and I definitely appreciate my lab partners not letting me go the rest of the day with a piece of class resting in my hair.

Robert M. Kershner, M.D. ’80, M.S. ’76, F.A.C.S.

Robert Kerschner, M.D.Lessons from the Practice ~ the Gift of Sight

It was nearing the end of a long, hot, dusty day in the Navajo reservation in northeastern Arizona when a young Indian man stood shyly in the doorway of our makeshift eye clinic, just as we were about to close our doors for the night. The young man explained that his great-grandmother wanted to have her eyes examined, even though she did not trust doctors, and had never seen one in her life; he had convinced her to come with him to visit our clinic. As a volunteer at the Arizona Medical Eye Unit, a project started in 1979 to provide ophthalmic examinations to the Indians of the Navajo and Tohono Odam reservations, I was aware that many Indians did not receive specialist medical care if they were unable to travel off of the reservation. He explained to me that she had lived as many Navajo elderly did, with her family in a "hogan" or hut. For the past 27 years that he had been alive, his family had cared for her, clothed her, and fed her because she was blind. With my approval, he walked to his truck and returned leading an elderly woman by the arm. For me, in 1985, a young doctor from the city, she was a magnificent sight. Dressed in the traditional long black dress of the Navajo, wearing elaborate pieces of turquoise and silver jewelry collected through years of trading between the various Indian groups of the region, demonstrated to me that she had was an elder member of the tribe. One look in her eyes revealed her pupils to be as opaque as the turquoise jewelry she wore. She had advanced cataracts. I told her great-grandson that her sight might be able to be restored with surgery, which could be done in Tucson, several hundred miles to the south. The only catch was, he would have to arrange to transport her to my clinic. Weeks later she was seen in my office where a preoperative physical examination showed this 103- year-old woman to be in remarkably good health. With the surgical procedure performed under local anesthesia, her great-grandson interpreted my instructions for her, I was successful in removing the dense cataract that had blocked her vision for so many years and implanted an intraocular lens. The next morning, as the bandage was carefully removed, she looked at me, smiled, and then spoke a few pleasant-sounding words in Navajo. Her great-grandson translated for me that she had said that "she liked my beard." Hearing his voice, she then turned to view her great grandson for the very first time. She had recognized him from the sound of his voice, but she had never before seen his face. That evening, as I drove home from my office, I took the long way through the foothills surrounding the city. As the sunlight reflected its majestic colors on the mountains, I imagined seeing it all for the first time.

Richard G. Caldwell, MD ’60 

Richard G. Caldwell, MD '60During in my general surgical residency and early career at Presbyterian St Luke’s hospital in Chicago, IL (now known as Rush University) I was mentored in pediatric surgery by F. R. Johnson, MD and hand surgery by John Schneenwind, MD.

I was called to the hospital on July 4, 1968 to attend to a 7-year-old boy who had been flown in from his grandfather’s farm in Iowa after his hand had been released from a feed grinder. When released from the machine, the patient’s hand was almost completely severed at the wrist.  Only flexor tendons and skin on the back of his wrist held his hand in place.

Examination revealed that surgeons in Iowa had cleaned the wound, anastomosed the radial and ulnar arteries and closed the wound superficially.  With appropriate physical and x-ray examination it was determined that the feed grinder had all but severed the hand at the radial epiphysis.  Sensation was absent and viability was still in question. One intact artery known was the volar interosseous artery remained keeping the hand viable.

In addition, I noted that the patient was developing gas gangrene of the forearm and wrist. During surgical decompression and debridement of the wrist and forearm additional corn was found and removed from the wound in preparation for the hyperbaric treatment.

With control of the infection, anastomosis of both the median and ulnar nerves was accomplished with success. Flexor tendons survived the partial severance.

The result was a functioning hand with sensation but without extension at the wrist. Recently a brace supporting the hand in the extended position has given the fingers additional strength.

Over the ensuing 49 years this patient has gone through life with success, having graduated college in three years with degrees in math and chemistry.  Ultimately he was hired as an IT consultant for a major US company. He is married with 2 children.

