I don’t know much.

I’m struggling a bit lately – it’s not excruciating to get to work, but it’s harder than I wish it were. I’m not getting much done, which is OK, I suppose since my recruiting physicians are all out of town. But still. Disappointing.

I think part of the problem is I’m facing a publishing lull. I haven’t done significant work in the past year (well, more than a year) and so publications will be a long time coming. I’ve grown fond of adding lines to my CV and while abstracts will be forthcoming, it’ll be quite some time before I’m truly writing again. Perhaps that’s why I’m so attached to my chapter – it’s all that’s getting written in the near future.

I came home early today. Friend had to come out to my house as well. Though I thought I could administer Chienne’s allergy injection, I, in reality, could not. I could ready the syringe, pinch the skin on her shoulder, and poke. I could not pierce the skin though. The sweet canine waited patiently until I poked several times, then sighed, offered me a resigned look, then walked to her water bowl to take a drink. She returned, faced away from me and let me poke several more times, all the while informing her I just couldn’t do it. I finally gave up, offered her copious treats and told Friend it was her or the vet. I just have a mental block here.

At home, I battled software and lost. The program opens but cannot open files. Even its own files! So something is wrong. I just don’t know what it is. My continued efforts have failed to fix or identify the problem. This frustrates me. A lot.

So I’m switching to a Windows laptop and currently moving files over to install a different software package. I very much want it to work. I fear it won’t.

I folded two loads of laundry while two loads of towels are still being cleaned. In the neat piles I formed, there were very few work clothes and mounds of sleepy clothes. A vast majority were gray – pants and shirts. Most the shirts formerly had some grease stain in the front from absently eating bad-for-me food while watching TV. It’s not a good sign, I know. It’s also not positive that I was thrilled at the sight of all my favorite t-shirts that were now clean.

Publix is a magical place. I adore the bright cleanliness, the wide aisles, the pretty décor. They have delicious baked goods – the slice of red velvet cake was nothing short of blissful. The shrimp were fantastic. I didn’t have to wait at all to check out. I love that place. While I typically find grocery shopping a chore, I believe that Publix will make it more pleasant.

I’m currently re-downloading the software package. It’s not off to a good start. But things tend to get better.

Boss, the paper and well-deserved awards

Boss won an award for mentoring, which is truly appropriate as I work for a truly outstanding individual. In lieu of posting about how I did nothing today – ate and slept and was basically the epitome of laziness, I’ll remind myself of how the academic world can be. This also ties up the story of my last graduate publication.

To set up the publication part of the story, this particular paper was my favorite of the various manuscripts I’d written. I therefore sent it to Excellent Scientific-Field-Specific Journal. There are two – one for theory, one for experiments. I went experimental, and they said no. Offered some comments from a single reviewer, but opted out, clearly unimpressed.

Disappointed but undeterred, I decided on Good Medical-Field-Specific Journal. They publish crap all the time and, under pressure to publish before graduating to the point of being denied a defense date, I wanted the certainty of getting in. An initial review indicated they liked the work, but thought it was more appropriate as a case study than a full report. Happy to oblige, I reformatted and edited and resubmitted. They were again encouraging, but indicated the fatal flaw of the work. Should I obtain data that fixed that specific problem, they would love to see the work again. I couldn't obtain said data.

Faced with the increasingly sad prospect of a submission website with two listings marked Reject, I asked advice. “Send it to Eh Scientific-Field-Specific Journal.” People said as I desperately wanted to defend, but was facing last-minute but firm resistance from one member of my committee. So I included responses to the reviewer comments thus far, trying to avoid future criticisms, then sent it along.

I was on a lengthy interview trip and arrived at one airport to find my ride was not waiting. Content to wait with wireless internet available, I checked my email, thrilling to find a note from Eh Journal. I felt my mouth drop open when they rejected my poor paper, leaving me with the harshest criticisms I’d received thus far. So I gave up – couldn’t bring myself to read what the reviewers said or what I had written, the paragraphs now scarred where they’d been rent to include responses to reviewers that didn’t want to see the paper again regardless.

I took the job here, started and began to settle in. I looked at my CV – at the line that indicated the paper was under review when it was, in fact, waiting patiently in a folder for its next foray into the world of criticism and rejection. But I was scared – I didn’t want to hear that the work was awful again. Having tentatively decided to give up, I sighed over the thought – there was valid information in that manuscript! Why did people hate it so?! Advisor returned it with a typical “Looks good!” each time it was offered, and my co-authors, all young scientists themselves, had no ideas on why it was doing so badly out in the scary world of publications. And so begins my letter.

April 3, 2007

More than a year ago, painfully discouraged, I took a copy of the final paper describing my graduate work to Boss. After knocking on the always-open door, I waited until he looked up and motioned me inside. I offered him the pages and explained the outright rejections I’d received from three journals. I didn’t know how to fix the problems they identified and was ready to move on to the work we planned at Current Institution.

“I want to give up on this paper.” I concluded. “But could you look at it before I do that? Just confirm that there’s nothing worthwhile there?”

Boss doesn’t tend abandon projects without a compelling reason. I wasn’t surprised when he said that he would take a look and see what we could do with the manuscript. He has developed an environment where I feel help is freely available, yet independent research is strongly encouraged. I have taken many meetings, set up collaborative relationships, written protocols and arranged for projects I find fascinating and challenging. Yet when I need help, I immediately call upon Boss for guidance and unfailingly receive it.

I view my postdoctoral fellowship a bit like a view the paper I struggled to get published. There’s a tremendous amount of possibility – graduate work completed, skills acquired, ideas that are beginning to develop. Additional training is required and so I’ve studied, read a lot, tried to establish collaborative relationships and navigated the appropriate channels to do research in humans. Boss has been invaluable in all of these steps – reading IRB protocols, introducing me to colleagues he feels could help my work, attending meetings and seminars to provide support, passing along papers, providing a bi-weekly opportunity to interact with major faculty inside the department during our fellows meeting, and encouraging work on certain projects that are relevant. He is an excellent mentor in all the areas I can consider.

The truly exceptional quality is that he goes beyond what could reasonably be expected. Finishing graduate publications should not fall in the realm of his responsibility, yet he read my paper more than twenty times – changing wording, suggesting organizational solutions, and teaching me where I could improve to create a stronger manuscript. It was tentatively accepted to the first journal Boss suggested and we completed three rounds of revisions thereafter. He continued to work with me diligently – suggesting different wording for our title and noting the sources of reviewer concerns as we continued to trade paper copies scrawled with notes in black ink so that I could move slowly closer to publication.

In a gesture that was a lovely surprise, a figure from the paper that took upwards of three years to publish – one I would have abandoned without Boss’s help and encouragement – appeared on the cover of the March issue of Very Good General Field Journal. We smiled over the framed copy of the cover that I received from the journal, then Boss went around the department to collect copies from subscribing faculty since he’d already given me his journal and wanted me to be able to take one to my family.

I’ve never doubted how deeply he cares for each of his fellows and how much he wants us to succeed. The research is important and the time he spends editing text, showing up for imaging sessions in the early mornings or on weekends and consideration paid to making the right connections with faculty outside Department prove his interest in our careers. He has also offered quiet support in moments of personal problems, tends to suggest rather than demand, encourages rather than becoming frustrated with slow progress, and offers a constant confidence that we have the necessary talent and skill to do some truly important work in My Field.

From a pre-interview dinner in a downpour two years ago (he gave me his umbrella and walked through the rain unprotected), I have thought incredibly highly of Boss. Soon after meeting him, I decided I’d love to work in his group and have been consistently grateful for the opportunity to know such a wonderful man. I’m learning a tremendous amount from him – about science and about how I want to treat those people with whom I work. I have an excellent example to follow in doing that and can’t imagine a better candidate for mentor of the year.

Sincerely,

Katie

He ducked his head at my congratulations yesterday, saying it was due to his wonderful fellows more than his mentoring ability. He's wonderful and I'm exceedingly lucky to know him, let alone work for him. It's a good thing to remember.

Violent ignorance

Brother bought a gun from a friend when he was young. I was still in high school, he in junior high, Mom in furious horror. I went with her to return the weapon to the Brother’s friend with stern warnings that guns were not allowed in our house. She handed it to me as I sat in the passenger seat and I shied away. We were almost to our destination when I picked it up.

“It’s heavy.” I said, surprised.

Mom looked at me, exasperated over my ignorance. But I was surprised – the roughness of the handle, the heft of the instrument, the power contained within. I don’t like guns, though that’s been my only experience with one. We don’t hunt, though I guess Dad does have a rifle somewhere in the house. I haven’t ever touched it either.

Likewise, I have no experience with losing someone to violence. Accidents, health problems, yes. Those are awful events and I can offer my deepest sympathies to others with some understanding of the depth of pain and loss that accompanies such a situation. But with violent acts, I find I’m a bit confused. It does not make sense to me that such a thing could happen. And so while I’m profoundly sorry for those who suffered losses at Virginia Tech today, and my thoughts and prayers are certainly with them, I don’t think I fully comprehend the horror of the day.

On September 11, I felt sad and horrified, yet safe. I was nestled in a large campus in the upper Midwest, and had no worry that we would be attacked. Likewise, upon hearing the news this morning – which at first seemed to have a lesser scope – I didn’t spare a moment’s worry for my personal safety. Though I work at a rather elite university, I’m on the medical campus and rarely take the path that leads away from the tall structures with lots of windows into the more elegant brick buildings that surround graceful quads.

