But, no! It's not fair!

I may have mentioned one project on which I work. It's more administrative than anything - not at all difficult, but rather time-consuming.

When I was first asked to play errand girl - organizing and moving and burning CDs, filling out forms - I was rather bored and didn't mind. I was getting to know an important scientist and clinician in the field and was pleased to help.

I have since become busier and chafe a bit against the demands of this particular task. I wasn't sure why I was being so icky about it - it really isn't anything other than inconvenient - but then I read through an email Very Important MD sent to the drug company.

She asked if I could be added to a presentation since I'd been such a help with the analysis. I thought that was a lovely gesture and was a bit surprised when a firm refusal was delivered.

But, OK. That makes sense. It's not like I'm doing upper-level work here. On the other hand, what exactly am I getting from this? Post-doctoral work is to be selfish - we're all about the presentation and publications and putting lines on our CVs, right? VIMD is being paid handsomely for her involvement in addition to being placed on publications. While I don't seek to diminish the high value of her expertise, I put in about ten times more time.

So I asked the drug company representative with whom I communicate if there was ever a chance of being placed on a publication or presentation. She took over a week to reply - I normally hear back in a day to any question or problem - and said that most presentations were only allowed 10 authors, that there were many people from various disciplines involved, that even her name was a battle to be included.

I should now point out that Pete (of my defense fame) was fond of pointing out that there were too many authors on papers. It was how he defended his decision to steal my colleague's work. When I removed his name from my final publication (the one that earned a cover image), I desperately wanted him to ask me about it so that I could chirp back, "I decided there were too many authors so I pared down the list!"

So just as I will bristle if I'm dating someone who says, "I like you and I wish I could spend more time with you, but I'm just so busy!" I will grit my teeth and glare when people bring up a vast number of authors. My argument is that if you need that many people to do the work, you make room to add them to the paper. There is no way that VIMD would ever deal with even a fraction of setting up these analyses. I think they should have allowed room - via authorship or other compensation - for the minion that will enable her to grace them with her interpretation of the data.

The publication would look good for me - I crave it. But I really understand that I don't necessarily deserve it.

I think the answer is clear. I should opt out of helping further and ask Boss to hire a grad student and pass that cost on to the drug company. It's probably 10 hours a week for someone who's less knowledgeable than I am. Labor - even mine - is cheap. But I haven't been offered anything, so I might as well step aside and let someone else make some cash. The kid I replaced was being paid hourly, so it make sense that the next would be too.

I hesitate because Boss clearly doesn't like for us to say no. It messes with his happy little world where we're friendly and smart and valuable resources to the entire department. I honestly don't blame him for wanting that.

But I'm not learning anything other than how to wait for a conference room that's nearly always in use, how to wait while CDs load, how to call when the data isn't there, how to fill in spreadsheets with numbers that are read to me. I don't really need this extra practice with menial crap.

I am earning favor with VIMD. She likes me a lot more than she did in the beginning. I do enjoy it when people like me. But it's turning into more work rather than any credit. I've now been pulled into a different drug development project! So I spent hours last week organizing and arranging for a mere 'Thanks!' sent via email.

It's not enough.

I'm bothered.

But, much like the last post I wrote, I'm failing to be decisive on what to do from here.

In other news, I have this head/ear problem going on that left me at home today. I have searched far and wide and through over 100 Google search pages to accumulate posts by or for or even slightly related to postdoctoral work. I think the carnival (held here! 5/23! There's still time to write!) will be quite good.

Carnival update

Do you know or love or exist as a grad student? The 10th Carnival is up at 10-Year-Plan and it's pretty as well as informative. I haven't yet had time to work through it, but I look forward to doing so.

If you know or love or exist as a postdoc, please feel free to direct me to any relevant posts for our next What's Up, Postdoc? carnival. It will be held here on May 23. Though I have a nice list started, I don't want to miss anything. Luckily, I've been struggling with migraines lately, leaving me lots of time to scour the internet for new blogs and posts. Good times.

Mommy & Me

“Mother.” I sighed. I had called to see how today went – she had an appointment with the doctor and she and Dad took Little One to see a show.

After she finished with her stories, I told her I talked to Brother yesterday. He told me that Littler One will be a girl.

“He didn’t sound happy.” I mused. “He sounded tired. The poor kid’s exhausted, I think.”

“He works really hard.” Mom replied. “And Brother’s Wife has him running all over. He cooks and cleans up every night. Helps clean the house, does all the laundry, picks Little One up from daycare every other day. Works all the time. She doesn’t know how good he is.”

Before they were married, Brother’s Wife informed Mom and me that he loved her far more than she loved him. But her mom told her that was the way it should be – that way she’d always get her way.

I am unwavering in my belief that there are rocks smarter than this girl, but to say such a thing to your boyfriend’s family is asinine. He’s far too good for her and I only tolerate her as his wife and Little One’s mother. Otherwise, I – terrible as it sounds – have zero interest in her. My mom – though she does put forth tremendous effort – is similarly disenchanted with the pretty blonde.

“When they came over the other night for dinner, I put my plan into practice.”

“Ah.” I said knowingly. She had explained that Brother’s Wife expected Brother to help cook and clean up each time they were at my parents’. When Brother said that was standard operating procedure regardless of the location – his wife’s parents, my parents, their home, friends’ houses – Mom was displeased.

“So Brother helped me cook dinner – he grilled while I made pasta salad. Then after we were finished, I said, ‘Brother, you helped cook. Now go sit down. Brother’s Wife, you’ll help me clean up.’”

She paused to allow me to be impressed that she remembered the script she’d devised earlier. I smiled but didn’t comment, resting the phone against the left side of my face and snuggling into the couch.

“She said she guessed she could do that, and helped me get the kitchen back together.”

“Good.” I praised. “So you feel better?”

“Well, some.” She said. “But she still takes him for granted! We had to go get Little One last night so that she could yell at him in private. She said he went for a drink when they got home from the sonogram, then wanted to watch TV later on. Since she wanted him to vacuum and clean the kitchen, Little One had to leave so they could fight.

“So Little One came over and when Brother came to get her this morning, he said he did what she asked but she kept bossing him around. So he left for a little while – he just got tired of listening to her.”

I watched the end of Raymond while she detailed how lucky Brother’s Wife was. How hard Brother worked, how much Brother did, how wonderful Brother was.

“So I’m going to tell her.” She said. And that’s when I sighed at her.

“I think you should let him figure it out.” I advised. “He’s smart and resourceful and he can do this on his own. You don’t need to correct her behavior, Mom. Then she’ll get mad and you’ll be hurt and I’ll get another phone call about how she’ll never let you see Little One again.”

“I’m not going to cause problems!” Mom said, indignant. “I’ll just bring it up casually.”

“Mom…”

“She should know! If she doesn’t start taking care of him a little, he’ll burn out and there won’t be anything left for her to take advantage of. He said he’s only staying because of the children.”

“Well, Brother sometimes lies. Or gets frustrated and wants to vent. If he wants to leave or needs his situation to change, he’ll have to make that happen. You can’t do it for him.”

“She needs to know.” Mom stated stubbornly and I told her to do what she needed to do.

We get bored in my family. None of us sleep well, leading to irritability in general. Mom, Brother and I are quite sensitive and are therefore offended when people don’t take the care with us that we would display with them. We are fascinated by drama, though we are very upset by it. Yet we continually create it.

It’s so easy to see from the outside though. I don’t give Mom too hard a time because I get it. There’s this injustice and it tugs at the consciousness, demanding some action or attention. After all, I, in my infinite wisdom and maturity, wrote email to Boss this morning.

I've been avoiding saying anything about Dawn because I don't want to make you uncomfortable and would hate to seem intrusive or disrespectful. I have every confidence that you did what you thought was best with the situation and do not require details or explanations. I consider myself to be incredibly lucky to work for you and am learning a tremendous amount. I just wanted to share some information so that I can stop thinking about it and so that I'm confident you're aware of the situation as you decide what to do next with that position.

The last time I saw Winnie was before the retreat last summer. We talked about how one of my papers had been accepted and how she was disappointed that her former advisor hadn't submitted everything she'd written. She seemed sad and exhausted, which struck me as unusual for her, so as she was making copies, I asked what was going on. She told me that she was on probation for not accomplishing tasks quickly enough. That her mentors in her other lab were vocal in their disappointment in her work. But she said that she felt buried in administrative and other tasks - training students, dealing with protocols and revisions for the entire lab, keeping records. She said she wished she was able to spend more time in our offices - and on her research - but she didn't have the resources to do so. Her hands were shaking during the conversation so I helped her punch holes in papers and put them in a binder. I encouraged her to skip the retreat if she didn't have time to make a poster and deal with travel, and she spoke to Jill about her options.

I understand the retreat went very well for her, and I was pleased to hear it. I also acknowledge that I could have caught her on a bad day when she just needed to complain a little. I know there are times I'm overwhelmed and busy and then things lighten up and feel more manageable again.

Regardless, that conversation haunts me and when Dawn started, I suggested she might want to guard her time a bit more carefully. I shared that I worried they'd taken advantage of Winnie and pushed her far too hard to do work outside the research project she wanted to do. When the same thing appeared to be happening - the lack of research support or training at [other lab] followed by insistence that she handle tasks more related to the lab than her own work - I was pleased that Dawn stayed focused on her tasks and limited her involvement with protocols and training and doing projects for which she didn't have time.