The fact that patients and their families have kept in touch through the years has given me great joy. I guess the thought that I have and always had is:


Frederick Mandell, MD ’64 

First PatientMandell at White Coat Ceremony

The patient a medical student does his first history and physical on is a like a mountain climbed. We practice for this. We stethoscope each other. We otoscope each other. We memorize the parts so we don’t forget a section of the history.   We had waited two years for this moment.  

On the day the mentor assigned my roommate and I a hospitalized patient at the then Mary Fetcher Hospital; two medical students to a patient. This was to be that very first history and physical on a real patient. We wore our white coats for the first time each carrying our new black doctor’s bag of instruments. Our mentor told us… remember, the first thing you do is introduce yourselves. 

The two of us knocked on the hospital room door. “Come in!” a man’s voice. We entered the hospital room. Our patient was lying in bed propped up on pillows looking at us.  I would say we (I) was a little nervous, concentrating on introducing ourselves because I blurted it out, “My name is Arthur Kotch and this is Fred Mandell.”   

“No!” I said, “I am Fred Mandell and this is Arthur Kotch!” 

We all have moments in our lives we wish we could take back.

There was a long uncomfortable moment of silence and the patient staring at me. To this day I remember his exact words. In his heavy Vermont accent, it started out with a kind of high pitch.  

“Dang fools! If you don’t even know who you are, get out!” When he said “Get out,” the second time, we turned and walked out; maybe a little faster than walking.  

We returned to our mentor embarrassed to tell him I could not even tell the patient my own name. This was our first real patient. Arthur Kotch could not and did not speak, but we remained friends. 

Arnold Kerzner, MD ’63 

My Story as a Naive Med Student

E.L. Amidon asked me to present a case of a young looking, pretty 16 year old girl, who presented with a bloated abdomen, nausea, intermittent vomiting and marked fatigue. After offering my long winded, differential diagnosis of all sorts of GI maladies, he asked me if I included the possibility of Pregnancy to my "superb differential diagnoses." 

I said: "Why Dr. Amidon-with all due respect-she is too nice to be pregnant!!!" 

The entire class laughed and laughed; and I decided never to go into OB/GYN! 

Omar Khan, MD ’03 Salwa Khan and Omar Khan, MD '03

What is your story? Strangely, my first thought was, 211 is easy to remember. It was quite cold- a typical Vermont February minus the driving sleet- and I was slated to go a symposium as part of the surgery AI. Planned to meet my fellow med student Sarah in the given parking lot- HSRF? There was no HSRF. We grew up in the time of 'the tunnel'. Salwa's contractions were at the requisite 3 minutes apart so it seemed wise to depart Fairfax posthaste in our Subaru. Sure enough, our son was on his way. (Sarah went on hers, to the surgery conference). Over the next few hours I tried variously to cajole Salwa into an epidural; assist the surgery team on rounds; then being told sternly to go be with my wife, decided I would try my hand at OB. Luckily she was game and a few hours later- 630 pm or so?- I helped deliver our first/last/only born. 

The next few years were a blur as Salwa was a med student at UVM as well. We got by with a lot of help from our friends. And family. And administrators in the student affairs office. And professors who thought the quietly rocking baby carriage in Hall A was totally normal. And the neighbors in rural Franklin County who helped with everything from snowdrifts to babysitting. 

We have a picture of Soo, David and Priya peering over his crib, shortly after I nearly vasovagaled myself during his circ. Of Hannah and Jason trying to feed him. Of Duc walking around the yard with him. With Lesley and Janet (and their dog Max). Of him visiting with Collette in student affairs, Pat in the mailroom and Mike in the hallways of given and Rowell. And more recently, being with some of the same friends, and their little ones. Playing with Zech's and Jaina's little ones. In fact these are a series of several photos and memories with these, our extended family. Our son was a true winter baby, and as a toddler thought nothing of getting snow burn while playing in subzero weather (where were his parents? and did they have no medical training?). 

In what seems like the blink of an eye, we were suddenly doing swim team and middle school; driving lessons and high school. This year we started the college tour. He got his first UVM catalog from the office of admissions. Got his driver's license yesterday. The car he learned on- and now 'his' car- the once-young Vermont Subaru WRX, going strong at 200,000. Full circle. 211. February 1st, 2001. An easy date to remember- it was just yesterday.