When I do venture into the section of campus that contains the largest of the student populations, I smile at them. From my own college experience I recall being told – at the very beginning – that we were in a protected bubble. If we broke a law, campus police would handle us differently than the city variety. If we had emotional problems, there was an office in the namesake hall that offered counselors. I went to the career center on multiple occasions to fill out internship paperwork. Professors worked homework problems with me. I was nurtured and grew easily in such a sheltered environment. My problems were minor, but I was allowed to devote all my resources to solving them. I giggled with friends and fell in love for the first time and started to define my future. It was a wonderful time – I often talk with Elle and Rachel about how we miss it. I feel a twinge of envy when I wander through the younger students, but it also makes me happy that they can be silly, then serious. Read poetry with such depth of concentration and idealism that life can be that exquisite. Work homework problems for hours while guzzling coffee or beer.

What breaks my heart are these students I see on television. They no longer share my blissful ignorance. My easy belief that I am safe is becoming more unique. For that – for the knowledge that the world can be senselessly violent and overwhelmingly wrong – I feel a sharp and enduring sense of regret. As universities implement new warning systems and emergency policies, as families start what seems to me an impossible process of grieving and healing, as students might start to half-listen for gunshots so they can hide under desks or jump out windows, I feel tremendous sorrow.

I can’t claim to fully understand it. But I am very, very sorry.

Doubt and perceptual problems

“It is hard to live as an Easter people in what feels like a Good Friday world.” Pastor said in a sermon that held fond sympathy for dear Thomas. That particular disciple is known for his doubt more than his faith, I suppose. That people – their full, complex lives – are often reduced to a single lesson is sad. I’m sure there were all sorts of reasons Thomas refused to believe without seeing. I know not what they were, but I found myself feeling badly for him too.

It is difficult – when faced with a reality that is often characterized by sheer misery – to hope and expect good things and understand your worth. To live as a grateful and joyful people is freaking hard. But I do appreciate the chance to try. And found that today was a lot easier than yesterday. The relief that the tiny pill would ease some of the suffering made me feel lighter today. I’m more stable, less sad, more like me.

Friend and I entered the service after the sounding of the hour. When we walked in, we were greeted and Jackie – the woman who gave me my welcome gift weeks ago – said that I should have my picture taken for the new directory under the heading of 'regular attenders.'

“Oh.” I said, thinking it was a nice offer. “I guess I could do that.” I don’t want to nudge my way in, I thought further. It’s rather mortifying to hear that you’re not so wanted, so it’s better if you just hang around the edges and hope nobody notices you.

“Do you mind?” She said, hand on her arm as she nudged me toward the 2 chairs in the hall – currently filled by a young couple who were very concerned that their picture reflect their true beauty. Jackie walked away, having instructed me to wait a moment.

“I could do this later.” I said to Friend, feeling uncomfortable standing in the lobby when I could hear the music starting. She shrugged, looking much more at ease than I, and I looked around. The couple rose and I was preparing to flee when Jackie came up again and nudged me forward.

“Right over here.” She insisted. “This is Jennifer. Jennifer, this is Katie. We need a picture of her.” I shook Jennifer’s hand and felt a pang when the twin chair was moved aside. There won’t be a companion in my photo – not for a pretty long time, if ever, I think.

She took two and I thanked her as she showed me both. “You don’t care which we use?” She asked, her youthful face expressing confusion over my attitude. I, my friends, am not particularly pretty of late. I’ve gained some weight, am wearing baggy clothes because the pretty ones are a bit tight, don’t take much care with my makeup, just plucked my eyebrows before church for the first time in several weeks. I look how I look though – changing a camera angle isn’t going to make that big of a difference. But peering into the small screen, I thought I looked friendly. I had smiled and my eyes squinted behind my glasses. The yellow sweater looked happy rather than dull, and I wasn’t altogether horrified by the image that confronted me.

I very much appreciated the sense of belonging that someone wanted me in their directory. I’m profoundly grateful for that place and those people, most of whom I do not know. I’m also glad that Friend happens to be here most Sunday mornings, giving me a touch of motivation to get ready and make it to 10:00 services.

Though the church was relatively empty (“Low Sunday.” Pastor reported of the drastic drop in attendance from the week before.), I chose seats in the second row of the back section. I sang and affirmed and prayed and listened, and while Pastor was in the middle of her sermon, a man took a seat in the row ahead of me. He blocked my view of Pastor and I tend to be more attentive when I can see the person speaking, so I leaned a bit to the side so I could see her.

When I did, my line of sight was such that my right eye could see her and my left eye could not. The disparity in their images left them a bit confused and my brain decided to process the result so that it looked as though Pastor was speaking from the middle of a man’s shaved head. Confused? I’ll elaborate. So there was the head that the right eye saw – a curve of skull and skin and a bit of stubble. Then the left eye – blocked from focusing as far away as the right eye could – thought that his head was farther over. So it superimposed its version of his stubbly skin in the position where right eye believed Pastor should be. (That made it more confusing, didn't it?)

There’s some Physicsy explanation for this that I certainly learned in Optics, but don’t feel like looking up. The point is that it looked as though she was speaking from inside his head. I was aware that my perception was off, but couldn’t fix it. If I wanted to see her, I had to deal with this view. It didn’t freak me out – I was distracted by it, of course, trying to open and close each eye individually to change how things looked. I’m rather fascinated by the visual system. But I was paying attention for most of the sermon and started to wonder about Thomas.

I am stuck with what I perceive to be true. I tend to think badly of myself – it seems safer when someone might be less than impressed with me. I also cling to people and situations to a strong degree. I continue to wear Grandma’s engagement ring on the middle finger of my right hand. She died when I was in high school. Her picture is also up in several places in my house. When I encounter items that belonged to Winnie, I store them. I don’t know why, but getting rid of all of it upsets me a great deal, so I just put stuff away. I still have a couple of toys and a treat tin from my childhood dog. She died 3 years ago. I don’t like moving on. I’m not even sure I know how. Of course it gets easier to not have someone around, but… I don’t know what my point is. Other than I suck at letting people go.

The other part of the problem is the depression, of course. I understand that my view becomes painfully skewed. That I can’t see out of the pain and sadness and misery. I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want to take pills or go to therapy or require these things to be functional. It’s not that I think they are bad or speak badly of me – I’d just rather not deal with it. Likewise, I wish I never got headaches. It’d be easier and less painful without them. But I do have both afflictions. I get depressed. And headachey. Refusing to treat those problems is not a good option at this point. And that’s OK.

There are times when it is hard. Whether Thomas was scared or grieving or just freaking tired from all the turmoil he faced, he wasn’t able to believe without seeing. It’s a different problem to see and wonder if the resulting belief is accurate. The comfort is that Jesus presented himself to Thomas. I’ve always thought he must be a bit annoyed to have to go out of his way to let someone poke at his wounds, but that might be doing Christ a disservice. What we need somehow arrives.

The fact is that when I’m medicated, I seem to see things more clearly. Life doesn’t seem to miserably hard or frustrating and sad. Bad things still happen and I’m still bothered, but it’s less impossible to cope. I thought that if I was aware of the problem – if I knew I wasn’t seeing things clearly – I could talk myself out of the worst of the moods. And I did – for most days, I was doing reasonably well. But I was starting to sleep too much, withdraw from people whenever possible and I really did feel physically awful for a lot of those days. I don’t want to be dependent on Celexa to function normally. But it seems that I am for now.

Church was good. I didn’t go to work, but I have ideas on how to fix the last of the problems with the work I brought home. I don’t want to update Matlab, but I’ll do it tomorrow. I very much appreciate the support, especially as I put myself in a vulnerable situation by ceasing medication without any reasonable plan. I can’t say I feel chipper and wonderful, but I do feel more stable and settled. Control of my moods is more easily achieved when I have a bit of help. That’s OK for now, I suppose. And as far as whining goes, I'm glad it doesn't bother some of you. I'm sure I'll continue to do it.

So.

I hear that whining is self-absorbed and rather annoying. I'm actually a pretty big fan myself, but, well, it seems silence is more dignified. Unless the preceding post is itself whiny and immature, then perhaps there's nowhere to go but up.

The basic story is that I'm refusing to bounce back very well. I find this... not surprising. Not even overly frustrating due to the heavy numbness that seems to have effortlessly settled over me. Sad. I seem to find it terribly sad.

"I'm sad." I told Friend. She came last night after I reported that I was struggling and has set up camp on my couch. I laughed a couple of times, once quite hard. But... "Everything is very close to the surface and it hurts."

I put Winnie's shoes in my guest room closet last night. I don't know why. I should give them to Goodwill when I drop off the other items I've been collecting. Instead I put them carefully in the shoe organizer and closed the door. It just means I'll have to deal with them again at some point. Plus, I'm very aware that they're in there.

I've been dealing with my data, feeling incredibly worthless and inadequate when I can't make something work. I am moderately surprised at the progress I've made in spite of my mood. It's coming along and if people answer questions I've sent, I'll be in reasonable shape.

I took a pill, carefully tearing open the pharmacy bag that's been on my bedroom floor for a couple of weeks now. Perhaps this will be the last time I try to stop taking them. It never seems to go all that well and I need the buffer against the bad stuff that happens, and the help with recovering when life does get moderately difficult.

