Not Present

The problem with the ‘publish a post in the morning at the conference’ plan comes when one doesn’t write a post the night before. Somewhere in the midst of attending sessions and taking notes and responding to email, after I’d taken a nap and a shower and gone out with friends, I ended up falling asleep instead of typing out some of my impressions of Tuesday. So this will be an exercise in memory after drinking last night.

I was sitting on the floor, back to a wide column, availing myself of free conference internet yesterday morning when I glanced up and waved at a member of my graduate committee. I had been typing to Carrie about how there weren’t jobs I wanted and what was I going to do and this was oh-so-awful, but paused to smile up at one of the men who’d taken an uncomfortable meeting with me around the time of my defense debacle. We exchanged pleasantries while I tried to remember if I cried in front of him or not.

“So how are things?” I asked at the same time he did. But I waited longer, chin lifted high as I continued to sit on the ground while he stood above me, and he shrugged.

“I got tenure,” he said and shrugged again at my congratulations. “So now I need to figure out what I want to do and where I want to be for the rest of my life.” I nodded and said I was trying to do the same thing, albeit without tenure.

“I don’t think I want it that badly,” I confessed. “The grants and rejections and politics…”

“You’d know more about that than most,” he replied and I shrank back from him and blinked back tears. While he talked about examining options carefully and knowing your priorities and evaluating pros and cons, I nodded while I stared at the floor. I swallowed hard, braced myself and glanced up at him again.

I was saved by the arrival of another collaborator who captured my conversational companion’s attention before I asked if I’d always be a failure in their eyes. Four years of work and pressure and productivity reduced to the lingering memory of the defense that went wrong. And while I told that story to prove that one could recover from such an experience, I don’t think I have. I recoiled from the page in the program that held notice of Pete’s talk on Monday. I spend little time at the meeting that day, avoiding thoughts of past and future problems with food and a massage and time in the bathtub.

I finally found my feet, touched the arm of the man who’d been kind to me when he sat on my committee and told him I should go find a seat. He smiled and nodded and I walked briskly toward a meeting room. I sat down and rifled through the items in my bag, not able to decide what to remove. I tucked my feet under my chair and slowly inhaled, reminding myself that being melodramatic served little purpose at the moment.

But I screwed up the end of grad school where most people slide right through. I more or less blew a post-doc that should have been ideal. And I have no idea what I’ll do if neither of these jobs work out. Failure hovered around me like a dark cloud, I decided, going for melodrama since it is a strength of mine. I felt lost and afraid and very upset as I sat there on one side of the room. I couldn’t stand sitting there for two hours, so I gripped the handle of my bag and rose, unsure of my destination but requiring some sort of escape.

When I recognized a couple of people, my breathing slowed and I relaxed as I sat next to them. Distracted from my inner demons, I chatted until the first talk began.

Demons lurk though and after the fourth talk, I realized I was dreadfully bored. I was pretty sure each speaker was covering the exact same information. And if it was only vaguely interesting on the first try, the fourth had me battling yawns and heavy eyelids. But the coffee I made a sipped in my room before leaving helped me out and I clapped twice for the fourth speaker before excusing myself and heading to a different room.

I’m not stupid, I told myself firmly. That was just not interesting! I’ll go somewhere else and then I will be stimulated and entertained.

Crap, I thought 30 minutes later, sitting next to Dawn in a different, much less crowded meeting room. I am stupid. This is awfully boring too. Despite internal pep talks of the encouraging and stern variety, I only made it through 3 speakers there before I told Dawn I’d see her later and slipped my bag on my shoulder. To my surprise, she preceded me out the door.

“Those were bad,” she said once we’d taken several steps from the doors that closed behind us.

“Really?” I asked, thrilled and relieved and she nodded emphatically. We spoke to several people while we stood there – folks from my current institution would stop to say hello then flit away to their next engagements. Dawn decided to attend a symposium with me and we found seats in the room early and settled in to talk.