Robert M. Kershner, M.D. ’80, M.S. ’76, F.A.C.S.

The Doctor Treats the Doctor

I was an acting intern on the surgical ward in March of 1979 when I was called down to the emergency room to examine an elderly man who had been admitted due to abdominal pain. As I read over his chart, I kept thinking to myself that his name sounded very familiar. However, upon entering the room, I had no recollection of him and he didn’t recognize me, either After a brief history, examination, and a series of x-rays, it was determined that he most likely had a bowel obstruction due to abdominal adhesions from previous surgery. I got on the phone and paged my senior resident and alerted the OR that we needed a room and an anesthesiologist.
With our team assembled, scrubbed, gowned and gloved, we entered his peritoneum. Sure enough, there were the adhesions that hung up his bowels. A few careful snips and cautery did the trick and we got in and out without a problem. My job, as the low man on the totem pole, was to perform a nice closure, get an NG tube down and keep an eye on him in post op. Our mission accomplished, I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment that we had safely and promptly fixed his problem and most likely saved his life. As he awoke from anesthesia and began to ask very specific and directed questions, I responded, yes, we had completely severed the adhesions and released the obstruction and he was going to be just fine. Then it struck me! “Are you the
DOCTOR Oliver Eastman who used to be in practice here in Burlington as an obstetrician many years ago?”, I asked inquisitively. “”Yes”, he gently responded. “Well then”, I said, “Let me introduce myself to you.” I am Robert Kershner a senior medical student, acting intern in surgery, who just operated on you, and along with my colleagues, may have just saved your life!” He smiled. “Oh and one more thing,” I hastened to add, “Today is my birthday, and you delivered me in this very hospital this very day twenty-five years ago!” He smiled even broader this time. “Dr. Eastman, you must have made a good impression on me that day, because not only did I go into medicine, but I became the doctor who would someday operate on you!” To which, Dr. Ollie Eastman replied, “I must have done a good job, young man, thank you.” Dr. Eastman was the doctor about whom my mother had frequently spoken so sweetly of, since I was a little boy. He delivered my two older brothers and me at Mary Fletcher Hospital. She would almost whisper his name in reverence as the gentle, caring doctor by which all others could be measured. Who knows, maybe in some small way, his image helped to form my decision to go into medicine? Many years later, when Dr. Eastman passed away in Burlington, I sent this story to his widow. She replied to me on how amazed she was with the number of people who had written to her with similar touching stories about her husband. I tried to remember that every day in practice.

Jay Selcow, MD ’59 Jay Selcow, MD '59

This story is really a thank you to Jerrold Lucey who not only influenced my decision to choose pediatrics as a career but influenced dozens of others to go into pediatrics as well.  Pediatrics was the last clinical rotation of my junior year and it was there that I met Dr. Lucey for the first time. His energy enthusiasm and love of teaching was contagious and it took only a short period of time for me to realize that a career in pediatrics was where I was headed.

Under Dr. Lucey’s influence about 10 of the 40 graduates of the class of 1959 chose pediatrics or a pediatric sub-specialty as a career choice. In my case chose pediatric allergy and Immunology. Dr. Lucey was a wonderful role model who kept in touch with many of us long after graduation. He was helpful in getting us into the best hospitals for internship and residency. 

There is probably no medical faculty member who has received more national and international recognition for their work than Dr. Lucey. His work in neonatology is legend and the awards he has received are probably too numerous to count. Despite all that he has accomplished he remains the most regular unpretentious down to earth gentleman I have ever met. I do try to visit him whenever I'm in Burlington if at all possible. Though he has always encouraged me to call him jerry the respect i have for him still makes me address him as Dr. sure that fellow umm graduates that chose pediatrics as a career will agree with my sentiments. 

Doug Sewall, M.D. ’74

Applying to Medical SchoolDoug Sewall, M.D.

My interview at the University of Vermont College of Medicine in Burlington, Vermont, was scheduled for early January 1970, less than a week after the city had been blanketed with a thirty - inch snowstorm.  My mother had called a friend who lived in South Burlington and arranged for me to stay overnight with her the night before my interview.  As I drove from Brunswick across New Hampshire the snow banks grew taller and the roads narrower.  Near Barre the road became one way only, as a road crew worked with front-end loaders and trucks to remove snow from the other lane.  Slowly, I picked my way through the snow and traffic to Montpelier. 

