The pouch of Reda

A word about the title of this blog. This is the story of Reda's pouch. It is an anatomical pouch that I claimed one day while dissecting a cadaver. It is not a pleasant pouch, but it carried a generic and quite replaceable nomenclature and I could not resist but to strip it of its genericity and apply my own eponym to infuse it with life and especially vanity.

Specifically, Reda's pouch (also known as the pouch of Reda) is the compartment created by the interface between the uterus and the urinary bladder. An unfortunate location, but I was disappointed to find that the narrow communication between the third and fourth ventricles (that I had coveted so much since my youth) had already been snatched up and out of my reach forever by that half-wit Sylvius a few hundred years ago. Clearly, I far surpass this moldy ignoramus in medical knowledge at this point yet he still gets to keep his stupid aqueduct. His name contaminates several miscellaneous desirable sites in the human body (all highly lucrative real estate and some so elegant and ethereal that his audacity--and begrudgingly, deftness--in even trying to get his name to stick shocks me to no end). A fissure. My fissure.

Standing over me sprinkling salt on my wounds was Magendie, who filched my foramen while Treitz and Oddi ganged up on me and wrenched the duodenum from my fists and spat on my ligament and sphincter with their gross acidy eighteenth century spit to claim them for themselves.

No. I am left with a pouch that can be found in less than half of the population, and even so, is absolutely useless. It is there by accident, an anatomical default, the unavoidable and purposeless outcome of space and tissue. A dank, reeking swamp, a sewer for the female inards, a tripe basket!

That is what I, bloodied and defeated, was able to wrestle away from those entitled buffoons. And even so my claim is still disputed. The best I can get is 'the vesicouterine pouch' and then in pen and in my own handwriting: 'of Reda.'