Since this apparently led to her eventual resignation, I feel guilty for encouraging her to go down a path that ended up working out so poorly. I think Dawn is very bright and extremely motivated. She seems focused on what's fair and feasible and is clearly willing to help and work hard, but seemed to chafe against the environment in that lab.

I very much wish that Dawn's time here had ended differently. I do want to be clear that I know you did your best to help her. I certainly don't mean to offend you - I just wanted to make sure you had my information. I think I've had such wonderful collaborators here - Dr. Icing and Quiet Mentor have been encouraging and helpful - that I'm bothered that another scientist will be lost to what seems to be a terrible environment and selfish mentor at [other lab].

If you'd like to discuss this further, please let me know. Otherwise, please accept my apologies for intruding on a situation that has nothing to do with me or my career. I debated heavily over sending anything, but every time I look at the empty desk in my office, I felt heavy with the need to say something.

Katie

I didn’t send it. I’m torn as to what I hope to accomplish. I don’t have a complete picture and I’m clearly on Dawn’s side since I had grown to enjoy having her around. It has nothing to do with me and therefore any statements in this area could be construed as disrespectful. And I’m not exactly operating from a position of great power. My performance in this postdoc has been adequate but not overly impressive. I don’t want to cause problems for myself or introduce tension into my relationship with Boss unless it’s truly worthwhile.

The problem – for Mom and me – is that we see a situation that could go a couple of ways. We very much want to help and have enough free time to obsess over a way to do so. As for what the right answer is, I’m not really sure. I find we’re both helpless against the impulse to share our thoughts, try to help, make sure people know what we think is right, even when said thought has no real place in the situation.

Mom now has a new plan though. She will patiently wait for the moment where she can pounce on some statement an unwitting Brother’s wife makes. Then she will try her best to casually incorporate how wonderful Brother is and how lucky his wife should feel. And it’s not likely to do any good.

I’m less decisive in my approach. I don’t know whether to send the email or to wait and see what happens. I feel sick at the very thought that yet another person will be hired to work in that lab. So now it’s your turn to sigh at me.

Under the Skin

"It looks like steak." I commented, making an expression of disgust as I stared at my computer screen yesterday morning.

"I'd say it's more ham-like." Ken offered, squinting from over one of my shoulders. He continued his discussion with a couple of collaborators - I pulled him into the project to write some code and he did an amazing job. I sighed, not really having much to do other than pulling people and work together in some reasonable way. It's basically what I do - organize and talk and plan and write. There's not a tremendous amount of science in my professional life.

So I let their voices blur into the background as I examined the human thigh on my screen, looking at all the different muscles, the bone in the center, the fatty layer surrounding all of it. I glanced down at my own leg, covered as it was by gray dress pants and frowned. When I look at a cross-sectional view on my computer, the skin is rather inconsequential. But it's all I see in person - examining how pale my legs are, even compared to the very light color on my arms, checking to see if I did an adequate job shaving, making sure none of my freckles are growing or changing. But look at all the stuff in there! All this complexity and structure that makes it possible for me to stand up, climb stairs, walk around. It's rather fascinating.

And disgusting. It continues to remind me of steak and I don't like it. But every time I look down at my legs, I have this knowledge of what's going on in there. "Hello, muscles." I think. "You look like steak. Or ham."

I rested on a massage table this afternoon and considered the experience as she worked on the muscles in my head. Over my cheekbones, into my jaw, rubbing under my hair at my scalp. She doesn't want the skin either, I thought, sighing at the release of tension in those tiny areas. My therapist is after the muscles underneath, the tension that weaves around and stubbornly clings, making me achy.

"I don't stretch as much as I should." I confessed with a wince while she worked on my shoulders and back. "I do a little, but I get focused on work or whatever and forget to take care of myself."

Therapy is likely the same way. I forget to consider my thoughts carefully and they veer into ick. Negative, depressing, self-absorbed garbage that ends up twisting around me so securely that I'm trapped inside before I even realize the problem had grown so large. Counseling forces attention to the problem spots and offers tools to untangle the mess on my own. But I really do think I'm going to take a break. Try some stretching on my own for a while.

As I dressed afterward, looking at the muscle diagrams posted on the wall, I wrinkled my nose as I examined the thigh picture. All the ropey muscles that travel up and down or diagonally around. That's what exists under my skin and protective layer of fat. Though I'm fascinated by anatomy and physiology, I also find it a bit creepy. I'm glad all that guck is covered up in a neat package. That when I see friends or colleagues, I don't think about how their bodies work. We just exchange information and converse, discuss problems or laugh over memories.

My fascination with keeping a journal online is that all of that superficial stuff is pushed aside. I continue to be awed by the fact that people can strip ego and pretty layer that makes us appear competent and normal and expose the truth behind their daily interactions. I'm often befuddled - especially of late - as to why people read what's here. What I know that you don't. What I've experienced or noticed that might be of interest. I think the draw for me is the beautiful and grotesque honesty.

I'm often scared. Confused. I'm rarely excited to go to work, but am grateful that I can muster enough motivation to get there on most days. I'm competitive enough to care about publications and grants, but I don't really see why it matters in the grand scheme of things. I've seen the research world be impossibly cruel to some and stunningly kind to others. I believe I've been in both groups, though far more frequently in the latter.

There's a tremendous amount going on underneath. That I get to peek into some lives and glimpse some of that is an honor. That some of you stop by to glance at my problems or stories or secrets means a tremendous amount to me. Because while sometimes muscle images remind me of what I see at the meat counter when buying groceries, other times I'm graced by a phone call from Brother in the afternoon.

"You had the sonogram." I recalled after he said hello. "And?"

"We're having another girl." He announced proudly. "I just can't escape houses of women."

"What did Little One think?" I asked. They took her with them to see her baby brother or sister.

"She was disappointed, I think. Not that it's a girl, but of the pictures. I think she wanted an actual picture of her baby sister. To see what color her hair was, what sorts of outfits she was wearing, if she smiled for her photo - that kind of stuff. So the blurry, black and white ultrasound wasn't what she wanted." I smiled, leaning on the railing outside the lobby of my massage therapy building so as not to disturb others with my conversation before my appointment began. What's inside can be yucky or disappointing or unexpected. But Little One is resilient and recovers a lot faster than I do.

"But now," Brother continued, "she's happy. She can point out the head and hands and is very proud of the picture."

"I'm proud of you." I told him. "Congratulations!"

"I hope I get to have one." I said sleepily as I neared the end of my massage, the muscles in my back finally allowing the tension to be smoothed from them.

"You will. At the right time." My therapist said of my desire for children. I'm coming to understand that what I expect or hope isn't necessarily what's forthcoming. The ability to continue to dream and to adapt when circumstances change is an important one.

But I'm still a bit grossed out by the meat-like stuff that lives in my legs.

Carnivals

ScienceWoman has Scientiae #6.

This reminds me that my own turn at hosting a carnival (albeit a different one) is fast approaching. If anyone has postdoctoral posts they'd like to share, please feel free to send them along. I'm so far behind in my blog reading - work is taking up a tremendous amount of time! - but I will happily read though my masses of entries on bloglines and search out things to include in the next What's Up, Postdoc? carnival.

Petite

Today was composed of hours devoted to small tasks. A meeting here, an experiment there. A few errands in which I dropped off or picked up bits of work. I deposited a check and did some shopping online. I mindlessly clicked buttons and busily backed up precious data. I endured a long commute in the morning and one only slightly shorter back home.

I wanted today's experiment to go well, braving the long drive yesterday despite lingering illness to ensure that all was prepared for this afternoon. It went beautifully - it was my first patient for that particular project and her follow-up data was gorgeous. It seems a small thing - less than an hour to collect data, a couple hours to process all of it. But in terms of feasibility and building confidence, it was quite important. I'm pleased.

I also wrote email to Dr. Counselor. Being done with a particular therapist is fine, I think. But I feel abandoned, as silly as that sounds. Like I wasn't progressing fast enough or doing well enough so I don't get to go anymore. While I was sitting this afternoon, waiting for my experiment and taking care of little tasks, I composed a quick note. I asked him to send the referrals since I didn't feel it was necessary to meet one last time. I'm hurt and offended and no longer wish to deal with him.

He replied with a message that sounded confused. But he did think - if I decided I was done working with him - that we should meet again so he could give me his blessing in person.

Now if I was an adult, I suppose I'd go to the appointment and gracefully end our time together.

Instead, I deleted the appointment from my calendar, smiling when Google wanted to confirm, asking "Delete Dr. Counselor?" I decisively clicked yes. I also replied to the email that he was the one who said we were done. I thanked him as politely as I could manage and reiterated that I don't particularly want one last session.

Then I went to the bathroom and cried.

It's a small thing - losing a therapist I happened to like and was likely ready to leave anyway - but it matters somehow. So I'd rather analyze data and watch TV than think about it, leaving you with a rather lame blog post.

I guess what I told Dr. Counselor is true. I am much better - productive and busy and capable of functioning. I didn't get all the way better and I am hurt that I no longer feel comfortable going to him, but I think I did get what I needed. Maybe.