The good thing, if there must be one, is that my legs didn't cramp at all while walking the dog this morning. I kept waiting for the pain, but it failed to come. Apparently the agony of yesterday did aid the muscles in releasing some of the problems to which they'd clung. Perhaps if I do some stretching and take better care of myself, it won't happen again. I personally dislike the 'pain is worthwhile in the end' theories. If these are lessons, I think I know enough already. But there are some situations that leave no wiggle room. You stare at what exists and find a way to cope.

So in typical, wordy, melodramatic fashion, I'll say that I'm fine. Too sad to write my book, though I did read parts of it today. I was briefly distracted by smiling over how very talented I think I am. I don't like myself much right now, so I'll take what I can get.

Church tomorrow morning, a bit of time at the office to catch up on stuff before Monday, and another pill. It'll be OK. Even as I wonder how I will possibly sleep tonight after napping most of the day away, I realize that it will be fine.

Really pretty bad

I was in the car, ready to leave, when I was alerted that a patient had been identified for one of my studies. This lead to my scurrying around trying to get things semi-settled before driving to town for my massage...which hurt! 90 minutes of rather searing pain as she decided we'd work on my lower body. Have you ever had someone spend 20 minutes rubbing all the sore muscles in your bottom? Well, if you don't stretch that specific area, there's all kinds of pain.

"It's for the best. You'll thank me later." Massage therapist said as I gripped the table in pain while she worked on my legs.

"That's where they cramp." I gasped when she found the muscles along the outside of my calves.

"Oh, they're all messed up." She tsked. The she proceeded to dig and rub and smooth the flesh until I was sincerely grateful that time was up. I turned on my cell phone and pager to missed messages, dealt with parking, then went to my office.

I felt like death. Woozy and flushed and sick. But there was too much to do, so I made my way (painfully) toward my desk. I dug out the list of projects I made at home, then got started on sending the requisite emails, screen capturing images from software that was finished running, restarting some ftp software that failed to give me all the files, looked at other work and sighed over my list. I immediately called around and gathered information about this patient, then frowned when I heard he was an inpatient. That's not really the goal for me.

I arrived in his room - terribly depressing places, hospital rooms - and saw enough to truly make me sick and sad until his wife refused to let him participate.

"Thank you." I said sincerely, grateful that I hadn't had to turn him down. He was far too unstable to participate, so I went back to my office, feeling worse than before (emotionally and physically) and winced when I noticed the sun was shining from around copious clouds. I wanted gray! Was that too much to ask?!

I then went to deal with Project A, grabbing mounds of files and noting that the computer I needed was, as it usually is, being used. By someone checking email this time. With much hatred, I literally stomped back to my office, irrationally angry and increasingly sore as my poor muscles protested the movement.

"I do not," I thought silently but with venom, "have time to deal with this crap! There has to be an easier way than 'run back and forth until it's convenient for us to have you do this favor.' Stupid, miserable whores." Breathing heavily (from all the rage, of course), I arrived at my desk, placed the files down and tried to figure out what was different.

"Someone stopped by." Maria noted. "He took the laptop with him."

"No, no, NO!" I exclaimed, causing her to turn in her chair with surprise. I actually don't tend toward tantrums in the office. Today notwithstanding. "I wasn't done with it and I was going to take it home this weekend to finish a bunch of stuff and I Need It Back!"

"Oh." She said with some concern. "Can you call him?"

"No." I said. "The idiot has an out of town cell phone number and I don't have a long distance code for some strange reason. It's not like I should have to use my cell phone minutes to call people!" I ranted and she nodded in wise agreement.

I sent him a brisk email demanding the immediate return of the laptop (which he ignored. Jackass.), then almost wrote to Boss to complain about people who insisted upon thwarting me when I wasn't feeling well! I decided that was hardly professional and deleted the message I'd be composing.

I dealt with more work, then glared at the Project A files on my desk. I walked back over to the place where I have to work on them and found the computer was free though there were no chairs. I stood and started to get new data organized while some idiot behind me pontificated on how women were prostitutes because we all expected dinner and gifts before offering sex. I considered kicking him, but, again, not so professional. Especially as we'd never met. I rolled my eyes and ignored him, and continued to pout that I had to deal with stupid Project A.

I finally finished and felt moderately pleased with my productivity, then looked at the list of problems I'd accumulated and scowled again. I made an appointment with the MD in charge to look at the new data.

"Monday. Early. 9?" She said.

"That's fine." I replied, thinking that if she made me wait again, I would be forced to yell at her.

I returned to my desk - still no laptop - and grabbed more work to bring home, realizing that I'd likely be dealing with data all weekend, most of which is being processed as a favor to someone else. Dammit.

Maria was preparing to leave, probably hoping she escaped without me flipping out and yelling at her (though I was trying very hard to be nice when responding to her questions). "Katie?" She asked softly, hesitation clear.

"Yes?" I replied, turning to face her with an inquisitive look that I hoped didn't hint at my impatience.

"Do you know what this stuff is?" She pointed to the pile in the corner by her desk.

"No." I said, getting up and throwing away the phone books. "Do not discard until July, 2007."I read. "Screw you. I'll throw them away when I want to." I turned to view a box and a large frame. "The frame can go across the hall." I decided, then unlocked the door to place stuff out of our way.

"Do you want this box in there too?" She asked, trying to aid in my 'throw crap away' spree.

"I don't know. What's in it?" I asked, opening the lid and feeling tears arrive immediately. I took it to my desk and sat down.

"Are those shoes?" She asked, confused. I nodded.

"They're Winnie's." I explained and she looked at me, not understanding.

"One of the fellows passed away this summer." I explained. "She was killed in an accident and I told Jill I'd take care of her things, but I didn't know where they went. They'd been in this box over there." I said softly and she touched my shoulder in an attempt to comfort.

"It's fine. I'll take care of it." I said, patting her hand in thanks and wishing her a lovely weekend. I sat and stared at the box, throwing away documents on the phone system and parking regulations. Rubbing my thumb over the print on her business cards. Looking through random science supplies, papers, and a lab notebook. I ducked my head and considered her post-it notes, appointment reminders, a message slip. All in her friendly, loopy writing.

It made my heart hurt.

I organized what I thought should be saved and put it near Dawn's desk. As she's taken over Winnie's project, perhaps she'll find it useful. I was left with a pair of shoes. Brown leather with a tiny buckle and large heel. Size 9. At a loss as to what to do with them, I tucked them in my bag to bring them home with me.

I got dinner on the way, offered a cheeseburger to Chienne upon my arrival home, then ate while watching a Gilmore rerun. Then something else happened and I broke.

I stopped - a couple of weeks ago, I think - taking pills. I thought I could handle my moods and wanted to see if I was right. I don't know why I feel this is the right way to go - I don't know that I necessarily do think it's right, actually. I just want to prove I can do it. It's odd and likely stupid, but there you go.

"You can do this." I told myself as I felt everything start to shatter inside from all the bad feelings. All the frustration and anger and annoyance and grief and ick just wanted out. So I cried - just a little - then stopped. Then I got up and tried to walk across the room and found myself having to sit back down so I could give in to the misery for a little while.

It's OK now. All of the events were tolerable individually, but I get weak from being hit too many times, I think. Then something nudges me over the edge and I have to pick myself up, muscles aching.

I did, after blowing my nose and mopping my face, stretch. Reached toward the ground and holding for 30 seconds to ease the pain in my legs as my massage therapist instructed. It's a process, I reminded myself. I do what I can and react how I react and try to do better next time.

But today sucked. Just so you know.

Really lucky or really not – The Plan: Month 7

I am – as always – unsure as to how I should view something. On one hand, this is the seventh plan update, which seems to be a good sign. Yet it’s Friday the 13th (I failed to watch scary movies growing up for the simple reason that they were scary and I’m pretty weak and prone to nightmares) and my list of things to do at work leaves me blinking with the thought that I’ll never get all of that done. I believe this day – and perhaps this month – will either be very good or very bad. I can’t tell which though.

1. Health
Given that I’ve been feeling icky for the past few days, I should be taking better care of myself. I wondered the other day what was wrong with me. What emotional problem leaves me feeling that eating well and exercise is just too much work. It doesn’t seem that hard in the abstract. I take walks in the morning - why not do aerobics in the evenings? Why do I eat more than I actually want? Why is it so appealing to pretend that my body matters naught?

Other than the time I spend on a massage table, I’m pretty unaware of the physical unless something is wrong. Having been fit in the past, I know that there’s a wonderful feeling that comes from toned muscles and the ability to jog and lift heavy objects in some repetitive fashion. So when I’m eating food when I’m not particularly hungry or curling up with a book instead of going for a walk, I’ve been asking myself why I don’t want to be healthier. I don’t know the answer, but hopefully the question will curb some of the self-destructive behavior. I’m struggling to get it together here. It’s one area where The Plan just can’t seem to make much progress.

2. God
I’m returning to a peaceful state where I think things happen under some control. Not that good things come to those who deserve them (or the reverse, actually), but that God is present and aware and very loving. I’ve prayed a bit, though not enough. But this ‘pray without ceasing’ standard is rather unreasonable, I think. (Perhaps my time in the south is preparing me for a heated eternity in Hell.)

At Easter service, Pastor talked with passion and gratitude of the resurrection. She also spoke on the message held within the New Testament not as a system of guidelines or blessings, but one of releasing fear.

“Fear not.” She said and noted examples as to where it appeared in the scriptures. Fear leads to distractions and addictions, to shying away from all that life could be in the hopes of avoiding pain. I think if one exists in joy and peace and the certainty of God’s love, there is such capacity for resilience and power and good. Fear is understandable, of course. I live in it much of the time – I don’t take care of myself, might die alone, don’t work hard enough, don’t pray frequently. The list of excuses as to why my life isn’t bright and fulfilling are impressive. Pushing past the fear and into faith would be more impressive still. I’ll work on it.

