“You look like someone else from a distance.” A stranger said I was walked down the lengthy hospital hallway. At my quizzical look, she shook her head and offered, “You don’t once I got close up.”
I must have continued to look confused – I think I might have reminded her of someone she knew, then the surprise that we were not acquainted made her speak to me regardless – because she stopped and turned around to clarify.
“It’s the way you carry yourself, I think.” She noted, then waved her hand in the air at shoulder height. “A confidence, perhaps.”
“Oh.” I said, then smiled at her. What I would have said had my own internal censors not been working properly was, “It’s probably my new underwear!”
The fact is that I bought new skirts this weekend (and also that it’s been a little while since my last embarrassing revelation on the blog – I’m likely due.). Knee-length, flowing, light-weight summer skirts now hang happily in my closet. They’re quite pretty – one black with pink flowers, one white with blue flowers and one (quite loud, but $8!) with a navy and yellow pattern. I love them all very much.
“But,” I said to Friend, “I need something to wear underneath. I don’t like the shorts I sometimes wear and putting on hose everyday defeats the purpose of wearing a skirt to be cooler. I need…different shorts or undergarments or something.”
She offered that she sometimes wears Under Armour and is pleased with the results. Since the primary goal was to prevent any chafing (which is vastly unpleasant to write, but even more awful to deal with in sticky summer weather), I considered her suggestion. But I wanted something ladylike and pretty. So instead of visiting the sportswear department, I headed to lingerie. And found a girdle-type device.
They’re not called girdles, of course, going with by the more consumer-friendly ‘body shaper.’ But they’re basically really tight shorts – with some sort of gripping rubber-esque material on the inside so they don’t budge as you move around – that go up almost to the bra area. I didn’t feel that the height of the stretchy material was warranted, but given that they didn’t have anything lower, I shrugged and bought a pair in white and beige.
I wore the beige today – under a black top with my black and pink skirt – and told Friend I rather liked it.
“I noticed you didn’t wear a white shirt.” She offered.
“No,” I said, giggling. “Then everyone would know I had on underwear up to my chest.” She nodded and laughed and said I might not be so enamored of what was under my pretty outfit after I grew hot or had to use the restroom.
Instead, I found I love this fantastic device. It’s not uncomfortable, but I am strangely aware that I’m wearing it. Almost like when you start wearing a new ring. It’s not painful, but it does tug at my consciousness. I hold my fingers a bit differently than normal, play with the back of the band until I grow used to the sensation of pressure where there was none before.
It’s the same thing here – there’s pressure while everything is tucked and smoothed. I had trouble finding my waist – everything curved more gently and there wasn’t an obvious place to rest the waistband of my skirt. I had to examine myself in the mirror to make sure things looked right because the material of the body shaper is dense enough so that I couldn’t really feel the clothing on top of it. I rather liked that there was an extra, unseen layer between me and the world.
So whether it was that I liked the way the soft hem of the skirt flirted with my calves as I walked along, or how I enjoyed how the clicking heels of my sandals sounded, or holding my head up so my bangs didn’t fall in my face, or walking a bit taller since I was aware that body shaper would work better if I didn’t slouch… Something made me appear confident. In need of a hand wave in the air to indicate how I carry myself.
The truth is that I like everything understated and contained. Nothing obvious or gauche – I prefer simple and elegant. Quiet and smooth seem to soothe me somehow – I liked the idea of controlling some problem areas and wondered if I could begin to wear these fabulous pieces all the time.
“What I need,” I told Friend at lunch, “is a full body suit! Something that comes up over my shoulders, but still has the shorts component. Then everything would be smooth and contained!”
“Then you could wear white shirts, I suppose.” She said after calling me odd.
“I could.” I breathed, staring into the cafeteria as I considered the possibilities. “Then if anyone noticed I was wearing some large undergarment under my clothes, I could say, ‘It’s my full body suit!’”
“OK.” I think she said. In all fairness, it’s likely best to agree with crazy people so they don’t flip out. So kudos to Friend.
I’m obviously all about control, given that I would wear a full protective suit (maybe like Spiderman? But less obvious.) to prevent people from seeing flaws.