Dichotomy of Home

The phone rang late Friday night. Well, 9:30PM is late at my parents’ house. Mom was napping in the living room and Dad had been in bed for over an hour. I, super-cool person that I am, was just beginning to drift to sleep in the back bedroom when I scurried down the hall to stop the ringing.

“Can I talk to [Dad]?” A man asked and I frowned a bit. Anyone who knows my father is aware that he goes to bed quite early.

“I’m afraid he’s asleep.” I offered, polite, but cool. “May I take a message?”

“Oh, this is Chris LastName.” He said apologetically. “We were just talking and I thought I’d call to see how he was. But don’t wake him – it’s not a big deal.”

I recognized the name, though I couldn’t place the man. But after a moment my brain pieced together the voice and the name and realized he was an old friend of Dad’s. I immediately warmed my tone.

“Oh, Chris.” I said. “I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you. Does he have your number? I could write it down.”

“I can try to call another time.” He said. “It really wasn’t important.”

“It’s just that he goes to work really early during the week, so he’s in the habit of sleeping before it gets too late. I could try to wake him up.” I said. Then I interrupted his protest to offer that Mom was going down the hall.

“Mom?” He repeated. “Who’s this?”

“Oh.” I said, smiling. “This is his daughter – I’m visiting for Mother’s Day. I sound a lot like my mom.”

“You sound old.” He replied and I laughed a bit.

“Well, I am.” I said lightly, offering my age when he asked.

“Wow.” He breathed. “Twenty-eight? I remember when you were just starting to talk!”

I sighed, then said that Brother was nearly 24 and expecting his second child, as if deflecting attention would make the years that exist between now and then somehow fewer. Then I heard Dad talking to Mom and took the phone down the hall. I finished a Quiznos salad at the dining room table – a place the four of us gathered every night to share dinner and stories. Now it’s just Mom and Dad that eat there, save the occasions where Little One or Brother or Brother’s wife is around. Dad spoke to several friends while he laid in bed down the hall in the room that used to be mine. He bragged about my PhD and Brother’s children, listened to stories of other kids who are no longer as young as he remembers them being, and caught up with several old friends.

It is strangely familiar and foreign to stay at my parents’ house as I space my visits further and further apart. I’m finding that the memories of how things used to be are seeming older, perhaps a bit more faded. And though I don’t necessarily want to go back, I’m a bit startled at how different life sometimes seems. As if it shouldn’t change at all while I’m away, though I know it must and does.

“Wasn’t there something outside before?” Dad asked on Saturday evening as we watched Little One, Little Cousin, and Boy Cousin play on the playground to one side of the church. We went there for a dinner and gathered at one end of a lengthy table. After standing in line for supper, eating, clearing our plates and getting cake, the kids made their way to the tiny plastic slides and teeter totter. I followed to take some pictures. “You did go to preschool here.”

“I honestly don’t remember, Dad.” I said, frowning to focus. “There might have been something, but that was a long time ago.”

I do remember Grandma, I thought. There are steps leading to the preschool classrooms in the basement of the church. When I didn’t want to go, she took my hand and walked those steps with me. When I was scared to stay alone, she’d coax me into the classroom then wait outside the door on those stairs. I’d peek out to make sure she was waiting – keeping me safe and loved and ready to take me home if I needed to escape the colorful confines of preschool. But I don’t recall what – if anything – used to lie outside those particular doors. And the woman who sat on those uncomfortable steps every day has been gone for far too long.

I’m almost 30, I thought with dismay. And I really don’t feel I should be. Where did the time go between when I lived with these people in that house? When we talked every night and knew each other so well? How did things change so much?

Yet there are constants at home. I slept in on Saturday morning, walking down the hall at the late hour of 7:30, my steps making a hollow sound on the floor above our full basement. Dad says Mom and I walk too hard – we apparently sound like a herd of elephants. I rather like the noise though and have made no attempt to alter the weight of my steps. By 7:00, they’d both been in the guest room twice. Dad to open a window since it was so cool outside. Mom to cover me up in case I got too cold. Dad to come in to see if I was awake yet and wanted coffee he made. Mom again to see if I was ready to get up and plant flowers. Each time, I’d feel them look at me as I swam slowly toward full consciousness. Then they’d wander back down the hall to tell the other I wasn’t awake yet.

We did plant flowers on Saturday, drank coffee, went shopping, dealt with cable internet, had dinner at church. It was rather lovely.

This morning, I woke at 6:30. I was ready to be awake, but aware that my head had bothered me all night. Rather than taking Advil and nipping the problem early, I’d allowed the pain to build into a migraine. Upon getting upright, I realized I had a large problem and grabbed Advil before proceeding to the living room.

“My head hurts.” I announced as I flopped on one corner of the couch. Mom looked up with an expression of concern from her armchair. Dad asked why I hadn’t seen more doctors as he perused the paper from his recliner in the corner. I ended up going back to bed after sipping coffee Dad proudly brought to me. I got up again to ask for a Tylenol – the headache was growing and throbbing and I wanted it to ease.

“You shouldn’t mix medicine.” Dad advised, but Mom got her pill bottle and offered me a red capsule.

“Are you OK?” She asked softly. “Can I get you anything?” I shook my head, took the pill, then headed to the bathroom. I turned on the tub so I could listen to the water run – it soothes me – and patted the dog as she sat next to me in the room. I felt myself gag a bit and moaned. I hate throwing up. I very rarely do it because I fight the impulse so very hard. It’s awful for me – always has been. I just hate it.

So it was with some shock that I found I was going to do so this morning. Chienne panicked and started to cry. She made a grateful escape when the bathroom door opened. As she always has, Mom turned off the water in the tub and wet a washcloth in the sink. She reached around me to flush the toilet and wiped my face after I finished, then rubbed my back as I rested my cheek on her shoulder and hugged.

“I don’t like throwing up.” I told her.

“I know.” She said, voice soothing. “You never did.”

We walked down to the back bedroom together – the room that Brother used to have growing up, still painted a peach color – and I settled on the trundle bed. She sat in the red rocking chair she used when Brother and I were babies. After a moment, I stopped trembling from the nausea and scooted to the edge of the bed. She immediately stopped rocking and nudged the chair closer and rubbed my head.

When I started to sleep, she rose and quietly left the room. She and Chienne went outside to plant more flowers. Mom likes to have a row of flowers and vegetables around the edge of the fenced in yard. It’s rather silly, I think. She has sunflowers along the back of the fence, tomatoes in the corner, squash and pumpkins toward one side, peas and beans along the other side fence. Brother and I tease her, but she continues to plant her odd little garden every year. I heard her come in and out, the screen door making its distinctive sound in its tracks as she checked on me.

I woke an hour later and felt much better. Loved and comfortable and home. Things do change and will continue to do so even as I search for a way to live closer to my family. But the depth and certainty of our love for and knowledge of each other commands confidence that there’s always a home waiting for me when I need it.

So the weekend – even with its odd tugs of regret that I’m aging – was lovely. Filled with plants and their rich, earthy smell and delicate blossoms, playgrounds with bright colors and toddlers’ laughter, voices that were infinitely familiar even as they told stories I hadn’t heard before. I miss them already, even as I’m pleased and comfortable to be back in my own house.

Ah...Internet

The magical "ready" light that has been stubbornly blinking since my arrival here at 1:00 this morning is finally solidly lit. The cable internet has deigned to allow me access to the outside world and after a moment of pure joy, I'm somewhat lost as to what to say.

The ride home was interesting. I've been working enough lately that my tolerance level - never all that high - is remarkably low. Much as I wanted to be home with my family for the weekend, I wasn't up for making the drive. Luckily, Cousin was planning on a similar travel schedule and agreed to let Chienne ride in the covered bed of the truck (it has a topper and my dog was joined by Cousin's dog) while I rode with them. It was nice to not have to drive. It was not nice that construction/poor route planning added an extra 2 hours to an already long trip.

The silver lining in such a long, boring ride is that I had time to just be. I had my laptop and tried to work at first, causing more problems than I solved. Then I just watched the world go by for a while as we sped northward. When I got bored of my thoughts, I opened the laptop again and solved a problem. Pleased, I moved on to another troublesome project and figured something else out. Then I rested some more, listened to movies play while Little Cousin watched them in the backseat, and opened my laptop once again to work again. I would have called any weekend that solved said problem successful, so I'm delighted that the ride provided time to think and figure a few things out.

Chienne cried for a large part of the trip. She normally rides in the passenger seat, free to roam around the car and look around. Being separated from humans hardly pleased her, though we stopped frequently to let her out to walk around. She wanted in the truck though and wasn't shy about expressing her displeasure when her wishes were not granted. To add insult to injury, Mom looked her out of their bedroom since Dad and Little One were sleeping in there. Mom joined them when we got home and I listened to another 90 minutes of cries on how Chienne wanted to be in there with Grandma and Grandpa! In there! Now! Open the door! The poor canine had to settle for me.

I'm still seriously tired despite my 5 hours of sleep and 1 hour nap today. I have that achy-headed, heavy-lidded feeling that comes with desperate desire for sleep. I did, however, get more work done today. I'm actually in reasonable shape for next week.

