For over a decade, we’ve lived a few short miles from the National Museum of Health and Medicine, located on the sprawling grounds of the Walter Reed Medical Center in Northwest D.C. Some of my friends visited the museum and left me with a vague impression of anatomical curiosities, some dating back to the 19th century, all displayed in dusty cases for public viewing.
Dani (James) and I decided our younger kids were finally old enough to handle whatever this museum could throw at us, so off we went. (Truth be told, it was probably our own squeamish stomachs that had kept us from visiting until now.)
One of the guilty pleasures of touring this particular site is the thrill of being waved through the entrance gates, after showing proper identification, and driving through acres of “Official Government Property.” Parking couldn’t be easier—there’s a semicircular drive just in front of the entrance, and if you hand over your driver’s license at the front desk, you’re given a permit to place it on the dashboard of your car for free onsite parking.
The museum itself is divided into sections that are partly chronological, partly thematic. Probably the most mesmerizing area is the one showcasing real human body parts that have been malformed as a result of diseases or genetic abnormalities.
Every smoker should be required to gaze upon the diseased lungs, although the “city dweller” lung did not look appreciably healthier than, say, the “coal miner” lung.
There is a leg amputated from a victim of elephantiasis, a cirrhosis-filled liver that was gigantic and spongy, a 40-pound scrotum, photos of gangrenous toes, and row upon row of fetuses, some perfectly formed, others shockingly twisted or overgrown in all the wrong places.
Certainly for me, and perhaps for any mother, the bottles of fetuses were the most horrifying, yet fascinating. One jar has a set of twins, mirror images of each other, conjoined through the torso.
In addition to this chamber of horrors, there are major exhibits devoted to describing MASH units in Korea and the development of techniques for surgical procedures on battlefields.
The Civil War is displayed extensively, and the selection of arms, legs and skulls punctured by shrapnel or, in one stunning case, a cannon ball, is gripping. One room contains a gallery of artworks made by doctors, patients and others involved with victims of warfare who, in many cases, lost limbs. The depictions of the ways people endure such horrific injuries, cope and move on (or not) are especially moving.
Another area describes in great detail the science of pathology and the difficult work of identifying remains.
Finally, and perhaps most famously, the bullet that killed Abraham Lincoln is on prominent display, together with bone fragments from the his skull and a piece of sleeve dotted with his blood from the attending surgeon’s shirt, which the surgeon’s wife carefully preserved and labeled.
It’s hard to say exactly who the target audience for this type of museum would be. Dani and I agreed that it was challenging to imagine a group of female 40-something-year-olds agreeing to meet there and leave for lunch afterward. I think my teenage son would be utterly disgusted, yet secretly intrigued. My 13-year-old daughter found it kind of gross, kind of boring. Dani’s 13-year-old son found it pretty interesting.
Certainly there is no other museum in the area where you will hear a woman ask the gift shop cashier, “May I buy a stuffed louse?” She went on to ask, “Is the giant hairball in storage? I didn’t see it on this visit.” (The fact that this museum even had a gift shop was a surprise, and yes, there are Beanie Baby-sized microbes for sale, along with dust mites and other creepy plush toys. I’d like to visit that factory in China.) And she’d simply overlooked the hairball, extracted from a 12-year-old girl and perfectly preserved in the shape of her stomach.
But enough—just go, and bring your curious adolescents and budding med-school students with you. It’s a great test of fortitude.