A few times in the past days, whether talking to patients or friends or colleagues, I’ve listened with great empathy. As their trepidations were clarified, I thought to myself, “Fear not. For God is with you.” It comforted me – eased the worry on their behalf. It’s definitely time to start saying it aloud though. Sadness is OK – there are many reasons to be sad, I think. Fear, however, isn’t what God wants.

3. Professional
I’m retaining the focus on “Get out by August, 2008. Northward bound!” subsection of The Plan. Not that I wouldn’t stay if the circumstances were right, but preparing to leave seems the right way to go for me.
Project M – Stalled while waiting to recruit first patient. All I can do is wait in a constant state of readiness. Picture me, if you like, as a cat ready to pounce. (The more accurate picture would be of a cat taking a nap, of course, but the pouncing part is partially true.
Project X – In what is truly a shocking turn of events, we’ve recruited two patients for this. I have data! While I’m bothered on an emotional level for these particularly sick lawns, the relief of having data with which to play is significant (p<0.05, of course.) My way around getting asked about p values because I’m fond of using the word ‘significant’ is to switch loyalties. Now everything is ‘considerable.’

Friend solved an Excel problem for me last night and allowed me to make considerable progress on one part of the data analysis. I appreciate that a considerable amount.
Project P – Haven’t even thought about it.
Project H – Penguin owes me a paper. Actually he did last week. I’ll send him email. “Dear Penguin: Please send paper. Thanks, Katie.” Done.
Project B – I did some more reading, but Steve said he was handling things. I’m more than happy to ignore this, so that’s lovely.
Project A – Still menial. Still no rewards. The difference is that now I’m greatly bothered. Freaking, miserable, icky project. I want out from under it, but I’ll continue to find time to deal with crap that doesn’t help me at all. Fine. Whatever. Whores.
Project C – As I would have predicted (because I am pessimistic), the data finally arrived and I haven’t had time to glance at it. I’m sticking it on a USB drive and bringing it home this weekend. It’s not hard – just time-consuming. But I’m a whore for publications, so I don’t mind doing it.
Chapter – Drafted and to Boss. Yay for me!

4. Social
I owe phone calls to Rachel, Elle and the darling Charlie. I want to speak to them, but it really gets in the way of my wasting time and napping. I’ll do it though – soon. Seems silly to want new friends when I refuse to care for those I have though. Oh, M also called when she got a copy of the journal with my cover. I need to call her too.

In addition, I have met people in the past year or so who matter to me. Friend is considerably important (and not just for Excel problems and injecting my dog with allergy stuff, though I do appreciate both of those things). I also adore some of you who write blogs. You count as friends. From now on, if I would insist upon you hanging out with me if we lived reasonably close (which we do not), we’re friends. So I’m not as socially stunted as I might have otherwise believed.

5. Family
I enjoy being home, but it’s a long trip. I love Little One tremendously and miss her a great deal. She asks about me, which breaks my heart. I really do wish I lived closer.

6. Service
I suck – I’m selfish. Work has overtaken the time that should go toward volunteering. I need to fix that ASAP.

Now it’s raining so I can’t walk poor Chienne. She received leftover steak as a consolation prize. I have a massage scheduled at 10 – I really like my therapist a lot. Then I have a post-it full of tasks to complete today, some of which I’ll bring home this weekend so I can make progress away from work. Lucky or not, fearful or not, life goes on. Hopefully something worthwhile will come from this month. I feel rather hopeful and calm about it - perhaps The Plan is doing some good after all.

I'm Katie (Not Joseph)

Do you know Joseph? The one with the coat? One of the songs came up on shuffle as I was listening to my iPod yesterday and I paused to consider it.

If you’re not familiar, allow me to summarize rather glibly from memory. Joseph’s a bit much in the beginning – a bit superior and all. So his brothers don’t like him for several reasons. Instead of murder, they sell him and he is taken to Egypt. He does relatively well for himself, hits another snag and ends up in prison. The faith he displays there broke my little heart. And much as I wanted to cuddle and comfort the actor who played Joseph (whose name was Andrew, actually. I have his autograph on a madrigal dinner program. He graduated from my high school and while I’d have rather met him in something other than a wench costume, I was glad to have been graced by a smile by such a beautiful man.), I was moved by that moment and listen to that song most often.

Intermission, blah blah blah, somehow events align such that Joseph’s talent (he interprets dreams, of course) is the one that Pharaoh requires to save Egypt from years of famine. Joseph’s skill at predicting the future means the Egyptians plan ahead, Joseph wins favor and is quite happy. The brothers, of course, are punished (and not even by Joseph). Starving, they decide to travel to Egypt (because they have food) where Joseph takes a bit of revenge. When satisfied that they’re actually OK guys, he helps them out, they bring Jacob to see his favored son and everyone’s thrilled. Sing another song, dance around, put on the coat again, everybody goes home happy.

I find with some dismay that I am not Joseph. Our lives bear little resemblance, and though I never identified with him overly much, the realization of the fact that I don't seem to share many of his characteristics leaves me a bit surprised. Let’s review.

Joseph’s early confidence was justified – he had quite the talent and was correct in predicting the future appreciation for said talent. I too was a bit of a brat growing up – I thought I was quite precious, smart, funny and all around darling. I have yet to find the audience who appreciates my talent though.

My thought – if you’re curious as to the reason behind the post – was that we are truly appreciated and understood by those who love us. When Winnie died, Carrie soothed me by saying that very few people matter to the world. While we’re here and when we’re gone, however, we do touch people’s lives. While we giggled together, pouted over disappointments, gossiped about our officemates, shared cheese dip at our favorite Mexican restaurant, we made a profound connection amidst the daily silliness.

As I sat on my parents’ back patio, weeping in the darkness, Carrie sighed on the other end of the phone line. “Sweetheart.” She said, then paused. “Look. Her family and friends will miss her – they know what the world lost. And it would break my heart if you died. I would cry and cry and would miss you like crazy. You matter. Not to everyone, but to the people you love. The world wouldn’t stop if something happened to you, but it would be terribly different and wrong for those of us who love you. OK?”

I nodded and gulped back sobs. I don’t have to save Egypt or cure cancer. I just want to matter to a few people. To know and be known, to feel mutual appreciation, respect, affection.

I ask very few people to know me. Elle and Rachel from college. M and Carrie from grad school. Dave to a lesser degree. Friend from here. My parents. Brother.

Peter.

“I miss him.” I told Dr. Counselor. “I’m not angry anymore and I’m sad that I don’t get to know him. I really did like him.”

He did well, I thought, sat back in his chair and nodded while he listened as I talked and explained and rationalized. Then he sat forward and considered me. “Do you want my opinion? Can I tell you what I think?”

“Sure.” I said, sitting back and preparing myself with a smile.

He quoted poetry – better to have loved and lost, something about a flower in a granite wall – sang songs about letting go. Then he said he felt it was best to let it go (hence the songs, I thought). To be grateful that the anger was gone and to release what was to prepare for what might be. I nodded – Dr. Counselor is tricky in that I roll my eyes over the weirdness (songs and poems), then he says something that is true. Not good or bad – just very true.

“But I don’t like very many people.” I said.

He nodded and said there would be others.

“But I liked him.” I insisted.

“Did he like you?” He asked and I nodded immediately. “I think he did. At some point, I think he really did understand and like me.”

“And so you think he misses you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I said, trying to decide.

“Does he contact you? Indicate he’s interested in remaining friends?”

“No.” I said, frowning. “But maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me. Perhaps it’s up to me to decide if I’m ready to be friends. Since he hurt me. And I think I’m ready. I don’t want to date him. I don’t need him in my life. But given the choice, I’d rather be able to talk to him sometimes. To not lose him completely.”

“It would be off balance.” Dr. Counselor pronounced. “You can’t know for sure he misses you or liked you at all. It could be true-“

I interrupted him, offended. “You don’t know that it isn’t true.” I said firmly. “I’d rather think that when I fell in love with someone, it was with someone who liked me and misses having me in his life.” Then I glared and he backed off.

But before I left he said he’d like me to release the situation. Move on.

“I’m not ready.” I said, folding my arms and lifting my chin, then changing positions when I realized I was being a bit silly. I smiled sheepishly and he smiled at me in return. “I’ll try to get ready.” I offered and he nodded, offered me a hug, then I left with an appointment to return in two weeks.

It was OK, I told myself. Things would work out. In the end, I think I want to believe that my talents are the important ones. If Pharaoh has bad dreams, that I can be the one who knows their meaning. If something needs to be written, I’ll have to right words and the ability to place them in the right order. When it comes time to cure cancer, my particular research area will emerge as highly relevant and valuable. I just like to think I’m important. That I matter. That there is a purpose for my being here, and that said purpose is rather impressive and profound. A husband and family. Important work. A growing faith. I can pull that off.

Feeling strong from a nice Easter weekend, a chapter that was coming along beautifully, work that was going well, I decided to send an email. I didn’t need him to respond. I was just curious – wanted reinforcement that I had liked someone who could like me in return, albeit in a friendly way. But that was OK – I don’t want to date the man. I just want to avoid the pang of sadness when I think of him. So I drafted a note, sent it, then went about my life with the vague expectation that I’d soon have a reply to read.