Apart from my pager and cell phones – ringers set so low I often don’t hear them so as to be unobtrusive, my toenails painted a shade of pale pink and fingers polished in clear so as to be slightly shiny but nothing else, I try to glide around unnoticed. And if someone does see me, I fervently hope they don’t think anything negative.
When I first started grad school, I had walked miles and was incredibly hot. I started to cross the street, thinking it was my turn, and the turn lane had to stop despite their green arrow. A mean man in a white van rolled down his window and called me stupid. It still makes my stomach hurt.
Later in grad school, someone was waiting to merge into traffic. I stopped to allow him room to come in, but he failed to move. Looking behind me at a long line of cars, I didn’t want to hold them up, so I moved forward. Merger honked and honked and honked at me as I sat there waiting for the light to change. I finally looked at him, throwing his hands about in absolute rage, and mouthed, “Shut Up.” But I recall how brightly my cheeks burned and how desperately I wanted him to stop directing attention at me.
In high school, there was a student council car wash. I parked in the wrong lot and everyone laughed at me for some reason. I desperately wanted to leave and go home, feeling frumpy in my one piece bathing suit around beautiful girls in bikinis, but forced myself to stay and hated every single moment of the experience.
I was walking Chienne several weeks ago and a young man ran from a house to berate me for allowing her to potty in his yard. Since I clean up her messes, I apologized, picked things up, then walked away. But I hate the sharp, ugly feeling that remains when I walk by that home, though I alter my route to not do it often.
I loved someone and I thought he liked me in return. He didn’t. I wanted to be friends because I still thought he was rather unique and interesting. He didn’t share that feeling. And there’s this knot of embarrassment that lingers beyond the other bad feelings. I don't want to feel badly when he flits into my consciousness. But I do.
I sometimes sit by myself when I go to seminar. Or don’t have anyone with whom to speak in the lobby beforehand. And I feel like there’s a glaring light around me because I’m not connected and involved and friendly.
Notoriously Difficult sent a snarky email to me on Friday and I can recall the exact line that bothered me. Then she accidentally sent me an email meant for someone else that was demeaning, but not incredibly so. And I was hurt and angry and bothered enough not to easily fall asleep over the weekend.
These are not huge problems, I know. I happen to be rather blessed to be able to agonize over trivial incidents that happened – in some cases – years ago. It’s just that the memories are so vivid. They still make me feel sick and sad and grossly obvious in whatever flaw it is that makes people look at me with disdain or anger or irritation.
And while therapy would likely provide an emotional girdle – smoothing the edges and containing the bad feelings while allowing the good ones to shine through, at least I have a physical one. Something that allows me to display a bit more confidence while somehow containing the fear of being noticed, at least a little.
Except on a blog, apparently. In an environment where I feel safe, I can be free with all the stuff I otherwise try so mightily to hide. And perhaps that's why you hear from me nearly every day - I think that was much as I like the body shapers (and I do like them a lot), they'd eventually grow uncomfortable. Likewise, in keeping everyone far enough away to protect my tender feelings, at some point, there's a need to be known on a deeper level. Which is what I think I'm trying to do here.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Running It Out
I was never athletic. Being neither particularly coordinated nor enthusiastic, I opted out of sports as much as possible. Yet gym classes forced participation.
When I would be so lucky as to hit a fly ball that was, in my mind, easily caught, I would happily trot back to the bench to await my next dreaded turn or an opportunity to trudge out to the field a pray that no ball came my way.
“Run it out!” Miss Beckman would always huff at me. “What if someone drops it? Then you could beat the throw to first!”
But, I would think silently as I shrugged apologetically at her, I don’t want to beat the throw to first. I want to sit back down and avoid sweating or otherwise embarrassing myself.
In the event that there is a metaphorical first base and I do want to get there safely, I think letting situations play out while giving full hope and effort to a pleasing outcome is…something. Not wise, perhaps, since many of us battle steep odds and risk great pain in doing so. Not even particularly brave since the effort toward an unlikely goal seems irresistible to some of us. It's not really a choice so much as a compulsion.