Little One had me read Oh, The Places You'll Go! to her this morning. Well, I didn't get to finish before she took the book and walked away, but I did get to read parts of it. I thought of how much time I've spent waiting and in Slumps. I wish I shared Seuss' certainty that I'm not meant for such things and will rapidly move on from them. I was also startled at the depth of emotion that came with my desire for Little One to avoid some of my mistakes and to enjoy a richer, happier life. As I pushed her on the swings at the park, forsaking my own opportunity to swing, I realized I was content. She was happy and lovely and so full of possibilities and hope. It's rather amazing. It also makes me feel quite old.

Little Cousin is similiarly charming, though she didn't enjoy the trip north. At one point, she deemed Cinderella an unacceptable entertainment choice and when "Not Shrek" was mistaken for "Watch Shrek," she expressed her frustration with Cousin by throwing the remains of a popcorn chicken snack all over the backseat. I thought it was rather funny. Cousin wasn't so amused.

I'll have to post my angry letter when I write it. While Mediacom's customer service was, for the most part, quite good, there was one woman who irritated me to no end. I let her know she was "hideously rude" and that "I do not appreciate your attitude or tone, so I suggest you adjust both!" She failed to heed my warnings, obviously being of a whorish personality, so I will endeavor to get her in trouble. I have very little that's exciting in my life, obviously, and she should be nicer to my mom when she's having internet trouble that isn't her fault. I generally write good angry letters, so that should be fun.

In my quest to work and sleep and continue to stay just above the "too depressed to function" mark, I find I'm strangely without stories or much to say at all. I didn't mean for a single day to stretch into many though, and - as always happens - I missed being here. But I'll catch up on as many of you as I can before the internet flits away and I'm left to sleep and work and talk with my folks. There are, I know, much worse things than that.

Absent

At first I was tired and busily working.

Then I rode north with Cousin, et al. to spend Mothers' Day with Mom.

They have cable internet now! Unfortunately, it doesn't always work.

Have argued copiously with Mediacom about said service.

Convinced Mom to bring me to Panera to "check important email."

More when I return home on Sunday evening. In the meantime, I'm exhausted (but sleeping a lot) and without communicative abilities. You may pity me if you like.

Tuesday, May 8: cake and make-up

Boss entered the room to resounding applause. One of the admins ordered a cake and reserved a conference room so that the department could gather and congratulate him on his mentoring achievement. He immediately flushed with embarrassment and sat in the closest seat available.

“I don’t know what you were told.” He said. “But I’m not retiring yet. Unless someone knows something I don’t.”

We all laughed and Jill informed him that we wanted to congratulate him on his recent award. Someone had framed the article that appeared in one of the campus publications. There was a large cake and a nice card. He was presented with the framed document and his card and he ducked his head to read them.

“Well,” he said, “this is very nice. Embarrassing, but very nice. But you should really recognize those people.” He waved toward our section, where 5 of his current post-docs sat. “They’re the ones who did the work and obviously toiled over letters that found my good points.”

“They were easy to write.” I said and smiled at him.

“Thank you.” He said, looking around the room at all of us who had gathered. It was a rather large crowd. “I guess I’ll have some cake later.” He said, getting up to leave, clearly uncomfortable with all the attention and applause and smiles of pride.

“You will not!” Jill said firmly. “Talk to people while we get the cake cut!” So he walked over to us and discussed science. How my analysis is going, how a recent trip went for two of our other group members. He eventually made his way around the room, thanking everyone for coming to wish him well. He made self-deprecating jokes, deflected credit and smiled sheepishly. He is a lovely, lovely man.

So much so that when I got email at 9:30 informing me of his 11:00 surprise gathering, I walked down the hall and got dressed, speeding off to campus despite my residual sleepiness to ensure I could clap with the others. I ate a generous slice of chocolate cake that Jill placed in my hands, talked to some people, then headed back to the office.

Project A – where A is for annoying – continues to grow. It takes time to stay on top of all the details, and I resent that I get nothing out of it and am expected to make time to do menial labor. But trying to get out of it would cause conflict. Boss doesn’t like conflict, though I do think that he’d try to hire someone to do that work if I told him I couldn’t do it. But he’d rather I just handle it. So I will.

Resolving to behave graciously, I walked through the hospital, dropping off a CD I’d burned. Someone asked Boss for a favor. It was forwarded to me and I took care of it. Everyone’s happy. Then I made my way to the land of Project A. For the first time ever, I was able to get all the resources I needed on my first try. Normally someone is in Area 1 or using Room B or Computer #$* is somehow lost. But everything went smoothly – I worked for about 90 minutes – organizing and filing and moving data around, checking and sorting and marking things off my lists.

I made my way back to the office to work on my presentation for tomorrow. I’m to tell the group about my recent data. Luckily, it’s gorgeous. And I have stuff to show – patients for 2 projects, results from my book chapter, future ideas. I did work! So I have things to say! It’s rather nice.

I took off early and went to the mall. I had a facial and make-up application at Origins. My skin is too dry – I need to moisturize more. She massaged and washed, toned and exfoliated, then added serum to my face to reduce any inflammation or redness. A different serum was applied around my eyes to prevent any fine lines. Then we moisturized – once for face, another for the eye area. As creams and froths and gels were piled on, wiped off then smoothed in again, I grew tired. This was turning into a 10 minute face wash and I don’t have the patience for such a thing on my own.

“I need something quick or I lose interest. A wash of the face, some moisture, then it’s to bed or to work.”

“Well, you said you already have Modern Friction.” She noted of the exfoliating product. “Use that 2-3 times a week – do it in the shower even. Then you’ll wash twice a day and moisturize after. Since you already have eye and face serum, use those. Then a complete moisturizer.”

I sighed, but agreed. I do own many products – all I needed was a good moisturizer and I knew I’d buy something after receiving the facial and free cleanser. We turned the chair around and started with make-up.

“I use Bare Minerals.” I told the gorgeous redhead that was helping me. She never said her name. “It’s light and pretty and provides good coverage.”

“So we’ll use powder.” She said, starting to apply concealer. She dabbed and rubbed and frowned and blended. I got bored. Then she applied powder. Smudged and sponged and brushed and blended. I wrinkled my nose – it felt heavy. Like my skin was weighed down with guck. We moved to the other side of the table to apply bronzer, then she worked on my eyes. Eyeliner, 3 different shadows with some kind of base underneath. Then she applied some dark pencil to my lips and covered the color with gloss. I thanked her when she handed me my glasses and took a breath before facing the mirror.

I don’t like dark lips or overdone eyes on my face. I tend to cover flaws and leave it at that. Some shiny gloss that’s not too sticky rounds out the picture. This looked…overwhelming. In all fairness, it was probably subtle as far as full applications go. And her compliments might have swayed me to purchase more products at one time. But I’ve settled on make-up. The experimentation is pretty much done – I have a routine of which I’m fond. I like my tiny tubs of powder and the swirl-tap-buffing I do each morning. If I wear contacts, I’ll swipe a bit of shadow on my eyelids, but I don’t worry about it too much.

It’s nice to be certain, I decided, brushing at the speckles of eyeliner that littered my cheeks. I can try something new and with a quick glance in the mirror dismiss this method in favor of the one I typically use. When most days find me painfully indecisive and generally lost, it’s oddly reassuring to thank someone for their time and pick only moisturizer, leaving all the colorful products for someone who likes them better.

The indecision, of course, returned as I headed to my car. Should I go back to work or head home? Do I include a superficial explanation of the project in general for tomorrow or pick one topic and go into detail? How much time am I willing to devote to Project A when there’s no feasible reward? Should I email Maria again since she wasn’t in at all today or do I let her do her own thing?

I picked up a pizza and came home. Before I had a single slice though, I washed my face and applied moisturizer, content in the knowledge that I like my face better when it’s not covered with powders and smudges and creams. That’s not much, but it’s something.

Therapy: nearing the end

"May I tell you what I've noticed about you?" Dr. Counselor said, leaning back in his chair and frowning darkly when it squeaked. "I share this office with a very short man." He offered, distracted over his seat, "and he keeps adjusting the height! It's too old for all that so it squeaks all the time."

"You need some WD-40." I offered dryly. He was bugging me again. Offering advice and interruptions when I wanted to whine and complain. I was upset about Dawn. It was, as I expected, difficult to walk in the office to an empty desk in the corner. The clock was gone from the wall, the pictures in their frames missing from her desk. All the books and papers and general clutter had been wiped away as if they never existed. And I didn't like it.

"I'm bothered." I had said. "I don't want to do anything to make Boss uncomfortable and though I want to help, I know Dawn can take care of herself."

Dr. Counselor looked up from the examination of his chair and blinked at me. "If I may be a mirror?" Then he drew a rectangle in the air with his hands as gave him an exasperated look. I know what a mirror is - I don't need visual aids. "When you look at life," he continued, "you're always dealing with some irritant. Some gnat or smudge in the corner of the overall picture. And you dwell on it - turn all your focus to this problem and allow it to ruin any tranquility or happiness you might feel."

He looked at me expectantly. I sighed and shrugged.

"There's always something with you." He clarified, still waiting for a response. Was I supposed to be shocked and enlightened? I'm aware that there's usually something wrong. That I can be overly critical and negative. Did he really expect me to be impressed with his insight? I continued to stare at him, wanting to leave.

"I've noticed that about you." He tried again. "As we've met together over time. That you're usually bothered over something."

"OK." I finally said. Forgive me, but if I was happy all the time, why would I go to therapy? If I was stable and strong and peaceful, there would be no need to see him at all. So, yes, given that I go to his office to talk every other week, there is still stuff going wrong. And I was bothered. Now he was on the list of crap that was marring my tranquil existence.