“Oh.” I said yesterday when I realized that none was coming. I blinked in surprise, which I find funny in a sad sort of way. Despite all the insecurity, I still see myself as important. I was surprised that he didn’t want to be my friend. That Dr. Counselor was right in saying I was not, in fact, missed at all. Even after the miserable experience several months ago, I thought… I don’t know. Not that we’d fall deeply in love – those feelings really are gone. But that we’d somehow matter to each other in some way. The realization that I don’t – he knew me and really did opt out, not out of some mistake or problem, but out of disinterest.

It’s OK. I’m not angry or really all that hurt. It is, oddly enough, really fine and I feel some pride in the fact that I haven't dissolved into a weeping mass of ick over the situation. I don’t blame him at all. It’s the odd feeling of surprise that continues to tug at my attention.

But I’m delightful, I think. I’m funny and smart and can write relatively well when I try. I like people, though I let few of them in. I work and go to church and think about life. I take walks and watch TV and understand many of the jokes I hear. I even vaguely comprehend random field theory. Not everyone should want to know and befriend me, but the people I pick usually do. And to have someone not react as I expected is surprising. In a sad sort of way.

I overcompensated, trying to bolster my feelings of self-worth by bragging about my super-cool chapter at dinner last night. Steve is wonderful – I like him a lot. His girlfriend is also fantastic – I’ve always thought a great deal of her. So we were talking about work and life and houses, then Steve asked how my chapter was coming along. He’d read my abstract before its submission, and I started to chatter about the different sections, the sample dataset, how much I love Microsoft Equation. Then I wondered if my document was complete enough and started to talk about how lucky it was that I had extra data that wasn’t suitable for journal publication. It left me open to write a book chapter!

“I used to spend weeks on chapters.” Steve’s girlfriend mused. “Then one of the girls in my lab asked me who I thought was actually going to read it. So I started just throwing stuff together.”

Steve shot her a look, then smiled at me. “I’m sure your chapter is great.” He said. “But those texts don’t get a wide audience. But if you’re learning from it, that’s great! I’m glad you’re able to use the data.”

“Oh.” I said. I recovered quickly and nodded. “I am learning a lot, getting to play with Microsoft Equation, all that good stuff. I’m glad I did it.”

His girlfriend looked briefly abashed. “I’m in a different field.” She explained. “I’m sure things work differently for you guys.”

“No.” I smiled at her and shook my head. “You’re right, and I know it’s not likely to be critical to the field. It was good for me to write it, but the person who references it to figure out how to guide research will likely be me.”

It’s not as though I should be surprised – by either situation, actually. I knew going in that book chapters counted less than journal articles. This data isn’t useful in another format for various reasons, so I’m thrilled I can make it work in this context. But I wrapped up the chapter this morning and sent it to Boss. It’s a huge body of literature and I could work on the document for months. But it’s not that big a deal, so I called it good after doing some final editing.

My feeling is that I am neither as bad or good as I think I am. I haven’t Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams to predict the future. I neither have his faith that I’m never alone and will be cared for, at least not to the depth that he displayed. Though I like to think that the world will – despite a few glitches – bow to my best interest, it seems not to be happening of late. Or perhaps it is and I just haven't the faith to see it. I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll ever be able to save those I love or even those who might have wronged me. Oddly, people don’t appear to be bringing me a multi-colored coat.

Perhaps I should stop – even subconsciously – expecting it and being surprised when it fails to materialize. (This makes it sound as though I'm miserable - I'm really not. I'm just bothered and amused by the fact that I thought I was more important than I seem to be.)

Quickly

• I went to the dentist yesterday - I'm terrified of the dentist, but I did it. It's almost like I'm an adult or something.
• The experiment today did not go well. I was saddened that he was in pain, disappointed I inconvenienced him for something I couldn't really use, and worried that he won't do as well in treatment as I want him to do.
• Steve and his girlfriend are coming for dinner in an hour or so. I have steak I brought from home and hope I don't get blown away while grilling it. It's windy enough that my window - barely open was blown into the room. Granted, it was loose. But still - impressive.
  
• The chapter is coming along. It's not done yet, darn it, but it's getting closer.
  
• I installed Microsoft Equation Editor to write said chapter and would like to do nothing more than type equations all day. I spent last night doing an entire random field theory just because the equations look so pretty. (It did sort of help me understand it - I just have some more work to do to make it more clear in my explanation. But the equations are So Pretty!)
• I don't feel well - for days now, I've been feeling semi-icky. Headache, earache, tummyache. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'd like to feel healthy again.
• I have posts drafted in my head, but no time to get them on the screen. I also have emails I want to answer and just can't find time and energy to write them.
• Instead, I'll continue to pretend I'm an adult and do some reading for Project B. Steve is finishing it, but asked me to answer a couple questions. I ignored him, but I'm now doing lit searches to try to figure this out.
  

Life according to Chuzzle

I’ve played a lot of Chuzzle lately. There are these fuzzy, little creatures that require alignment with two identical friends to pop the furry bodies. Then their eyes swoosh into the little beaker on the side until it fills up and I get to move up a level.

It was one of the games that came on the computer we bought Mom for her birthday. At first I thought it was rather lame – I just liked watching the little chuzzles blink and watch the cursor move. I am now obsessed with chuzzles – I think about them a lot, and play whenever I find the time. It’s oddly soothing to drag the rows around so that the chuzzles pop. Sometime in the hours I spend playing the game, I noted some lessons for life.

The board is always full. It’s not like Tetris or Dr. Mario (which I played for hours on a flight from Chicago to London). I can pop as many chuzzles as fast as I can, but more always appear. There’s always a problem to solve. Some little fuzzy creature needs to move up or down or left or right to find his friends. Luckily if I'm in casual mode, the little guys give me hints. The chuzzle that wants to move – if given enough time between the previous action – will roll his eyes at me. If I miss that obnoxious cue, it will give a little wiggle several seconds later. I find that comforting as I sit in my desk and stare at the colors. If I can’t figure out what to do next, there will be a hint. I played one game in expert mode and missed the little eye rolls and wiggles very much. I’m all about support systems.

Given that I’m overwhelmed with the sheer amount of work lately, I like knowing that despite a constant onslaught of chuzzles, there’s always incremental progress to be made. That if I get stuck, something will happen to show me what to try. And sometimes, I’ll move a blue chuzzle to line up with two others and a cascade effect occurs so that chuzzles are popping all over the place while “Combo!” and “Super!” appear on the screen to applaud my accidental efforts. I’m always surprised when it happens, frankly. I’m focused on a single line of the creatures – I had no idea that moving that particular row would align so many little guys.

Likewise, sometimes there are big chuzzles, taking up the space for 4 normal creatures and causing two rows fail to move independently. There are also little silver locks that clank around some chuzzles when the game moves far enough along. Mom hates those locks – they make her terribly unhappy. They ensure that the chuzzle they contain is stationary – the constraint makes the game more challenging, certainly, but it’s not impossible.

I’ve found that my strategy – so as not to stress myself out while playing a silly game – is to focus on what I can do. If I’m obsessed with getting rid of a the big or locked chuzzle, I tend not to move at all, growing sad at the thought that I can’t help the creature who is somehow different than the rest. Yet if I just play – move what I can, wait for cues when I don’t see matches – the locks and big chuzzles end up solved without much effort. Excessive focus on the problems, I decided as I was miserable over the thought of using some patients for a project that won’t help them, limits my ability to solve them. I should just do what I can and hope that things work out in the end. Not that planning isn’t valuable and important, but at some point I should start to consider the step directly in front of me, do the best I can, and not worry about what happens later so exhaustingly much.

That’s come into play with some of what I’m writing. If I work on the chapters that please me, eventually they start to form sections. Then the sections connect. Then there’s some semblance of a rough story. The same thing happened with the chapter I so wanted to write, then was terrified when my abstract was accepted. I started writing the sections I understood while using figures located in my dissertation. Then I made my way through easy methods, working up to those that are more technically intense. I read and highlighted and read some more. And I now have a document that I think is smart, descriptive and will certainly be helpful in my own research. I like to think that my instructions and demonstrations on a sample dataset will be helpful to some textbook owners. It’s a one step at a time thing, somehow made meaningful by little chuzzles.

If you hold your mouse over a chuzzle for too long, it begins to glare. Then it meeps and shakes the cursor to a different spot on the screen. I’m bothered when the chuzzles grow angry at me. It was kind of funny at first, but now I find that I apologize when they meep at me, and quickly move my mouse if I notice them glaring. I talked to Dawn today about refusing work that was overly demanding or time-consuming when it offered little reward. She did it – sent an email and firmly set boundaries. While I was impressed, I winced at the thought of doing the same. I find time to do the work if people ask. Ken requested a moment’s help this morning and I spent 30 minutes trying to find him data, though he told me to go back to what I was doing. I’m so eager for people (and chuzzles) to like me, that I get nervous and distracted from the true priorities.

I remind myself – as I sit at the desk in my spare bedroom – that the game is just a way to spend some time. Losing is inevitable at some point. If I’m happy and productive (if one can call playing computer games productive), then it’s all fine. The chuzzles will pop or they won’t. When I run out of possible moves, the screen tells me so and the chuzzles’ eyes open widely in dismay that I’ve failed them. But I can always play again. And the more I sit in there, the better I get (and I’m really pretty awesome, frankly). It’s a good experience – it soothes me and gives me a few good reminders about life.