Human. Perhaps the mad dash to first – expending all energy in a sprint with arms pumping – even while watching your ball drift easily into someone’s glove - is human. After all, we are smart enough to know that lack of effort means certain failure. So in ducking your head and hurtling down the baseline, there is expressed some hope in yourself and the world and chances that even when things look bad, if the effort is there, then maybe. Maybe something will change and the ball will thud to the ground and we’ll beat the throw.
I spoke to Rachel last night – a very dear friend from college who married a man I happen to hate based upon how he treats her. We spoke of work – she recently earned her Masters and she wanted to thank me for the gift I sent – and families since we know each other’s parents and siblings. We eventually turned to our current turns at bat.
“I want out.” I said when she asked of my job. “It’s just needlessly difficult here. I don’t like the systems they have set up to deal with scheduling and meetings and… I don’t know. I feel like so many people are miserable that they take out their negative energy on others. And I’m one of the others a bit too often. While I know that if I were better and happier, I would likely perceive the situation differently, I’m just not. So I want to leave in another year.
“But,” I continued thoughtfully, “I have to resubmit my grant in July. I have ideas on exactly what to cut and what to add, so it’s easy enough to throw it back to NCI and see what happens. In the meantime, I’m trying to do enough work and meet enough people so that I can get out of here and head north. We’ll see how it plays out. I’m just unhappy a lot of the time and I know I need to work to fix that, but I’m too damn tired to do much about it.”
“That describes me.” She offered in a voice that is both familiar and foreign. Familiar in that we’ve spent hours and hours talking. I sat with her in a multimedia lab while she did some complicated artsy project and we talked. We giggled while I devoted half my attention to Physics homework or differential equations. We sang Matchbox 20 songs when her radio was broken. We went to hockey games and shared fantasies about our favorite players. We were fixtures in each others lives, and I remember and wish for a moment that I could go back and let myself appreciate what I had when living with my best friends.
Yet there is a loss of sparkle in her voice. The confidence and hope and some of the beauty has dissipated over the years since we graduated. Her husband has historically been an asshole, but she loves him and doesn’t want to be alone, so she stays and loses part of what she was to gain, I suppose, who she has become.
“We’re not doing very well.” She sighed when I asked. “He got another DUI and since we was driving on a revoked license anyway, it’s really not good.”
“I thought you were driving him everywhere.” I said softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“I take him to work, but then on weekends, he ends up driving himself around for some reason. So he goes out on Sundays and plays baseball then drinks with his friends. All day. Every Sunday. I dread it all week because he’s mean when he’s drunk. He says awful things and then we fight and it’s just not good. So I called him at 9:30 one Sunday and he said he wasn’t coming home for a couple more hours. I told him I thought that was a bad idea, but he hung up on me. So a few hours later, he called and woke me up to tell me he was on his way. As we were talking, he got pulled over and I listened to the whole thing. How he didn’t have a license when she asked for it, when he said yes when she asked if he’d been drinking. She was nice enough to wait while I came to get the truck, then I watched her load him in the car and take him to jail.”
“Wow.” I said, not quite able to imagine watching someone I loved screw up over and over, undaunted by punishments while I was humiliated by the very idea of them.
“Yes.” She agreed. “So we have a lawyer – I was going to go to all these consultations and then I decided I was tired. I work all the time and if he can’t care enough to avoid trouble, I can’t keep spending all this time and money getting him out of it. I’m just tired.”
“I know.” I offered. “I’m so sorry.”
“He came home last weekend, and was drunk again. I was already asleep, but I rolled over and asked him what was important – drinking with his friends or peace in our marriage. He can’t have both anymore – I just can’t do it. And he said he wasn’t going to stop drinking.”
We both sat in silence, letting that statement linger, and I sighed.
“I know you don’t want to leave. I don’t know what the right answer is here, Rachel. I do think a therapist would help you clarify your feelings and options and goals. So I’d call your human resources department and get some names. It really might help.”
“I just don’t understand how I can stay with someone who has so little love or respect for me. But I can’t leave either – I don’t know if it’s the right decision. So even though I don’t think he’ll change, what if he does? I don’t think we’re going to get pregnant – we’ve been trying for 18 months now – but what if I do? I really want a baby. I just don’t know how to end things when I love him.”
