I have the good fortune to be part of a pretty awesome local science fiction/fantasy writer's group. This past weekend, some of our members in medical careers hosted a workshop called "Medical Concepts for Genre Fiction."
It was not for the faint of stomach.
Our presenters, a doctor, nurse, forensic pathologist, pharmacist, and EMT presented on topics such as large-scale epidemics, trauma, and postmortems. The idea was to give us a better concept of how illness and injury (and recovery) happen in real life and the way modern-day health professionals respond. Our experts wanted us to understand that while losing half a liter of blood won't cripple our heroes, losing five will kill them, and that the CDC would not face the zombie apocalypse with guns (although the National Guard probably would).
After the presentations came the workshops.
I learned quite a bit about medicine and about myself. For instance, 'tis better to give an injection to an orange than to receive one. Curved suture needles are much easier to use than sewing needles (and pig skin is tough). Fatal injuries come in many shapes and sizes, and they are all gross.
But I learned the most with the pig carcass.
Our last station involved a pig carcass (purchased from a butcher shop) hanging in a garage. This sounds very Silence of the Lambs, but it quickly went Lord of the Flies. See, next to the pig was an assortment of weapons, and this station was designed to give us a feel for what it's like to use them.
It feels awful.
We had combat knives (no kitchen knives!*), a baseball bat, a drill, a hammer, a staple gun, a mallet, and various gardening implements.
As it turns out, tire irons make terrible bludgeons. The grip gets slick, and they're too light to carry much force. This was true of most of the weapons of opportunity.
The most interesting bit, though, was how uncomfortable all of us were with the exercise. We had trouble watching our fellows attack the pig, to say nothing of doing it ourselves. When my turn came, I found myself concentrating on the belly, where I couldn't see the head. None of us could look it in the eye for more than a few seconds. There was something in all of us that shrank back from doing violence to even a very dead and very bloodless pig.
You know how a blow to the head is often described as a "sickening thud"? It's cliche because it's apt. I needed a very long shower after all of this.
*Want to know why? Because when a knife strikes bone, it will stop, but your hand won't. So, unless there's a crossguard, you're likely to slice your own hand open.