Back then Interstate 89 only existed from Montpelier to Burlington; as I started north on I-89 I noticed that there was only one lane going north and one lane going south…and I could not see over the snow banks.  It was like driving on a bobsled run.  In South Burlington I worked my way through late afternoon traffic and found the home where I was staying for the night, parking my car as best I could, driving the front end up on top of a snow pile next to the garage.  The next morning, I threaded my way through traffic on narrowed streets to the beautiful new medical school building.  Several applicants were gathered in the Admissions Office; a couple had rescheduled due to weather – related travel delays.  The secretary offered us coffee, which tasted awful.  I sipped a bit, left most of it and did not complain.  Later I wondered if that had been a test that I had failed.  After welcoming comments from the Dean of Admissions, we were squired off to separate personal interviews. 

I had two interviews with doctors on the medical staff, and both went well.  The first was with Dr. Charles Phillips, an expert on viral diseases (including polio) and vaccines, and I enjoyed talking with him.  He was friendly and encouraging, and I simply felt good about the interview.  The other interview was with Dr. Dorothy Ford, a specialist in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation. She was able to question me intelligently and gracefully about my physical abilities and limitations.  I was certain that she was not only interviewing me, but also assessing my handicap and the possibility that I might require what these days is called “accommodation.”  I noted that both of my interviewers were married to physicians and I felt good about both interviews.    

Then it was off for a walking tour of the medical school and the hospitals.  The medical student leading the tour was a good ambassador for UVM:  well - prepared, informative, friendly, talkative, and enthusiastic about the program and about the challenges.  He walked at a fair pace, but did not hurry, and used the stairways but always asked if I would prefer to take the elevator and meet them on the next floor.  I always said “no thanks, I’m fine” and I was.  A year of weight training and crutching up twelve flights of stairs each day had worked some magic, so I was able to keep up with the “walkies” easily.   I later wondered if the student guide kept track of my capabilities and reported back to the admissions committee.  My wife Kathie says “definitely.”  Just showing up shortly after the big snow didn’t hurt, either. 

After the visit to UVM I drove back to college in Maine and resumed studies.  Although I felt good about the visit I did not dare to be hopeful, but I was pleased that they had treated me cordially.

The DeGoesbriand

The DeGoesbriand BuildingMost operating rooms are unpleasant work sites, large windowless rooms that are brightly lit with cold florescent lights and chilled to keep the gowned surgical team comfortable and to retard bacterial growth.  A high capacity air conditioning system changes the air several times per hour, generating a constant low rumble that can make one sleepy.  If a power failure occurs, within seconds emergency generators will restore it.  Regardless of the weather outside or time of day the environment inside never changes.  In many operating rooms it is possible to go to work in darkness and leave in darkness without seeing the outside world, especially during the winter months.  

In contrast, the operating rooms in the old DeGoesbriand Unit were pleasant.  The DU was a catholic hospital in Burlington that became part of the Medical Center Hospital of Vermont.  The operating rooms, small by modern standards, were on the top floor and ample windows kept one connected with the outside world.  Although most of the windows overlooked the parking lot or Pearl Street, those in the coffee break room offered a nice view of Lake Champlain and the Adirondack Mountains.  There were four operating rooms and a cystoscopy room, all staffed by a close-knit group of nurses and technicians, and two orderlies; one of the orderlies, Gary Martin, became my favorite assistant.  Sister Rock, perhaps the last remaining nun at the DU, occasionally helped out in the operating rooms.  Rocky was quite a character, not a quiet, retiring, pious rosary - clutching nun.  She was much like Sr. Mary Norberta, who I later met and worked with in Bangor.  I sensed that both of these feisty, outwardly tough nun/nurses had a better grip on the realities of life than most people. 