I thought and made sympathetic comments and reiterated that I don’t know the right answer. It has long hurt me that she’s unhappy and in a relationship with someone who so utterly fails to appreciate her wonderful qualities. He says ugly things and cheats and puts her last, and she takes them to heart, feeling badly each time she strikes back and spends a night alone while he sleeps in his truck. It’s overly dramatic and hurtful and I hate it. I have distanced myself from her for years now because I just can’t watch her to do this to herself.
I do, however, understand the need to let the situation play out. When given someone who didn’t like me very much at all, I loved him too much to let go until left with no other option. I have not, despite numerous pieces of advice from friends, walked away from this post-doc because I wanted it to turn around. I wanted a couple of papers or projects or pieces of knowledge that indicated this was something other than a colossal mistake.
In my case, it worked, at least to some degree. I got some help and have rebounded to create a body of work that is less than it could be, but far better than nothing. Likewise, I’m not willing to advocate Rachel taking a step to end her marriage unless she’s ready and certain enough to act.
“Promise me that you’ll call on Monday.” She said before we hung up. “That you’ll talk to a new therapist because the old one helped you. You can be happier and work harder and do more. I know you can, and I so want you to be happy.”
“You call too.” I said, wishing I could help and support her in some meaningful way. “Talk to someone about where you are and where you hope to go. I love you.”
In the end, I suppose there are two choices. If I end up back on the bench, still gazing longingly upon first base, be it work or love or whatever, what will I do differently when my turn comes around again? And if I beat the odds and circumstances and faith and skill allowed me to be standing on the base that looks fluffy but somehow is not (always disappointing to a young Katie), how the hell am I going to get to second? And do I really want to get there at all? Letting a situation – especially one that is painful – play out is one thing, but maintaining the status quo for something that’s not worthwhile after all is just silly. The trick, I think, is being capable of distinguishing to two while you’re involved in the given situation.
When I would be so lucky as to hit a fly ball that was, in my mind, easily caught, I would happily trot back to the bench to await my next dreaded turn or an opportunity to trudge out to the field a pray that no ball came my way.
“Run it out!” Miss Beckman would always huff at me. “What if someone drops it? Then you could beat the throw to first!”
But, I would think silently as I shrugged apologetically at her, I don’t want to beat the throw to first. I want to sit back down and avoid sweating or otherwise embarrassing myself.
In the event that there is a metaphorical first base and I do want to get there safely, I think letting situations play out while giving full hope and effort to a pleasing outcome is…something. Not wise, perhaps, since many of us battle steep odds and risk great pain in doing so. Not even particularly brave since the effort toward an unlikely goal seems irresistible to some of us. It's not really a choice so much as a compulsion.
Human. Perhaps the mad dash to first – expending all energy in a sprint with arms pumping – even while watching your ball drift easily into someone’s glove - is human. After all, we are smart enough to know that lack of effort means certain failure. So in ducking your head and hurtling down the baseline, there is expressed some hope in yourself and the world and chances that even when things look bad, if the effort is there, then maybe. Maybe something will change and the ball will thud to the ground and we’ll beat the throw.
I spoke to Rachel last night – a very dear friend from college who married a man I happen to hate based upon how he treats her. We spoke of work – she recently earned her Masters and she wanted to thank me for the gift I sent – and families since we know each other’s parents and siblings. We eventually turned to our current turns at bat.
“I want out.” I said when she asked of my job. “It’s just needlessly difficult here. I don’t like the systems they have set up to deal with scheduling and meetings and… I don’t know. I feel like so many people are miserable that they take out their negative energy on others. And I’m one of the others a bit too often. While I know that if I were better and happier, I would likely perceive the situation differently, I’m just not. So I want to leave in another year.
“But,” I continued thoughtfully, “I have to resubmit my grant in July. I have ideas on exactly what to cut and what to add, so it’s easy enough to throw it back to NCI and see what happens. In the meantime, I’m trying to do enough work and meet enough people so that I can get out of here and head north. We’ll see how it plays out. I’m just unhappy a lot of the time and I know I need to work to fix that, but I’m too damn tired to do much about it.”