We stared at each other, and I looked at the clock again. I had work I could be doing if we were just going to state the obvious then sit in silence.

"I know it's always something with me." I finally said, a bit snippy. "It always has been."

We talked a bit more and I continued to wrinkle my nose, refused to participate in his role playing games and sighed impatiently as his ideas.

"This is the worst I've seen you." He finally said. "You've confrontational and..."

"It's not you." I said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "I'm just in a mood."

"In a mood." He repeated. "So I can't say anything that's going to help. Should we just be done?"

"Today or forever?" I asked.

"Forever, I think." He said, and I blinked in surprise. Had I been so bad that I wouldn't be allowed in therapy anymore? But... I liked seeing Dr. Counselor. He's sincere and non-threatening. A bit goofy, certainly, and often annoying. But I thought he liked me and wanted me to be well. After a single session of moodiness, I was being dismissed?

"Oh." I said softly.

"I'd like to see you once more - I don't want to end on a sour note." He said softly as I started to dab at my eyes. He offered me a tissue and sat back to consider me kindly.

"I do think I'm done here." I said, voice quivering. "I've been thinking for a while now that I need to either accept that I'm staying at this level of emotional health for the foreseeable future or get ready to do some serious work on how I think." He nodded, opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

"I guess..." I started, then stopped to swallow. I don't like change and Dr. Counselor stepping out of my life was startlingly painful. I just can't hang on to people in my current location, I mourned silently. I don't know why the keep leaving me, but they all do. It's just a matter of time until the next one goes. And despite trying to remain contained and closed off to avoid the pain of being left alone, I'm still hurt when people disappear, leaving blank walls and empty desks where a bright, dynamic, funny person used to be.

"This is a good job." I finally said. "Boss, the projects, the money. I don't think I could have found a better place to work right out of grad school. I'm blessed - I know that. But I'm so unhappy sometimes, Dr. Counselor. So very miserable."

"I know you are." He said. "You're very sensitive and that's good. You're so easily hurt that you try not to hurt others. You care about people and animals and work and life and...everything. You just think so hard all the time and you keep finding these little problems that hurt you."

I nodded, and sniffled.

"You need to figure out how to put on gloves when you deal with roses." He offered. "Roses are beautiful, you know. They look and smell wonderful. But if you're not careful, you get stuck by thorns. My skin is thin - I'm getting old. Yours is probably much more resilient. But if we speak in metaphors, you need to find a way to wear some gloves. To enjoy the roses and avoid the sharp sting of the thorns."

I'll miss the metaphors, I thought sadly. Dr. Counselor has been good for me.

"You did what you were meant to do." I told him. "I'm coming to work, being productive, getting things done. I'm so much better than I was."

"We've done good work together." He agreed. "But you think it's time to see someone else? A woman, perhaps? Someone who's older than you but has also struggled with relationships and balance and worldview?"

"I don't know that I'm ready." I said. "But, yes, I think I should get some names and think about going somewhere else."

"I'll put a list together." He said. "Then when we meet again, we can talk about who best can help you. Do you want the whole list or can I pick people I think would work best?"

"I trust you." I said. "You can give me whatever you like."

He moved to stand and I waved him back in his chair. "I need a second." I explained, dabbing at my eyes again and taking deep breaths. He waited until I nodded, then gave me a brief hug before I walked from the room.

Despite the pain of losing yet another person in my life, I do think this is best. I feel like going to a place away from campus - one where I'm more comfortable falling apart if that's what I need, knowing that I don't have to immediately walk back to the office and pretend to be OK - would be helpful. Perhaps a woman would be better - I'm not sure it matters, but I'm willing to accept that it might. I think I need to start over - consider the problems, get to know someone new, embrace working toward something better instead of striving for mere productivity so I don't get in trouble at work.

"I think I'm relieved." I told Friend over lunch. "I haven't enjoyed going to see him lately. Our progress had stalled a bit. I think we were both thinking we should stop seeing each other. It's time."

"Will you see someone else?" She asked.

"I should." I offered.

"I was looking for more than an acknowledgment of your needs." She replied, but smiled.

"I think that's all you get for today." I decided. "I'm not sure what I want, if I'm ready, what I'll do. But I do know I have work to do - I don't like being unhappy and I do think I'm capable of more than this. But I don't know yet."

I do think very highly of the quirky man who helped pull me out of a deep hole. He provided a very safe place for me to go. Listened and talked and cared deeply about how I was doing and ways to help me do better. There were weeks when I relied on that 10AM appointment on Mondays for motivation to drag myself to campus. There were weeks I waited eagerly to see him so I could share progress or discuss problems. I carefully transcribed those meetings to put on my blog in the event that Dr. Counselor's blend of silliness and wisdom might provide a spark of help to someone else. He really is a very dear man.

But in two weeks, I shall go for the last time. To say good-bye, to get referrals and to, I'm sure, discuss what I've learned with him. I think the biggest thing is that therapy - the very thought of which used to terrify me, causing me to cringe away dramatically - isn't nearly as scary as I thought. Given the right person and appropriate methods, it really did help me considerably.

Given the right motivation and a willingness to seriously consider and work on myself, I do think it could help some more. But I'll let you know what I decide.

Hello

Being a dedicated SiteMeter addict, I very much appreciate the influx of new visitors. Yesterday I learned all about the beginnings of the breakfast cereal industry when someone searched for whether or not stamping a lizard was a sin. (I'm the top result! Do you think it's a euphemism or am I missing something?)

Anyway, it does not escape my attention that some of you are new and the quality of stories here is either depressing or, in general, not so high. It's just that I'm actually doing work lately and the mental energy that I used to give to blog posts is being spent elsewhere. After almost 2 years of general screwing around, it's probably fair to work a bit harder than normal of late. But I will endeavor to come up with some stories that are fun for me to write and you to read soon.

It is with grim determination that I am searching any post-doctorally-related posts. I asked if I could host the next What's Up, Postdoc? carnival, but then freaked out when Propter Doc agreed. What if I do a bad job?! So I am reading and searching and bookmarking my little heart out. I don't have a theme (what if I came up with a lame theme? Or if nobody had anything to say about my theme? Oh, the embarrassment...), unless it's "Try not to screw this up, Katie." But that's more of a personal theme than an overall carnival one.

So if you've written or will write anything you'd like included in the May 23 carnival, please let me know between now and then. Otherwise I will sacrifice sleep and work to click all over the internet, searching desperately for posts that will enlighten and entertain. Thank you for your support in this difficult time.

Also, I've been trying to keep up with new links in my sidebar. I do it by hand and have been adding people over the last week or so. If I missed you and you'd like to be included, I'm more than happy to do that. It shouldn't surprise you that I visit blogs and search for my link, feeling a bit sad when it's not there. (I'm a bit insecure, aren't I? Never fear - I see Dr. Counselor again today.) Though I sincerely hope you're more balanced than I am, if you'd like to see your link, please let me know.

I think that's all the housekeeping stuff. I think it's a bad sign when I'm dreading going to work this much. I don't want to know if Dawn is really gone for good - I'd rather stay away and believe she'll be back soon. I don't want to hear that my collaborators screwed up their part of the experiment, rendering my work relatively useless. I'd rather remain ignorant and hope everything worked out. I'd rather not discuss my life with Dr. Counselor, bringing up problems I'd be more comfortable ignoring. I'd really prefer to skip a meeting this afternoon as those people have historically been less than nice to me. My life is really not so great right now. Good blog posts must be forthcoming.

Random thoughts on reviewing

(I'm quite tired. This may ramble or fail to make sense. Sorry about that.)

It’s not mean enough, I pouted as I went through my notes on this paper I am to review.
For some reason, I think one way to exert my expertise is to rip someone else apart. This is difficult to do when I am hardly knowledgeable in the field in which a paper is written. (It’s probably doesn’t speak well of me that I misspell ‘knowledgeable’ each time I type it. I would like to leave out the ‘e’ at the end of ‘knowledge.’ I don’t know why.)

But how do I know if someone is qualified to write a review? Is the material representative of what’s available in the literature? Is the paper worthwhile? I don’t really know if the authors are well-recognized – they’re not in my field. I haven’t read any of the literature until I started searching for articles in the paper. I don’t feel comfortable judging whether this is worthwhile at all!

Yet I can read. I do know science and clinical literature. I’m familiar with the disease, though not in terms of these methods. As I read through the paper, there were parts that I learned from and parts that were poorly-written and rather useless. I recognize that and can direct attention to the sections that most need it. I can also compliment the elegance of transitioning from one topic to the next.

I think there are a few types of reviewers. I’ve had little enough experience to divide them into two categories. As a reviewer, I therefore call you some combination of swear words or I would like to buy you presents for being so lovely. I think there’s a difference – a vast difference – between someone who attacks work they clearly don’t understand and someone who carefully examines the paper to understand the problem and offers ideas on how to improve the explanation thereof. Do I seek to soothe my ego by convincing myself people write crap? Or do I give compliments where I feel they are due and propose some idea of how to improve the sloppy paragraphs?