I also see on the Wikipedia entry that there are other tricks. You can tickle the chuzzles (click it repeatedly)! You can make the chuzzles dizzy if you shake the row! And Mom informed me that she once left a game running and returned to find the chuzzles asleep. “I ran the mouse over them and woke each one individually.” She told me, delighted. “You should try it. They’re so cute.”

Now instead of telling you about my appointment with Dr. Counselor, I’m going to go make the chuzzles dizzy. Because I haven’t tried that yet. Perhaps that will develop into yet another lesson I can apply to life.

Easter

The flame of the white candle didn’t flicker, the light strong and sure against the backdrop of gorgeous white lilies as a children’s choir sang unfamiliar lyrics set to Ode to Joy. Church was crowded and rich. I think congregations tend to show off for Easter services – we’re grateful and happy and full of praise. The organ seems louder, the voices blend better, the sermon is a bit more heartfelt. The baby that was baptized did amazingly well, not flinching as the water was scooped on his tiny head, looking around with calm curiosity as he was carried through aisles made narrow by the insertion of additional chairs to seat the many visitors.

Dinner at Cousin’s was nice as well. Ham, cheesy potatoes, green bean casserole. We talked and ate and I helped clean up. My heart was soothed by spending time with at least one family member on a holiday. I got hugs from Cousin, Jay and Little Cousin. It was good.

I’m making progress on my novel and book chapter. I’m really pleased with both.

I finished mowing my lawn – it looks so much better than my neighbors’!

I got a high score at Chuzzle. I’m really quite awesome.

And yet I’m freaking out. I need a specific experiment time and in the absence of Calendar Controllers, I assumed I could have it. When Calendar Controllers got back to me this afternoon, I was told someone had already taken it. Which SUCKS since I need it for reasons that are relatively complicated. So I asked Calendar Controller if she could help me out at all, then asked Girl who Stole my Spot if she could start later. But I’m upset and worried and frazzled.

It turns out that the cup of coffee that kept me awake after dinner so I could do work was a bad idea – it’s making me all hyper with nervous energy.

And it’s Easter. A day for gratitude for this huge blessing and all this hope. A day for family and food and comfort. Yet I’m stuck on this small issue that can hopefully be resolved. If not, it’ll be OK. The small problems seem important because I fixate on them, but they really aren’t that big a deal. I should really calm down. And I’ll try. I took Advil PM (switching it up from the Tylenol to fight my headache and encourage sleep. Last night I had a dream that these gigantic mice (as in bigger than me and standing upright) were keeping me in a room. They weren’t being mean, per se, but they blocked the door and refused to let me leave. I don’t know why I shared that other than it made me wake up and wonder what was wrong with my poor brain.) and hope to sleep peacefully until I have to deal with my day tomorrow. I’ll work some more on my chapter before bed, having already spent a couple hours making my figures all pretty. That makes me happy. I’ll pray and have a bit of leftover salad from dinner.

I feel better having written that actually. So it was a sucky blog post, but rather therapeutic regardless. I’ll take what I can get at this point though.

Weeds and work

Imagine I own a house – a pretty structure that holds all my treasured belongings. Around my house is a lawn. I don’t take excellent care of my lawn, though I do try to make some attempt at keeping it healthy. For the most part though, I kind of assume it’ll take care of itself. I find I’m not motivated to devote time each day to lawn maintenance and I consequently cannot claim to have the most beautiful landscaping in my neighborhood.

When I was mowing last weekend, I noticed my yard is filled with weeds. And I decided it was a perfect way to describe what I do. It was going to take a long time to write out and it’s not like any of you have expressed some great curiosity as to my area of research. But I’ve thought about it more and more, so the time I could spend mowing and raking right now will instead be crafting an analogy for my job.

Weeds aren’t good. We must agree to the truth of that statement to structure the foundation of my argument. They grow too quickly, use all available resources, and crowd out the pretty grasses we want to be there. In the absence of much weed knowledge, let’s say that they also change the structure of the soil. They’re harder to cut than grass. We hate them and all that they stand for.

Our goal, therefore, is to rid my lawn of weeds. Now there are multiple strategies for attempting this project. I have three basic ideas.

1. I teach Chienne to dig out the weeds, removing as much of the root structure as possible. She will then carry the weeds to a trash receptacle. Obviously training my hound to do this will be non-trivial, but let’s say that she’s fully capable of doing the job if I can tell her exactly where to dig.
   
2. Using the laser that produces Sprout’s favorite red dot, I have added some element so that when the light is directed at certain spots on the lawn, the weeds are damaged. If the laser treatment is applied for enough days and for adequate time, the weeds in that spot should die from the structural damage caused.
   
3. I buy weed killer and spray the entire lawn. I hope that the chemicals don’t damage the healthy grass and have some targeting mechanism by which weeds are selectively killed. I must accept, however, that some damage may be done to the entire yard in this systemic treatment.

For focal treatments (options 1 and 2), there is an obvious need to isolate the weedy areas. In order to sic Chienne on the evil weeds or to focus the laser on the appropriate areas, I have to know where they are. I decide, therefore, that I’m going to take a picture of the lawn so I can develop some treatment plan. Now my plan would vary depending on whether I was going to use Chienne or the laser, but the overall premise is the same. I want to know exactly which parts of the lawn are bad and which are good.

So I take my digital camera and photograph the yard from many angles. Then I come in and look at those pictures and while I have some idea of what’s going on, it’s hardly a complete picture. Sometimes the weeds look a lot like grass so the boundaries are unclear. There are many areas which display partial volume effects (i.e. within a given region, there appears to be grass mixed with weeds that defies strict categorization). For those areas, I need to decide whether I want to treat them or leave them alone. I’m also a bit confused about some areas that might be weed but might just be a different kind of good grass. So I want more information.

Luckily, there are many people who know a lot about weeds and how to visualize them. So I ask someone to take an overall pollen map, hoping that I can differentiate between different plants based upon the airborne stuff they produce. I decide to rent a machine that can give me some basic idea of the chemical composition of the lawn. This is highly specific to weed/grass differences, but is rather difficult and time-consuming, so I can only afford to get a couple of regions done. Let’s say weeds are different temperatures than normal grass, so I take a thermal image. Perhaps weeds use more water so I create a map based on moisture usage. Maybe worms are drawn to the weedy patches more than normal grass, so I get a profile of worm populations across my yard.

There are people who devote entire careers to understanding worm populations, water-usage profiles, pollen counts, etc. We hope that each one will offer some valuable information, but we’re simply not sure if that’s the case. While they seem to work overall, every lawn is different. Perhaps on the day I took my chemical picture, the weeds weren’t growing very fast because the sun wasn’t out. Maybe it had just rained before we took our picture of the water, so everything looks really wet. Maybe the worms had other plans on the day we were interested in them and so the worm map isn’t truly representative of their overall behavior. There are many questions that can and should be answered about the individual methods.

Therefore, many people spend a lot of time studying healthy lawns. It’s easier to differentiate between grass, driveway and hedges so if you apply these pictures to those situations, you can refine your imaging capabilities. So that’s really good and very important, but my lawn is sick. I’m the one who needs help getting rid of my weeds, so let’s use some resources to focus on making my lawn well again. So that’s what I do – I study sick lawns.

My focus is this: Given that there are so many ways to study lawn behavior, can I take all those pictures (representing the best technology we have at the time) and get an excellent idea of what parts of the lawn are bad and which are good. Then we can rid ourselves of the bad while retaining the good. Easy aim, difficult problem. The pictures are huge and complex and require a lot of time and energy. But I develop and apply methods that analyze and combine them to try to isolate the weed patches.

How do I know if I’m right? Someone says that plants can be categorized based on cellular structure, so we mark on some picture where we’re going to pick weeds, go to exactly those spots, then pluck a piece of plant from the ground. Then someone goes off and analyzes those samples – they can define cell structure, cell number, cell properties, even the genetic or protein profile of the plant. This represents the gold standard of truth on what’s a weed and what’s grass. So we can compare all our pictures to these results and see if we’re actually seeing the truth of the situation or if our pictures are somehow flawed.

Project M considers all the pictures I can think of with the goal of telling Chienne where to dig. Digging is the way to go since some lawns tend to have a single, large weed patch. The pictures are disturbing. One expects to see a happy, green lawn and notices a large abnormality that looks different than normal grass and appears to send out tentacles of weeds in all directions. In graduate school, I looked at previously-treated lawns that saw a recurrence of weeds. We’ve chosen to focus on the initial occurrence of the unwanted growth for various reasons, but the pictures we take could offer additional information that would aid in the weed removal.

Project X, however, considers lawns that are sick in a different way. Instead of a single, large region, these lawns have multiple, smaller patches of weeds. So instead of a focal area that invites digging, there are an overwhelming amount of small spots that are wrong. And while it’s good that they’re smaller, the pervasive nature of the weed infiltration makes me ill. I’m not used to weeds appearing that way on my pictures. It bothers me.

When presented with lawns such as these, one borrows Sprout’s laser to use light and sprays the lawn with chemicals. The weeds are obviously spreading and appear at unpredictable locations. So a full lawn treatment is necessary. Therefore, any information I can give about where the weeds are located is rather moot. The whole lawn will be treated the same regardless.

The point, therefore, is more subtle. It turns out that if you have a new lawn, treatments cause some secondary damage. The lawn isn’t as healthy as we’d like as it matures, even if the weeds are removed completely. In an attempt to use some additional chemicals to protect the young lawns, we want to know if there are a set of pictures that can show this secondary damage that might occur. Since we don’t want to practice on new lawns, we instead focus on established lawns.