“That describes me.” She offered in a voice that is both familiar and foreign. Familiar in that we’ve spent hours and hours talking. I sat with her in a multimedia lab while she did some complicated artsy project and we talked. We giggled while I devoted half my attention to Physics homework or differential equations. We sang Matchbox 20 songs when her radio was broken. We went to hockey games and shared fantasies about our favorite players. We were fixtures in each others lives, and I remember and wish for a moment that I could go back and let myself appreciate what I had when living with my best friends.
Yet there is a loss of sparkle in her voice. The confidence and hope and some of the beauty has dissipated over the years since we graduated. Her husband has historically been an asshole, but she loves him and doesn’t want to be alone, so she stays and loses part of what she was to gain, I suppose, who she has become.
“We’re not doing very well.” She sighed when I asked. “He got another DUI and since we was driving on a revoked license anyway, it’s really not good.”
“I thought you were driving him everywhere.” I said softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“I take him to work, but then on weekends, he ends up driving himself around for some reason. So he goes out on Sundays and plays baseball then drinks with his friends. All day. Every Sunday. I dread it all week because he’s mean when he’s drunk. He says awful things and then we fight and it’s just not good. So I called him at 9:30 one Sunday and he said he wasn’t coming home for a couple more hours. I told him I thought that was a bad idea, but he hung up on me. So a few hours later, he called and woke me up to tell me he was on his way. As we were talking, he got pulled over and I listened to the whole thing. How he didn’t have a license when she asked for it, when he said yes when she asked if he’d been drinking. She was nice enough to wait while I came to get the truck, then I watched her load him in the car and take him to jail.”
“Wow.” I said, not quite able to imagine watching someone I loved screw up over and over, undaunted by punishments while I was humiliated by the very idea of them.
“Yes.” She agreed. “So we have a lawyer – I was going to go to all these consultations and then I decided I was tired. I work all the time and if he can’t care enough to avoid trouble, I can’t keep spending all this time and money getting him out of it. I’m just tired.”
“I know.” I offered. “I’m so sorry.”
“He came home last weekend, and was drunk again. I was already asleep, but I rolled over and asked him what was important – drinking with his friends or peace in our marriage. He can’t have both anymore – I just can’t do it. And he said he wasn’t going to stop drinking.”
We both sat in silence, letting that statement linger, and I sighed.
“I know you don’t want to leave. I don’t know what the right answer is here, Rachel. I do think a therapist would help you clarify your feelings and options and goals. So I’d call your human resources department and get some names. It really might help.”
“I just don’t understand how I can stay with someone who has so little love or respect for me. But I can’t leave either – I don’t know if it’s the right decision. So even though I don’t think he’ll change, what if he does? I don’t think we’re going to get pregnant – we’ve been trying for 18 months now – but what if I do? I really want a baby. I just don’t know how to end things when I love him.”
I thought and made sympathetic comments and reiterated that I don’t know the right answer. It has long hurt me that she’s unhappy and in a relationship with someone who so utterly fails to appreciate her wonderful qualities. He says ugly things and cheats and puts her last, and she takes them to heart, feeling badly each time she strikes back and spends a night alone while he sleeps in his truck. It’s overly dramatic and hurtful and I hate it. I have distanced myself from her for years now because I just can’t watch her to do this to herself.
I do, however, understand the need to let the situation play out. When given someone who didn’t like me very much at all, I loved him too much to let go until left with no other option. I have not, despite numerous pieces of advice from friends, walked away from this post-doc because I wanted it to turn around. I wanted a couple of papers or projects or pieces of knowledge that indicated this was something other than a colossal mistake.
In my case, it worked, at least to some degree. I got some help and have rebounded to create a body of work that is less than it could be, but far better than nothing. Likewise, I’m not willing to advocate Rachel taking a step to end her marriage unless she’s ready and certain enough to act.
“Promise me that you’ll call on Monday.” She said before we hung up. “That you’ll talk to a new therapist because the old one helped you. You can be happier and work harder and do more. I know you can, and I so want you to be happy.”
“You call too.” I said, wishing I could help and support her in some meaningful way. “Talk to someone about where you are and where you hope to go. I love you.”
