Lying in a Tomb shares your story that begins with scientific curiosity and gradually unfolds into something far more personal. At what point did you realize that the book would become as much a memoir as a work of historical investigation?

During medical school, other students and I were given the opportunity to take electives. One such class was “Creative Writing in Medicine.” As I learned more about the course, I realized that I might have a space in which to share some of my journal entries. The feedback I received from the professor and my classmates was especially positive after I shared the story about the curse. The professor, Dr. Scott Frank, advised, “If you ever decide to publish any of this, I imagine a collection of short stories…” Some forty years later, I took his advice and somewhat begrudgingly acknowledged that this had become a memoir.

You began by asking a scientific question: how were these bodies naturally preserved, and ended your memoir with an ethical one: who has the right to display, rename, photograph, and profit from them? How did that shift happen, and when did you first feel it coming?

I am embarrassed to admit that I was rather immune to these concerns when I was younger. I also suspect I was behaving clinically long before I learned this term while training to become a physician. It was a rather long process, but the initial sense of injustice occurred during those early years of research when I learned that a mother could not have her child removed from the museum even though she and her family may have paid the perpetuity rights. Shortly thereafter, when I discovered the photo of debutantes posing with the mummies (circa 1930’s), I was again discomfited by the idea of juxtaposing the daughters of the town’s elite beside the naked bodies of poor souls whose families could not afford to pay the perpetuity rights. Revisiting Guanajuato in 2024 and 2025, while reading the latest protocols for museology and the handling of human remains, I felt a more profound guilt over my lack of activism. It was especially troubling to learn about the “Traveling Mummies.”

You include photographs, journal excerpts, historical research, and chapter soundtracks. What does each of those elements do that prose alone couldn’t, and how did you decide what earned a place in the book?

I am a visual person: a visual learner and a visual communicator. I also hear a soundtrack in my mind that accompanies my daily activities as well as memories. (I do not think I am unique in this way.) As I put the book together, I remembered one of Laura Esquivel’s books, which I had read over 20 years ago. In “The Law of Love,” Esquivel creates a multimedia novel, with paintings and instructions in the text to pause and play a piece of music from the included CD. It was so charming… the author would announce that it was time for a danzón, and I’d play the CD and dance before resuming the story. I think this book gave me permission to do something similar.

The memoir ends with you choosing to put yourself on display; deliberately, honestly, on your own terms. What does that choice feel like now that the book exists, and what do you hope the mummies’ families find in it?

Well, it was easier to expose myself now than it would have been a few years ago. However, the most uncomfortable part of this story is not me. It’s the fact that I am re-exposing the mummified remains to a larger audience. While I am providing an educational and historical service, the exposure is still at their expense. I struggle with this, rationalizing that I must share my experience while trying to inspire more respect and better solutions. I hope the families might perceive me as a compassionate witness. While I fear potential criticism or backlash for this publication, I can understand it.

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