But I meet the owners of the house and I look at the lawn in front – ugly with weeds growing in tiny patches throughout, and I ask if I can take some pictures.

“I can’t really do anything to help your lawn.” I say. “I pray the treatments that will be delivered are successful. I want that very, very much. So in the hopes that we can help some younger lawns, I’d like to inconvenience you a bit by taking some pictures. Is that OK? It won’t hurt the lawn at all, but it also won't provide the help I so wish I could offer.”

I don’t know why the weeds show up, though there are people who are working on understanding that more. I understand a bit about how certain types of weeds behave once they exist, but that’s more to correlate with my pictures. I basically want to create a map of where the weeds are. And hope that it can help the lawns I see and add to the literature on how we might use various pictures to make lawns well again.

It seems important to me. Having met some home owners, it seems a lot more profound and urgent. And having crafted this analogy, I find that my tolerance for weeds is very, very low.

Oh. Ow.

I had my second laser treatment today. They were running late and while I was certainly less nervous, it was also more unpleasant in some sense because I knew which parts would hurt the most. When she did a spot on my chin, the hair is apparently of high enough density that it burns/stings quite a bit. I winced, eyes firmly closed and feet cramping from being curled defensively for so long (I tense my feet a lot - don't know that I've mentioned that before. I get foot cramps quite frequently and if I'm at all upset, my toes are likely curled under), and the tech asked if I'd like a break.

"I'd rather get it done, thank you." I replied. "Please go ahead."

"Men are the worst." She confided in a lovely attempt to distract me. "I always have to take breaks when treating them and they're supposed to be tougher! But they whine and complain the whole time - the gel is too cold, the laser hurts their skin, the light is too bright. It surprised me at first, but I find women tolerate the procedure much better."

I decided that since it is significantly more painful when the hair is dense (I barely feel it on most of the areas - just a tiny, hot pressure), men probably do have a rougher time of it. And if they're unused to the sensation of plucking or waxing, the pain could be unexpected. I really don't mind it - I could do it all over my body, I'm sure. The area that's treated in each blink of the laser is fairly large; I think it hurts less than waxing; The hair actually stays in - it just gets really hot under the skin. So, you know, ick and all that. But if it works, the discomfort will be easily forgotten.

I was slightly pink after the soothing lotion and ice packs, so I avoided the gaze of Cute Boy on Elevator when I made my way back to my car. I was rather hungry, so I battled miserable traffic and stopped at Panera for a cinnamon crunch bagel (split and toasted) with honey walnut cream cheese. I decided to get 2 by the time I made it to the counter, reasoning that I'd save one for later if my office was empty or would share if need be. After more "what the hell is wrong with you people?!" driving in the car, I arrived at my desk and greeted Ken.

"Would you like a bagel?" I asked because I enjoy Ken.

"Do you have extras?" He asked, looking up from his book a bit longer than he had when I first said hello. I nodded and took one out, placed it on a napkin, then handed him the bag with the other inside. He peered in the top and noted that it was a fancy bagel.

"A day with Panera bagels is a good day." I informed him and accepted his thanks for the morning treat.

I thought about how desperately I need a new Mac as I transferred files back and forth between my iMac and a PC notebook. Freaking software that only runs on Windows. I, however, cannot afford one and hesitate to ask Boss to shell out that much money for a laptop. So I'll live with the inconvenience. I was content, surrounded by papers and work and transferring files to make slow progress on a couple of different tasks.

The phone rang and soon after I hung up, I gathered paperwork and headed across campus to meet another patient for a study I'm doing. He called me "hon."

"Happy to have met you." He said as I left the room.

"Happy to have met both of you." I said to the couple. Then I realized I was not. I appreciate him helping - I told him that earlier. But I hate that he met me. I am horrified by the fact that he has cancer and can participate in my study that won't help him at all. I liked him. I want him to be well, and he isn't.

The first patient bothered me some, I thought as I walked back to my office, blinking back tears. I was nervous about logistics, knew I fumbled my little speech when I obtained consent, was worried about the technical details when the experiment was running. But as I look at her data, I'm sickened. I find I need breaks from that - the pain is too sharp and nauseating for me. Now I have an idea of what to expect and the emotional response is much stronger and more immediate upon meeting Patient 2.

I briefly worried I wouldn't recognize Patient 1 when we met the second time. My brain was so busy with details that I wasn't sure I remembered what she looked like. Patient 2's face is etched in my brain. I see it while I play Chuzzle. When I work on software problems. And my breath catches, stomach cramps and my brain whispers, "I don't know if I can do this."

Sometimes the second time is worse than the first. I'll let you know about the third when it happens.

Irritate or devastate

I once whined about problems at work. Told a lengthy story about someone who picked on me! Now I had to work with him and it was unpleasant and unfair!

There are, I was told, situations that irritate and those that devastate. While he was sympathetic to my problems and agreed that it was annoying, there was another realm of suffering to acknowledge even as I complained about the day to day ick.

I think some pain is too severe for me to truly comprehend. I’ve lost people I loved, even watched Grandma slowly decline. Yet I can’t find words to describe how sorry I am for those who have lost or are losing children or spouses. It must be devastating and makes anything I might write seem shallow and stupid.

I tend to withdraw in times of sorrow so it is always with vague surprise that I realize the world continues to go on around me. It is simultaneously insulting and comforting – that one moment there might be a prayer offered on my behalf and in the next breath someone is asking where the cream is kept for her coffee. If you’re suffering, I’m so sad for you. I very much hope that the pain eases and you find a way to cope.

My problems seem quite small tonight, and my day was fine. I had a massage this afternoon, arriving at work quite late afterward. I didn’t sleep in – awakened by a dog who refuses to enter the house without an invitation at 3AM, then again before 7. Why she won’t come in the dog door is beyond me – one of those situations that irritates, I guess. I took a walk, Friend gave Chienne her allergy shot and I watched for signs of death for a few hours.

I spent an hour lying on a table while my massage therapist enlightened my muscles. When asked how she knew where to focus her attention, she thought for a moment. “Some muscles feel congested. That’s the word that comes to mind – like they need some help letting go of their stress. If they’re tight for too long, they get confused and tie themselves in knots rather than flowing in one direction. So I remind them of how they should feel, try to stroke in the direction they should go.”

She held my head in one hand and firmly rubbed the muscles in my neck. “Your muscles aren’t confused.” She offered helpfully. “Just a little stuffy.”

“That’s good.” I murmured. “There’s enough confusion without my muscles joining in.” I couldn’t figure out one software package – it keeps erroring out when I try to use it on my sample dataset. I finished all the pieces of my book chapter that were floating around in my head. I’m now at the point where I have to actually work – troubleshoot software, form some cohesive story from the mounds of papers I’ve read recently. It’s hard. Irritating, one might say.

When my muscles loosened and my time was up, I dressed and noticed that my head felt all woozy. I wanted a nap much more than I wanted to find parking on campus and head to my desk. But I scolded myself and went to work, unlocking the door to my blessedly empty office, wondering if my violet has produced too many flowers, framed a copy of my journal so it could sit on top of the cabinets above my desk. I took calls, filled out paperwork, sorted through mail, sent several documents around campus. I wanted to go home – still woozy and sleepy – but it was more from being lazy than any emotional instability.

I somehow ended up feeling quite productive while I filled out my third list of things to do. I was moving through items so quickly that the lists were becoming obsolete. Being away for several days mean that little tasks pile up allowing for super-efficiency. That pleased me until I realized I was moving through a week of work in a single afternoon. This does not speak well for my overall production level.

I smiled at Boss when I entered his office to get the laptop a student had borrowed from me. I needed it back and asked a few questions while I was there. I emailed a letter this morning – one of the senior fellows in the group is submitting a packet for Mentor of the Year. I carefully crafted a lovely story about Boss – it would have fit in on my blog, and – difficult as it may be to believe – I write better here than elsewhere. I was pleased with it, and nodded happily when I was told that it was awesome and inspiring. I write excellent letters full of gratitude and compliments. It’s a skill, I thought rather immodestly.

“Hey.” Jill said quietly as I moved from Boss’s office. “Do you have a minute?” I sat happily and waited for her to tell me whatever it was I should know. She shuffled through papers, sighed and returned to her computer to print the documents she sought.

“I wanted you to know that you’re doing incredibly well. Of all the fellows, you’re the best by far.”

“Oh, Jill.” I said affectionately. “If that was true, we’d all be in trouble. My peers are brilliant. I’m just here.”

She shook her head at me and handed over some documentation for the progress report on the training grant that pays all of us quite well. I glanced through it, my 14 papers and publications for the last year dominating the 2 pages. The next highest was 3. I blinked and frantically looked for a mistake – I certainly wasn’t that productive this year. I must have screwed up. But it was all correct. Papers from grad school that finally made it in, abstracts with collaborators and friends, side projects that had annoyed me at the time but had shown up making me look shockingly productive on paper. I flipped through another page to note that my grant section looked impressive as well.

“Huh.” I said, still frowning over the papers.

“You’re doing amazingly well, Katie.” She said firmly. “I know you’re hard on yourself – I wonder if you see other people very clearly since your view of yourself is so harsh. If you think this past year was bad professionally, you’re setting a standard that nobody is meeting. You’ve done really, really well. You should celebrate that.”

Still distracted by reading over the paperwork I held, I absently said, “No, I should work harder.”