It’s difficult to write something, I think. Though I’ve never attempted a review, I hardly think my academic standing should aid or prevent a good document from being published. If one knows the literature and can present a helpful synopsis of relevant points, more power to you. My book chapter attempts to do a bit of that and it’s hard. What to include, what to mention, what to only cite. It takes time and energy to decide what to explain and what to reference in hopes that someone will do some extra searching if they require additional detail. It’s not a quick or easy process.

I didn’t review papers for Advisor. I don’t do so for Boss either. They both preferred to participate fully in the process. I feel a bit on my own, though I think they both tend toward the ‘how nice!’ end of the scale. The interest is more on making good work better. But even in the cases of crappy papers, I think there’s a difference between offering demoralizing criticism and constructive critiques.

It’s incredibly frustrating for me when people berate me for not answering questions when they could have found the answer by reading the full paper. I realize that it’s a chance to improve the clarity and organization of my writing, but still. There’s also no reason to include comments like, “What?” or “Really?” or “No!” That’s stuff I scrawled on this paper, but as I type out comments for the authors, I’ll try to figure out why I was confused or bothered. When dealing with revisions, it’s easier for me to have a specific task. Change this wording or organize this paragraph, do another experiment, calculate this particular statistic. Those are things I can do. “No!” doesn’t help me. Other than to come up with some inventive insult to call that reviewer.

So as I frown over my lack of harsh criticism, perhaps I’m just reading a good paper. Either that or I’m an overly-kind reviewer. But those are nice to catch sometimes, right?

Gloom & Doom

I'm fond of storms and clouds. I don't have to squint in the bright sunshine and the world feels sleepy and comforting to me. On an overcast day here, I'm quite content. I took a quick walk with the dog, dodging light sprinkles. Then I weeded around my lilac - after frosting over, it looks to be recovering beautifully in the southern heat and humidity that has descended on my neighborhood. I've done some light cleaning and a bit of work. My headache is, for the moment, gone and I feel rested and relaxed.

I realize that I have painted a less than comforting picture of academia recently. This bothers me on some level since I think people should have hope and remain optimistic about their chances for a brilliant and fulfilling career in research. Several times since starting this blog, I've felt like it's "Minor Revisions - The Place You Go to Get Bummed Out. Welcome!"

When I was in college, Mom sent a cookie bouquet for my birthday. She picked each cookie individually, and there one decorated as a birthday cake, another was a dog, there was a beaker for science, a pretty present, and a couple of flowers. Then there was a bright yellow happy face cookie.

"Because you're such a happy person." Mom said as she explained her choices. I was hugely flattered, frankly, since I see myself as rather glum sometimes. I do like to laugh and I am cheered and charmed by life at times. But there are times when I feel I'm a giant, sucking hole of negativity. I'd like people to think of me as positive and happy rather than pessimistic and sighing heavily. When I prize sincerity and honestly, it's hard for me to to project a more positive energy sometimes.

What I think I've learned so far in higher education is that experiences vary widely. I have personally had much better luck working for more established faculty members. Does that mean that all junior faculty are evil monsters who are out to take advantage of students? Not at all. Will I naturally gravitate toward older professors with whom to collaborate? Yes, I have. I find I'm more tense in meetings with up-and-coming researchers. While it's not fair, I don't trust them as much as those who are more established in the field.

Dawn likely has the opposite prejudice. She had a wonderful graduate experience working for an assistant professor, and has hardly had the best luck in her post-doc with older faculty members. So it seems to depend on a few personalities and the actual project, perhaps the funding situation, the other people in the lab, the needs and your skills, the timeline.

"I don't know what to say." I told Friend after I received the first email about my defense experience. "I don't know how I got through it - I just did. I don't know how to advise someone to go from her own misery because I'm still not OK with what happened to me. I've been largely unhappy here, have accomplished very little and ended up on anti-depressants and in therapy because I can't trust people or cope very well with life. I lost confidence that things will work out in the end. That people are inherently good and kind. And I don't know how to get it back."

She paused and considered me for a moment. "I don't know that the goal is to go back to how you felt before this all happened - to forget all the bad stuff and pretend it didn't exist."

She's right. There must be a way to balance the happy hope with a reality that sometimes leaves me disappointed.

I haven't yet found it.

I do know that it's not all bad. There are days when an analysis works and I'm thrilled. I really enjoy a vast majority of the people with whom I work. It's not all good, but it is continuing to get better for me. Honestly.

It's important for me to seek validation and joy outside my professional life too. I need to go to church, see my family, walk my dog, clean my house. If research starts to get painful - and it often does - I can come home and smile over my new bedspread. It's this deep, rich brown - lightweight and silky. I can look forward to my Origins appointment on Tuesday. I can pray or call home or cuddle with a very affectionate canine. Friend and I can meet for lunch. There are happy moments even when work is sucky.

When I first met Dr. Counselor, he shared with me a breathing exercise. He said that someone had a theory that panic was due to an error in breathing patterns. If one could control how they took in and pushed out air, then there was a feeling of calm and control over life in general.

"You exhale and push away the negative. Feel all the bad feelings being shoved far away from you. Then you have room to inhale and embrace the positive. The love and grace and kindness and hope has room to take hold because you made room to feel all of that."

I thought he had to be kidding. My life was just coming back together after I'd spent weeks weeping on my bathroom floor and he was giving me breathing exercises? Thank God for the pills, I thought, because therapy certainly wasn't going to help much.

Yet it has. Dr. Counselor is tricky in that he sometimes seems lame and harmless, but actually knows that of which he speaks. I find there is comfort in breathing. Focusing on the factors I can control, pushing the negative away and pulling the positive closer to me. I sometimes wrap myself around pain. I fret over Dawn. I worry I made a mistake in the analysis. I fear I'm doing a terrible job with Maria. What if Boss is disappointed in me? Or I somehow humiliate myself? Who might come along and tell me I'm not good enough? What if I'm really not smart or knowledgeable after all?

In those moments - when panic builds and I feel minuscule and defenseless - I breathe. In attempting to push those feelings away, I can remind myself of the successes and the goals. In those moments - and I've had them lying in bed, sitting with my laptop, working at my desk, dealing with traffic - I push away the bad and yank the good closer and feel more powerful.

There are terrible circumstances for some of us. I don't mean to minimize someone's struggles with a simple breathing technique - I'm truly sorry if you're suffering or scared. I know how that feels. I'm still working my way toward something I hope will make me happy - I'm not sure what that looks like. But I do hate to make you all sad along the way.

Resignation

I don’t feel well. I woke this morning at 6 and shuffled down the hall, as is my habit, to check email and read blogs. I went back to bed – just to rest my eyes for a minute – but woke several hours later. Sighing heavily, I came back to the laptop and stared blankly at the screen. I’ve been working quite a lot lately and I really am tired. The energy level just crashed this morning and I’ve been unable to get it back.

I stood in my closet around 10:00, staring at the wall of summer clothes, and sighed. Chienne was huddled in a corner. It’s been raining and my dog has an irrational fear of thunder. Instead of choosing a shirt, I sat on the floor to cuddle. As I dodged kisses and told her that rain wasn’t so scary, I also confided that I didn’t want to go to campus. The only reason to go was to hear the resolution of Dawn’s recent struggle.

Given that I failed to pick a suitable outfit as I stared up at the row of hanging clothes, I realized my chances for making it to the office were low. I had plenty I could do from home and my head was bothering me. As I was pouting my way through a shower, trying to talk myself into driving to work, the cell phone rang. When I checked my messages, I eagerly returned Dawn’s call.

“How are you?” I asked immediately.

“I’m doing fine.” She replied. “I resigned my position yesterday.”

I frowned, trying to decide if that meant for EB’s lab or for the overall fellowship. “So the meeting didn’t go well.” I finally said.

“Oh, no.” She drawled. “We went in and nobody wanted to talk about my issues or all the paperwork I brought.” Obviously, I thought. If one takes email to refute a professor’s complaints, chances are said email will not be closely examined. I still scowled at more evidence that the world of academic research is sometimes driven more by ego and power than curiosity and fairness. “So I sat and listened to them complain about me and insult my work, then when I tried to talk, I couldn’t even finish a sentence. So I started packing up my stuff to leave.

“One of the other professors was offended by that and asked what I was doing. So I told her I couldn’t even finish a thought! Why should I be respectful to them if they were being so rude to me? So I told her that I didn’t mind listening to everyone else, but I expected the same courtesy. If they couldn’t extend that, then I was leaving.

“She told me to feel free to express my concerns, so I did and nobody would make eye contact with me. So I finally stopped talking and waited until I could leave. I kept putting things in my bag and was told that I could take a day to decide if I wanted to continue to work in that lab. If so, it was clear that I should do as I was told, regardless of how fair I found the request.

“I took yesterday to write my letters of resignation. Then I went in late last night to return my keys and gather the last of my things. Then I stopped by our office and picked up my stuff from there.”

“Oh.” I said simply, saddened. No more pink flower clock on the wall with the bumblebee on the second hand? The exasperated outbursts, complaints about parking and searches for free lunch were to be no more? I’m just going to go in on Monday and never see her again?

The thought makes me ill.

“But you’re still working with us.” I said hopefully. “You just left EB’s lab.”

“It’s unclear. I gave my letter to Boss as well, but he said he knew what it was and wouldn’t open it yet. He’s going to try to find another way, talk to some people. He’ll let me know.”