“I’m going to move in with my parents in a couple months,” she told me and I blinked in surprise, remembering when she’d tried to find houses not all that long ago. “I don’t know if my position will be renewed and I’m looking at applying for grants but nothing is guaranteed. So I should save money and be wise about finances. Plus, I don’t see my parents enough.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding as I absorbed the information. But I give honesty for honesty, so I disclosed that I could very well be screwed in terms of career development. “I wish I knew something from Industry and Pseudo-Academic places,” I sighed. “I’m looking at the job boards now and there’s nothing that I want to do. Nowhere that I want to live. But I’m not sure if it’s time to panic and apply widely for another post-doc or if I should relax, see what happens and figure something out later. I want to move closer to home and don’t really want to postpone that for three years to go to New York or San Francisco.” I paused to think I was afraid of both places – lots of aggressive people who would potentially be mean to me and potential earthquakes, respectively – and thought with a sharp pain that it might be time to give it up. Do something else. Let this science thing go. I don’t want it to come down to a choice of professional versus personal. And I don’t know what I’ll do if it does.

I did, however, feel comforted as we exchanged comments and questions there in a large room that slowly filled with people. I’m not alone – other people are equally confused and unsure of the right decision.

“I’m almost 30,” I sighed as the hands of my watch indicated we’d soon begin with the dissemination of knowledge again. “I thought I’d be more settled. More sure of what was happening next. But I don’t know that I’m any farther than I was at 22.”

“Hush,” I was scolded. “I’m older than you and I don’t know much either. But I have a friend who got married and has a baby and she says that’s hard too. Options are more limited, the responsibility is much greater. It’s just all difficult sometimes.” I nodded while I considered it, and reminded myself that the choices that got me here were mine. I didn’t get married or have children. I want to be closer to my parents and nieces. I took an easy post-doc rather than accepting something with a higher profile. And I spent hours at a computer writing a blog rather than doing constant research. This was all done with the hope that it would all work out. And perhaps it will.

I returned to my room later – delicious Greek food in hand – and had lunch. I started putting together the presentation I’ll give to the group upon my return home. I was sent to learn and I have attended some sessions (Some. Not a lot.) so I have things to talk about. As I downloaded papers and searched through abstracts, clipped figures and pasted them into PowerPoint, I realized I do think this is neat. There’s important work by brilliant people with the goal of making life better. That’s lovely and I hope I can continue my involvement in the field.

But when I was heading to a bar with OlderStudent and some younger guys who are now in the graduate program at my alma matter, I told them my name. When the taller of the two asked for a reminder a moment later, I easily repeated that I was Katie and offered my last name as well.

“Oh,” he said, glancing at me with sharper attention. “You’re Katie LastName!”

“Oh, no,” I said mildly, shaking my head with a bit of dismay. “That can’t be good.” After I moved through the revolving door onto the street, he said he hadn’t heard anything bad and I smiled while I shrugged.

“No, really,” he said earnestly. “It’s not like there are signs that say, ‘For a good time, call Katie,’ and then give your cell phone number! What is your cell phone number, by the way?” he asked and I smiled, remaining silent while he laughed.

I was known, I thought mildly as the evening wore on. I sipped wine and yelled across the table in a vain attempt at conversation with a new faculty member. I waved and smiled at people I knew and marveled that there were many new faces who had joined the groups since I’d departed. I was smart and friendly and knew a lot of science, I recalled of my graduate career. I wrote a good deal of documentation in grad school, so people might know my name because it’s on a lot of how-to files. I was moderately active in grad school politics – more inter-departmental than anything – and some of that work lingers when people continue it. Or they could say that I’m the one who tried to defend and couldn’t. Who left without a degree and came back for it later. Who wasn’t quite good enough to get it right the first time.

I waved at the tall guy as OlderStudent and I left the party a couple hours later. For a good time, I thought, I’m the wrong person to call. But I will put that line on my blog.

(It really was a sad day. I could use hugs. Or cupcakes. Maybe a snuggly stuffed animal to cuddle. But we continue on from here tomorrow.)