At the DU operating room suite I met Dick Pease, the anesthesiologist who introduced me to the specialty during my final year of medical school.  He was in charge of anesthesia care at the DU and often hosted medical students who wanted experience in anesthesiology or emergency airway management.  He asked me right upfront what I hoped to learn from a two - week stint, and delivered that and more.  Dr. Pease had been a family doctor who had picked up added training and experience in anesthesia and joined the Medical Center staff.  He was very businesslike and efficient, but he was also an excellent clinical instructor.  He was the fastest by far at administering a spinal anesthetic, and it was a wonder to see how efficiently and painlessly he did it time after time.  I watched and tried to emulate his technique and speed; and although I became very skilled, even after administering several thousand spinals I never could do it quite as nicely as he did.   Dick was very goal oriented and he would do whatever was needed to finish the day’s work, often mopping the floor between cases.  He had a large vegetable garden with which to feed his large family, and he occasionally brought in such treats as fresh rhubarb and asparagus.  Occasionally the OR techs cooked up a special noontime meal for the staff in one of the autoclaves, an activity that surely would not be permitted today.  There is no logical reason to forbid it because after all, an autoclave will sterilize whatever is properly processed in it, but perish the thought; the bureaucrats would never allow such activity.  Official oversight and licensing is good when it protects the public from harm, but sometimes it merely stifles humanity and joy in the workplace.  My experience at the DU, led by Dr. Pease and Dr. Roy Bell, a slightly dour Scotsman with a lovely sense of purpose and humor, was my best time in medical school.   After providing some introductory hands on clinical instruction in general anesthesia Dr. Pease trusted me to watch over patients under anesthesia, never far away, but not hovering.  I was hooked.   I loved it.  

He noted my interest and encouraged me to talk with Dr. Mazuzan, Chief of the Department, about becoming a resident.   So I called Dr. Mazuzan and went up the hill to the big hospital, the Mary Fletcher Unit, to meet him.  John Mazuzan was a local Burlington boy who made good, a sociable, talkative, and forthright man.  He seemed to know all of the important anesthesiologists in the country on a first name basis and was politically savvy.  Best of all, he was friendly and approachable.  We talked, and then he offered to teach me how to administer a spinal anesthetic, as he had a case to do.   With the patient lightly sedated, lying on his side and held in the fetal (curled up) position by one of the orderlies, I sat behind the patient with the spinal tray opened and ready, sterile gloves on, following instructions.  Dr. Mazuzan stood over us both and told me how to prep the patient’s back with sterile Betadine solution.  As I did this, the patient turned his head toward Dr. Mazuzan and said “Do you guys know what you’re doing?”  Mazu didn’t hesitate a second.  “Don’t you worry about a thing, between the two of us Dr. Sewall and I have done 10,000 of these.”  Of course Dr. Mazuzan had done 9,999 and this was my first one…  He was a great teacher, and his calm demeanor inspired confidence.   

Dr. Mazuzan also shared Dr. Pease’s practical approach to getting things done, not hesitating to do tasks that many doctors think are beneath them.  One evening when I was on emergency call with Dr. Mazuzan we waited for a patient to be brought to the OR by the ward nursing staff, but after twenty or thirty minutes we had no patient.  Dr. Mazuzan said “C’mon, Doug, let’s go get the patient.”  So the Chief of the Anesthesia Department and I took a gurney to the ward and brought our patient to the OR.  This simple act taught me an important lesson:  in patient care, no task should be beneath you whatever your title may be…do what needs to be done.

I was convinced that anesthesiology was what I wanted to do following medical school, but there was one problem: I had taken part in the national internship matching program and was slated to go to Hartford Connecticut for a one year internal medicine internship.  I no longer wanted to do that because I had found the one niche in medicine that I truly enjoyed.  Dr. Mazuzan offered to call the director of that program and explain my situation.  I do not know the details of their conversation, but Dr. Mazuzan said that the other doctor was gracious and he relieved me of my obligation.  I was “in.”

This was the best thing to happen to me in medical school.  I thoroughly enjoyed anesthesiology and although the work was often tiring and challenging, it was also rewarding; Dr. Mazuzan was very good to me, as were many others in the department and in the operating rooms.