“OK.” I said, trying to figure out what to say next. “I want you to work with us.” I offered with all sincerity.

“Thank you.” She said kindly. “We’ll see what works out. I just told him that I was really unhappy with EB – it was affecting my health and I didn’t want to be that miserable doing my job. I was happy working with you guys – the atmosphere is completely different. So I hope it works out. We’ll just have to see though. We just got paid on the 1st, so I’ll be OK.”

But, I wanted to protest, you were talking about buying a house! How you wanted to publish and teach and give seminars! How are you OK with losing that because someone is a miserable human being?

Then I realized that there must be – for some of us – some sense of acceptance. There are fights one can’t win. I can’t make someone love me. She can’t create a fair situation when working with these particular people. So you let go of a dream and move forward because clinging to what-might-have-been just doesn’t work. But it still makes me sad.

We talked for a while longer – her weekend plans, the funny things her cat does, the dog she hoped to have if she bought a new home eventually. We both were huddled in our homes, still wearing pajamas, talking on the phone as if we were friends. We should have been at work, plotting how to get a free lunch. While the difference between the former and latter does upset me, I’m also not completely shocked by it.

I asked Pete – a few months after I graduated – what had happened. The fact is that I still need him and Advisor. They are the logical choice for letters of reference as I apply for grants. So we all pretend things are lovely and they’ve both written me beautiful letters. But before I asked Pete to contribute to my grant, I asked what he thought of me. If I was really so untalented and stupid and awful as he made me feel.

“I never thought you were anything but smart and talented and focused.” He replied to my email. “I did think you were a bit naïve.”

That innocence is gone now. I no longer expect that the fair option – one that favors the student and offers an avenue for professional growth – will be the one taken. I’m not sure why the research fields can be so brutal – funding crunches, a perpetuation of poor training environments historically, insecurity and unhappiness being inflicted upon others – but they sometimes are. That was a hard-learned lesson for me, but I did get it.

So upon hearing Dawn’s news, I wasn’t all that surprised. I realized she wasn’t about to back down and didn’t have much faith that Boss would back her up to a great extent. Though he still might come though – he is a good man – I’m resigned to the fact that sometimes it just sucks. Some people leave without degrees. Others quit jobs.

I’m disappointed. And sad. And still wearing pajamas.

Suck, or rhyme thereof

“So what’s up with Maria?” Dawn asked yesterday. I shrugged and turned away from my computer. Dawn’s meeting was yesterday afternoon, not Tuesday. She wrote the day down wrong. Mistakes are common in times of stress, but she continued to prepare and was all worked up and ready to fight when she left yesterday.

“We’re supposed to be working on this project.” I said of Maria. “It’s just that my attendance is – to anyone other than me – unpredictable. Her appearances in the office seem to be the same. So we don’t see each other all that often, which makes collaborating difficult. So…I don’t know.”

“What’s the project?” Ken asked, glancing up from his notes. He doesn’t go in for the personal details, bless him, but he does like the work.

For the next 20 minutes, I did what I should have been doing with Maria. We talked about this little side project. Why it’s important, what the goal is, how to implement the code line by line in Matlab, what loop structures to use. He wrote examples on the board and I corrected him when he started down a path I’d tried already. Once he’d finished writing it out, Dawn had long since turned back to her piles of printed emails.

I sat back at my desk, sighed and started to write out notes. I was thinking about the stupid project, so I might as well make progress on the code while I waited to collect my own data. This particular project has been on my desk for over a month. It’s a favor for another scientist, so the turnaround should have been a bit quicker. It was, in our defense, trickier than it first seemed. But the premise is quite simple and the code – if properly considered – is relatively straightforward. Given that Boss has asked me about it recently, I moved it up my list of priorities and decided to do something this week.

Ken walked over and stood behind my chair, watching me type in my Matlab window. He took his turn at correcting me, doing math in his head and offering advice on how he debugged code.

“That should be 20 to 4890 in steps of 10.” He noted as we parsed out data into a matrix. I typed something in and he offered his advice on how it could work faster.

“So if you…” he continued instructing. I’ve worked with enough scientists to recognize one that gets fixated on a problem. He was writing code in his head, I knew, and I was just slowing him down.

“I’m tired.” I finally said, my brain screaming for a nap while his was busy doing calculations. I’m recruiting for all projects, have a list of my own that’s long and growing and am concerned about being able to get all this stuff done. I woke twice last night and came to the laptop to start more code so that it’d be finished when I woke up again. I’m a bit overwhelmed right now.

“Do you want to take a break?” He asked eagerly. Ken’s laptop had been left at his apartment, so he coveted my pretty iMac, with its ability to talk to Matlab. “I could work on this for a while if you want to do something else.”

I smiled and picked up the paper I’m to review. I have no idea what’s going on, frankly, and knew my craving for a nap would hardly be conducive to constructive comments. But I gracefully shuffled down the hall and found a comfortable chair in the break room. I tucked a leg underneath my body and settled in to read, making notes and underlining text to keep myself focused.

It is, I decided as I settled the papers on my legs and leaned my head back against the wall, difficult for me to determine my motives sometimes. I was charmed that Ken was so interested in the data. Given that I’d rather not deal with it and Maria is clearly not around to handle it, it was a refreshing change to see progress. He continued to work on it – though I told him several times he shouldn’t feel obligated – and sent me a file tonight that would make the exact results I wanted a couple hours ago.

The right thing, I think, would have been to wait for Maria. In some sense, I was asked to guide the initial stages of her research and I’m willing to do that. If I were around constantly, which isn’t an irrational expectation, then we could work when she happened to be in the office. Then she would learn and we would make slow progress toward her independent career.

Given that I’m excellent at justifications – one must obtain such a skill if inherently lazy and prone to guilt – I can make arguments for doing it the way I did.

Ken is always around. He puts in many hours at the office, and is therefore available for those random discussions. Collaborations are often born of convenience – if I have a problem and someone is there to help me, I’ll likely ask for assistance. So Ken is rewriting a section of my chapter since I’d said I was struggling with one section. He offered to take a look. He gets to be an author and I get to ignore a section that was hard for me. Lovely.

I can deal with Matlab, but my skill is limited in some situations. I was looking up several commands and trying to decide how the structure should go when Ken stepped in and started figuring it out. It was a relief, frankly, to release control over the project when I had work of my own to do. When working with Maria, it’s a step-by-step process. Ken’s way is just so much easier for me. Given that I’m recruiting for all projects, I have a full list of my own crap. Getting rid of it seems appealing.

Despite my reasons it was OK to give Ken Maria’s project, I immediately felt guilty when I found her at her desk this morning.

“Hey.” I greeted her and she looked up and smiled. I sat at my desk, busy trying to get things started and copied and sent to the appropriate people. She asked a question about the data and I answered her quickly. She remained stuck, so I offered a bit more advice. When I’d finished with the most pressing tasks, I rolled my chair over and tried to help.

I got the distinct impression that she was annoyed with me. She’d seen Ken and he mentioned he was working on the code. Given that she’s asked me what’s going on a couple of times, I felt badly that I’d moved on without her. But our paths hadn’t crossed recently! And I took the easier road rather than the right one, perhaps.

I patted her shoulder after watching her make the same mistakes over and over, and said I’d think for a minute and see what I could figure out. I answered a couple emails then rolled back over to her desk to watch her battle a software program. My phone rang, so I dealt with a collaborator and his questions for several minutes.

Maria was putting her laptop away when I turned around again.

“I have an appointment.” She offered and I smiled and nodded. Like Boss, I’m not fond of conflict. I’m fine with people not putting in hours at the office – it’s not like I’m setting records for face time myself. Not wanting to make her feel guilty, I had turned back to my work when I realized we’d never make progress at that rate. So I asked to see her laptop while she was gone, hoping I could change some settings or figure out why her software was having problems. She handed it over and within 5 minutes I had an answer. Pleased with myself and eager to provide help, I put her laptop away and continued to work on my own stuff.

She still hadn’t returned when I left for the afternoon. I considered waiting for her, but knew I’d be annoyed if she returned late. Given that she’s been in the office less than 4 hours this week, I wasn’t confident that she’d return at all.

The point is that it’s hard to help her right now. There are all sorts of reasons that she’s not making progress and I’m not being a good post-doc, but it really comes down to a level of difficulty that I’m not willing to deal with. I’ll find an easier way. And I think good mentoring requires more than that.

“Do you think she’ll be OK?” I asked Jill of Dawn last night. She shrugged and frowned.

“Boss, as wonderful as he is, doesn’t do conflict. So as he tries to smooth things over, I’m not sure she’ll get what she wants.”

I nodded in agreement. Having worked with Boss, I know he likes everything to be calm and polite. This was lovely when I was avoiding work and knew he would postpone any confrontations. It is less than ideal when you want someone to stand up and fight for you.

Jill stopped by this morning as I was frowning over Maria’s laptop. I looked up and made a worried face at her.

“She’s not coming.” I said of Dawn.

“I know. I got an email too. You should check on her.” I promised I would, then Jill returned to her office.

Dawn didn’t respond to my last email. She said only that she was to take a day off and reflect on what she wanted to do. Given that she was relatively firm on wanting out of EB’s lab, I can only assume the easiest option that occurred to Boss was to ask her to more carefully consider her decision.

There must be some balance between convenience and justice. I wonder if being exhausted and overwhelmed by work is the best way to find it though.