I looked up sheepishly to find her shaking her head. I smiled, thanked her and rubbed her shoulder before I left the office to deal with more projects. I worked until nearly 7, thinking that if I was employed in a place where I could take 3 days off to go home, then return to glowing compliments and friendly offers of help, I should be working like crazy in gratitude for such an environment. Things moved along very smoothly – I found some figure components I was sure I’d lost then put them together when I returned home. I’m down to a single processing step before finishing the analysis for my chapter. It’s getting close to being written, leaving plenty of time for the multitude of internal revisions we’ll do before sending it out.

I’ve started writing my novel again too. It doesn’t hurt so badly anymore and there are still thoughts that I need to release on a blog I continue to keep secret for some self-absorbed reason. It was a day. I wish I had more – Mom argued with Brother’s wife last night and was very upset afterward. She wrote this morning (we talked last night and I tried to soothe her – she’s more melodramatic than I am) and said she beat my high score at Chuzzle then got in bed and told Dad they might not see Little One for a while because Brother’s wife was being an idiot. She sounds weepy, though she rarely cries. (I learned from her.) She said Dad rolled over and cuddled her, told her it would all be OK and he was sorry she was sad. This isn’t shocking, nor is it completely expected of my father. So I wish I had someone to offer a congratulatory kiss when I announced my 14 publications/presentations had blown away my counterparts this year. I wish I could roll into someone and cuddle when I knew I was being overly dramatic late at night.

But I’m blessed with people I love and work I enjoy (and sometimes can even do properly) and a life that holds problems that fall firmly in the irritating category rather than the devastating one. I still don’t know what to say about that. I continue to feel relatively small and shallow and stupid. But I’m also tired and lost as to what I should add here. So, I guess I’m done for today. A bit irritating not to have an satisfying ending, but I'll handle it.

Lilacs, tradition and noise

“Aunt Katie!” Little One called as we all wandered around in the bright sunshine on Monday afternoon. I looked over at her and saw that she held a plant her grandma had carefully dug from around the larger lilac bush. “You take this home and plant it at your house?” She asked, turning to toddle over to the planter Mom indicated and placing the roots inside, then bending to place her hands on her knees and stare at it. I came over to do the same.

“Yes. I want to take the lilac home and plant it at my house. Then I’ll have a lilac too. Just like your grandma. My grandma had one too – it shaded the sandbox in her backyard and it was my favorite plant ever.”

She nodded, then gasped with horror when she saw a worm. “Hold me!” She insisted, holding up small arms and cuddling into my neck when I lifted her.

Dad placed the worm carefully in the planter, insisting it needed to move to my house as well. “It’ll meet Southern worms.” He told Little One. “Get an accent. Make some friends. Enjoy the warmer weather.”

"Acky." She pronounced and I murmured my agreement as I smoothed her light brown curls.

It was a healthy little sprout – growing off to the side of the bush that produces pale purple flowers and light green leaves. After it was tucked in some rich Illinois soil, we wandered over to the Pussy Willow that lives off to the side of the lot. My grandparents lived in a small cottage on a busy street when I was young. There was a blacktop driveway to the left of the light brick structure and three small steps led into the kitchen that overlooked a sunny backyard. In the backyard stood a garage with pale yellow siding. Beside it was a huge Pussy Willow bush. I remember going out to look at it. Standing in the alley and marveling at the soft puffs, coaxing Grandma into cutting some branches so I could take them inside and show Mom when she came to pick me up.

Years ago, Mom took a cutting from that bush by the alley and planted it at the light brick structure my parents bought when I was in second grade. I brought two sprouts from that plant home too – roots incredibly long and healthy – and dug a hole in heavy clay to tuck them in the ground next to the light brick house where I currently reside. I mixed the rich black soil from home with the dense clay I have here, patting dirt into place, introducing Midwestern worms to their new Southern friends.

There is an exquisite continuity to it – the way traditions seamlessly ease into the next generation. If I live here long enough, I can remind Little One that she helped dig the lilac that I’m hoping grows at the corner of my front walk. We can wander around the garage to see if the two Pussy Willow plants are producing soft, gray puffs of their own. And perhaps someday she’ll decide that her house requires a few plants she remembered seeing at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

I decided on my way home – a long trip that was made in the daytime today rather than through the night of yesterday – that I made Grandma happy. Much like Little One delights my mom, I was a source of fascination and pride and love for my grandmother. This pleases me – that my endless search for purpose may not need to be so difficult. I effortlessly mattered to people when I was tiny. I do the same now – to the few people I love dearly. That fact – often overlooked – is important. I don’t know that it’s enough, but it’s important.

“This is going to be loud.” I told Mom last night as we sat in the arena and waited for Blue Man Group to begin their performance. “Please don’t cover your ears with your hands, OK?”

She giggled as she nodded, and I joined her in laughter. Mom and Aunt took Grandma and Aunt’s Mother-in-Law to see a concert about 15 years ago. Both women are gone now and I miss them terribly. They saw Julio Iglesias, if memory serves. The older women wanted to attend, and Mom and Aunt sat on either side of the pair in their plastic rain bonnets that were carefully removed once they were seated.

“So the lights came on – they were bright and flashing – and the music started, all loud and pounding, and I looked over at your mom,” Aunt told me, “and your grandma had her hands clasped over her ears, a look a such distaste on her face that I started to laugh. Your mom was hysterical too, nodding at [Aunt’s Mother-in-Law], who had her hands over her eyes, peeking through while squinting at all the lights and movement. It was like ‘see no evil, hear no evil’ and we laughed until your grandma scolded us. They both said afterward it was a bit noisy. They didn’t think they liked him so much after all.”

So when I shy away from large crowds or noisy bands, when I demand respect and get a bit shrill with indignation, or when I plant the pretty lilac and hope I get to have a child so I can give her a sandbox that is shaded by such a fragrant, pretty plant, I’m reminded of the past. The wonderful women who came before me. They told stories of those who came before them and I’m profoundly grateful that I have stories of those women that I remember and love.

Mom said, by the way, that she was tempted to slap hands over her ears last night. She liked certain songs and found the Blue Men to be quite interesting. “But it was a lot of banging on stuff.” She noted. “Rather loud, I think.” Even as I laughed at her, I nodded in some agreement. I am my mother's daughter - I'm strangely pleased with that.

Random Bullets of Home

• Little One and her Grandpa are watching Dora in the living room. There was a big, red chicken blocking the path to the quiet forest and it refused to wake up. Dora decided to get a horn from her backpack to wake the poultry. Just as I was thinking the exact same thing, Dad said, "I'd have thrown that rock at it." I nodded in agreement even as I laughed.
• The computer purchased for my mom's birthday is all set up. I also organized the chaos that was her desk in Little One's toy room. It's really very nice in here now.
• The computer came with games. While I'm rather superior in the fact that I don't play many games myself (I don't know why I'm so proud that I waste time in other ways, but I am), I have spent hours aligning fuzzy creatures in Chuzzle. I've only reached level 9 and my score was upwards of 194,000. Oh, and I collected 3 trophies for my trophy room! I, um, have no idea how said trophies were collected, though Mom and I read the tiny descriptions as I clicked and dragged the little creatures about. When she plays, she sees different matches than I do, which I find interesting enough to mention. I wonder if she would have thrown a rock at the sleeping, big, red chicken...
• We had steak yesterday with Brother, his wife and Little One. It was absolutely exquisite. Today will find me returning to the meat boutique to acquire more top sirloin.
• At 8PM yesterday, as the house quieted into sleep (my parents go to bed even earlier than I do), I was feeling not great. Near tears and weighty with sadness, I prepared to sigh myself into a self-pitying sleep. Instead, I got up and crept down the stairs to exercise and wrote a large section of my book chapter. So while I'm still not doing well, per se, I am getting better enough to fight my way out of the worst moments.
• There's something about being home that makes me wish for my own family though. There is a pronounced ache that there's nobody for me. This is very sad.
• I discovered - as I was cleaning and organizing - that I know my house much better than the one where I grew up. I couldn't find a hammer to place pictures in the hallway. I wanted a canvas drawer set to store some of the many toys that clutter this room. I needed to put extra phone cords away and had no idea where to store them. It pleases me that I've made my own space - fairly far from here, actually - where I have knowledge of where items are and where they should go.
• Unfortunately, I live in that place alone. I obviously keep getting stuck on that point lately.
• Chienne rolled in something gross during her morning outing yesterday. I found myself barely awake - before 7:00 - giving the dog a shower to wash the disgusting smell from the fur of her neck. She's now shiny and smelling of Garnier shampoo plus conditioner, but that was hardly the way to begin a relaxing day.
• 'Prout, after a beginning that had Friend stuffing him in his carrier while he lunged at the sides in a failed attempt to escape, has settled in nicely. He's still jumpy - he doesn't trust easily - but will return quickly after scampering away. He continues to bite Mom because she lets him. He tolerates Little One as she waves toys wildly at his head.
• Mom and I are seeing a show tomorrow night - it was the reason for my long weekend. The plan is to drive south afterward - leaving here at about 11, I think. Traffic should be light. I plan to sleep tomorrow while everyone is at work or school. We'll see how it goes, but I must be back for group meeting on Wednesday so people may offer their congratulations on my cover.
• I haven't read blogs since leaving home on Saturday morning. I'm oddly OK with that, and hope that good stuff awaits me in bloglines.
• It's good to be home. The drive sucks (though I listened to an audiobook that rated high on the erotic scale even for me this time. I found myself blushing more than once.) and the daybed in the back bedroom isn't so comfortable. But it's nice to be around people I love. I really do - at some point - need to move closer again.