Clinical Medicine

Our introduction to clinical medicine began in the fall of the second year.  We students first learned how to examine each other, starting with the basics such as how to use a stethoscope.  After a couple weeks of instruction and classmate practice, one day I put on slacks, a clean dress shirt and necktie, and my new spotless white med student jacket, and with some trepidation went off to meet my first real hospital patient.  I don’t remember the details, but am sure I was more nervous than the patient.  During my medical school years I only remember one patient who surveyed me and said, “You look worse off than I am,” but many did ask me "what happened to you?"  Generally the patients were very patient: back then they were interviewed and examined upon admission to the hospital by a nurse, a med student, a hospital intern, and sometimes by a hospital resident.  All this before their own doctor appeared!

After interviewing and examining a patient, I would go to the nurses’ station, discuss the findings with the intern or with the resident, and write in the patient’s medical record my findings and a diagnosis and care plan.  Longhand.  One afternoon I interviewed and examined a middle - aged man who had lower back pain and leg pain.  He was being admitted to hospital to have a myelogram (an X-ray study of his lower back, using radio-opaque dye injected into his spinal fluid).  Such studies are now done on outpatient basis, (if at all, as most have been replaced with CT scans or MRI scans), but in 1972 it was customary to admit such patients to the hospital for at least one or two nights.  I interviewed him, and during the physical exam I put him into several specific positions (studiously researched in a medical exam handbook beforehand) to learn what aggravated or relieved his symptoms.  Then I went to the nurses’ station to write down my findings and to document a treatment plan.  Soon he came padding down the hallway and said “Doc…I think you cured me.  The pain is gone.” 

He went home.  I don’t know if I cured him or not, but if so, he was my first “cure” and I still don’t know how I did it.  

As I progressed through various clinical rotations, things were not clicking for me.  Surgery appealed to me, but was physically too difficult.  The operating room head nurse at Mary Fletcher, Mrs. Raynelle Tucker, and her staff were wonderful, and helped find a way for me to safely scrub and gown for surgery, so I did assist at a few operations; but it was physically difficult, clearly not something I could do on a regular basis.  Psychiatry would have been physically easy, and I liked and respected the chairman of the Psychiatry Department, but I could not understand what makes people tick...or not tick "normally."  

Then I met Dr. Pease.

Austin Brewin, M.D. ’64 and Frederick Mandell, M.D. ’64 

Many of us grew up in the anatomy lab of Building A. Anatomy was a huge year long course under the daily tutelage of anatomist Dr. Chester Newhall. Then there was the anatomy lab room itself which occupied the entire top floor of the A Building. It was an elongated room with two lines of long tables about four feet apart. Each table had its own cadaver covered in a heavy oily tarpaulin and each was lighted with a broad black metal pool table like light with a wide shade which hung directed over the middle of each cadaver and cast light over the entire occupied table. Four students were assigned to each cadaver, two on each side to dissect, to visualize and to remember, always with respect. The door to the anatomy lab was never locked and occasionally a group of one or more eager students would work at night. When that happened they would turn on their light over cadaver table and the remainder of the room with the lines of cadaver tables, covered in tarpaulin, would be dark.

On that particular night Fred Mandell came to work on their cadaver at about 10:00pm…it was the night before an anatomy exam and he was quite apprehensive as he climbed the many steps toward the dark, foreboding anatomy lab on the top floor of the Building A. He was taking undergraduate courses at the same time and it seems as if he missed some of the dissection. The room was dimly lit by that one fluorescent light over his cadaver. Fred had an overriding sense that he needed to be there to review his missing dissections in order to save his medical school career.

Gingerly approaching his dissection table, he got out his Grey’s anatomy and he began searching for the various anatomic connections that might be on the morning exam when suddenly there was a sharp groan from under the tarp on a dark table at the other end of the lab. At first it was a short groan, he stopped and looked around. He seemed not to be sure and continued to check the dissected ligaments with those in the Greys anatomy bible. Several minutes later another groan and this time when he looked in the dark toward the noise, they saw at the very end table a tarp that moved and a loud groan and a slowly levitating form arising from underneath the oily tarp. When the under the tarp sat straight up, Fred Mandell speedily retreated through the door and from the room. The resurrected Austin Brewin, his roommate and the other assembled classmate witnesses broke down in spasms of laughter.  Fred passed the exam and I continued to be his roommate, medical student colleague and friend.