Troublesome Shoes

Mom sends me email when Dad does something funny. He often fails to see the humor in his behavioral missteps, and is sometimes offended when people laugh at him. So when Mom can’t find a private moment to call, I’ll get a note from her. As I shake with giggles in my house, I picture her laughing at her computer at home. I love those moments.

She recently sent a message that contained 2 anecdotes, both of which I adored. The second one revolved around a new pair of flip flops. The cold Illinois winters fail to lend themselves to open shoes, and his favorite pair were somehow lost between this summer and last. She picked up a new pair and he was wearing them one evening.

Mom was heading down the hall toward the bedrooms from the kitchen and stopped to find Dad standing in the middle of the living room, staring at his feet.

“Are you OK?” She asked, standing in the doorway. She said she barely restrained laughter when she realized there was tread on the bottom of his new shoes. When he tried to walk, the rubber grooves would open, then close around the carpet, rendering poor Dad motionless as his shoes clung to his current spot.

“I’m stuck.” He told her, continuing to frown at his new footwear. “And now my toes hurt.”

She said she started to laugh, then stopped when he glared at her. After gathering her composure, she offered the idea that he could take the shoes off and walk about freely. He very seriously considered her suggestion, nodded, then removed his feet from the tricky sandals. He pronounced his dislike for them and walked from the room, leaving them determinedly clinging to the carpet in the middle of the floor.

I’m not sure the humor translates if you haven’t met my dad. But I think it’s hysterical and I actually have a point to make with the story.

I glanced over my shoulder yesterday when Dawn’s cell phone rang for the fifth time. She was seated at her desk and intercepted my questioning look.

“I know who it is.” She said. “I’m not answering it.”

“OK.” I said, curious but accepting. I avoid phone calls a lot – I don’t like the phone.

“It’s EB.” She offered after I’d turned back to my desk. I checked on the data I had running and swiveled my chair back to face her. When she didn’t elaborate, I cocked my head.

“Problems?” I asked, dreading the answer. In fields such as mine, it is vital to be extremely collaborative. As post-docs, we generally have a number of mentors. There are two men besides Boss that monitor my progress. One is Dr. Icing (so named for this post). The other has remained unnamed because we rarely speak. I do work with many of the faculty in his department though and he keeps tabs on my work.

Dawn is working on the project Winnie started. If you recall, Winnie was very unhappy before she died. While part of it was likely the typical postdoctoral angst – I’m not good/smart/motivated/talented/etc. enough – she also was overwhelmed with responsibilities. She worked between two labs – ours and EB’s – and basically ran EB’s. She was in charge of all paperwork – applications, revisions, publications that didn’t contain her name as an author, trained new students, taught some classes and was expected to complete an extensive research project that collaborated between the two labs. If it's not clear, I deeply resent that EB took advantage of her. So you might bear in mind that I'm hardly a reliable source - I have no use whatsoever for the woman.

I therefore mentioned to Dawn upon her arrival in January that it might be wise to watch her commitments early on. Winnie mattered to me and I didn’t voice my concerns strongly enough last summer. When she said she was working nearly constantly, I didn’t express strongly enough that it might not be healthy. Instead, I wallowed in guilt that I wasn’t working nearly constantly. At the time, the batteries had been removed from my pager – I didn’t want to answer to anyone as I hid in my house for days on end. I hated returning phone calls and if I found that avoiding them for a few days generally made people give up. I wasn’t doing much work at all, putting forth the minimum effort required to avoid my kindly boss going through an awkward conversation about disciplinary action.

I find it lovely that things turned around for me. That the world of academic research can nearly crush a person, yet also contains environments where one can rest and heal and take time before trying again. I now answer pages promptly. I can’t remember the last time my stomach clenched with panic upon hearing my cell phone ring. I go to work, I’m making progress, I’m proud of what I’m doing lately. It’s nice. It's not constant sunshine and it still sucks (a lot) sometimes. But it is better than it was.

Anyway, back to Dawn. She apparently uses my avoidance strategy herself. EB had been out of town, I was told, and during her absence, Dawn was expected to handle a number of lab responsibilities.

“It would be fine,” she ranted, “if it worked both ways. But they’ve come out and told me that they wouldn’t help me with my project! So why should I be expected to help with everyone else’s stuff?! It’s a one or two way street. You can’t refuse to help and expect me to assist you in return. It’s not fair!”

I nodded – in both agreement and sympathy – but expected that she would eventually buckle and do the work. It’s what I’d have done. Hell, I still deal with great inconvenience to work on Project A when there is absolutely no benefit to me. It’s a job that should be earning an undergrad some extra cash, but because Boss asked me to work with VIMD and I’m good at organization and communication, I continue to do this lame project in addition to coping with an increasingly full research calendar. I might gently complain sometimes, but I’ll always back down and do as I’m told. I wouldn’t want to cause problems, after all. Especially when Boss has been so wonderful to me. He doesn’t enjoy conflict, so I make sure things run smoothly.

Dawn gave more details, then went to check her messages.

“She’s been avoiding calls for days?” Ken clarified, glancing up from the notes he studied after Dawn left.

I nodded. And worried. I don’t like the idea of someone going through mental anguish because work is too stressful or difficult. But Dawn is rather strong – I decided she’d be fine and went about my day.

I was sitting in the office alone this afternoon. She walked in, put down her bag and sighed. I turned around to ask how she was, assuming she’d been in EB’s lab that morning and that everything was fine.

“We’re meeting at 3.” She told me. “Boss, EB and me.”

“Good.” I said cautiously. “It’ll be good to get everything cleared up.”

“No.” She said. “EB told me – after calling 4 times yesterday – that she wouldn’t meet with both of us. I could meet with her alone or not at all.”

“Really?” I said, a bit surprised but not shocked. You don’t screw with some PIs. They get offended and superior and there must be bowing and scraping to make things right.

“I told her I wasn’t comfortable meeting without Boss. When Jill told him about it (Our secretary has been keeping track of these goings on with Dawn), he called EB and asked if we could all get together to sort this out. She told him I’d been uncooperative, insubordinate and unhelpful. That I should have met with her long before now and that maybe I should find another lab in which to collaborate.”

“Wow.” I said before I could stop myself. I was impressed and fascinated – even at my worst behavior, I’d never been reprimanded so.

“So,” she continued, “I told Boss that I’d been responsible for all my own training. That they hadn’t been helpful at all to me and I didn’t feel that I should sacrifice my own well-being to help with other projects that shouldn’t involve me. If she wants someone to run her lab, she should hire someone. It wasn’t fair to Winnie – from what I’ve heard from you and others – and I won’t be part of it. So I’m making copies of emails that contradict what she’s saying. I’ve made notes on what’s been done so far.”

I frowned at her, bewildered. We are post-docs. They are distinguished professors. If we’re treated badly or worked too hard or paid too little, what of it? If our new flip flops cling to the carpet as we try to walk across the living room, we are stuck and our toes hurt. That’s just how it is.

My advice on how to be polite and apologetic and sweet didn’t seem to fit with her plan so I didn't offer it. It seemed like she was going to fight instead of backing down. But it failed to make sense to me. Fighting is scary – she’ll make people mad and she’ll likely end up losing and she’ll have to start a project over – losing months of work, she’ll need to find another lab in which to collaborate, Boss might be disappointed. I don’t want to fight again – the defense experience took it out of me. I tried and lost and eventually things turned out OK. I felt sick just thinking about her trying to battle EB.

“What are you going to do?” I asked quietly.

“I want to leave her lab.” She replied, going to her desk and organizing the copies she’d made of emails and schedules and notes. She wasn’t going to defend her work. She was going to attempt to leave a bad situation. The shoes weren’t good – stupid things keep getting stuck on the carpet – so she was taking them off.

Like poor, sweet Dad, it wouldn’t have occurred to me. But I had to acknowledge that it made sense. If the shoes don’t work, don’t stand there and stare at them, hoping they somehow change and stop holding on to the carpet and hurting your toes. Take the suckers off and find some better flip flops! So I bit back my questions and watched her flip through her papers silently. What if Boss doesn’t back you up? I kept thinking about it. I love Boss – I don’t want to test his loyalty or priorities. I want to believe he cares about us and works in our best interests. Putting it to the test didn’t work with Advisor. I desperately don’t want to know if Boss would let us down. I don’t think he would, but I don’t have confidence in it either.

“I think you’re brave.” I told her and she shrugged and smiled as she gathered her things, her hands shaking. "And I'm so sorry you have to go through this."

"Me too." She sighed. "I didn't want to wait until so late in the day to have the meeting - just get it over with. But I slept until noon today." I smiled with the knowledge that I do that too. When stress gets overwhelming I sleep a tremendous amount, wondering why I'm not doing more to prepare for a talk or meeting or test instead of napping so freaking much. Perhaps we're all more similar than we think, I decided. We fight when we see no other option and the battle seems important. And if people are pleased for us and proud of us for doing so, that's lovely.

“You could pray for me.” She said as she walked out the door to meet Boss so they could go to EB’s office.

“Consider it done.” I replied and I have prayed for her. Somehow though, I think that someone like Dawn has wonderful things in store for her. In her quest for just and fair treatment, her belief in her capabilities and strengths, and her refusal to buckle under because it would be easier, she appears quite formidable to me.