In the end, I suppose there are two choices. If I end up back on the bench, still gazing longingly upon first base, be it work or love or whatever, what will I do differently when my turn comes around again? And if I beat the odds and circumstances and faith and skill allowed me to be standing on the base that looks fluffy but somehow is not (always disappointing to a young Katie), how the hell am I going to get to second? And do I really want to get there at all? Letting a situation – especially one that is painful – play out is one thing, but maintaining the status quo for something that’s not worthwhile after all is just silly. The trick, I think, is being capable of distinguishing to two while you’re involved in the given situation.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Fluffy
It was, or rather should have been, a good day today.
I slept late, taking the dog for a rather muggy walk around 9:00. Friend drove to work while I relaxed in the passenger seat. If I'm speaking truthfully, Friend drove to a parking lot while I rested and watched traffic go by. We were early for our hair appointments, so we wandered over to Starbucks. Once there, I enjoyed a java chip frauppicino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top. I poked at it with my large straw, nibbling on the stray chip as it found its way out of the clear cup and between my curious teeth.
When it was time, Friend and I walked past the car and to the lovely Aveda salon where people were appropriate jealous of the treat I'd not yet finished. My stylist had called in sick, so I saw the owner - who charges more than twice what my guy does - for the price I normally pay. She was far too busy and talented to deal with scalp massages and shampoos so I was introduced to another girl who took care of the menial labor. Once my glasses were removed so she could begin rubbing my scalp, I sort of drifted along, doing what I was told and thinking nice thoughts. Once I was shampooed and combed, Owner returned. While she hummed and clipped, I thought briefly of gray hair.
"Owner," I said, as is my habit with each new stylist, "what would you recommend for coloring my hair? I have some gray and keep putting off actually making an appointment to fix it."
"Just do it." She said confidently. "Do a semi-permanent so you won't have a line when it grows, and you'll know that it's washing out if you absolutely hate it. But the effect is very subtle and shiny - you'll love it. Just do it."
"OK." I said, deciding I'd think it over. Then she sent her helper to the back to mix up the dye. I considered arguing - she did ask if I would allow them to do it then - but everything was hazy and I was in no hurry to arrive at work, so I shrugged and went along. Helper brushed the cream on my roots, then pulled it through the short length that remained after my cut. It barely brushes my shoulders and the color, I think, is quite subtle and shiny. My style, however, could only be described as big. I was Fluffy, formerly known as Katie. What hair I retained was nearly standing on end atop my head. I smiled and paid - the color and cut are quite pretty, I think - and frantically tried to mush down the hairsprayed fluff as I moved through the parking lot. As I was smoothing my hands over the top of my head, I heard my pager chirp a single time.
I scowled. I often am faced with reminder beeps because I miss the little song that plays when someone actually wants to speak with me. "Oooh, music." My brain - apparently also a bit fluffy - thinks, and enjoys the song until it goes away. I abandoned my 'flatten the hair!' plan to return a page as I wandered toward campus, trying not to overheat in the afternoon haze. I agreed to try to schedule an experiment for next week when I arrived at my desk and could look at the calendar.
I giggled when I caught sight of my reflection when I passed a shiny surface. Fluffy, I grinned, and was momentarily grateful that Friend finished and left the salon long before I did. I made my way to the office, sat down with a calendar and attempted to organize this event next week.
It was a big, um, Fluffing Mess. Multiple people were required, all of whom kept changing their minds on availability. There's this if X, then Y, but if A and not X, then Z, but if Z and X at the same time, then N. Given that I don't know and can't decide the likelihood of X or Y or A or Z or N, my life is a bit difficult. Given that one person in this FM (fluffing mess) is notoriously difficult, I was nervous the entire time. I did win in the end, but it was hours and 10 emails and 20 phone calls to get there. And the ND (notoriously difficult) one is being a bit...well, of a fluffing idiot. She was mean to me at the end just because she could be and I don't approve. She could make my life infinitely more difficult though, so I'll likely apologize to make future dealings easier. But not today - today I pout.
Between phone calls, I scurried to the bathroom, giggled at my hair once more, then brushed it firmly so that it was only moderately fluffy. Then I tied the top layers back, leaving only long bangs framing my face. I keep trying to shove them behind my ears - they're in my eyes! - but they don't reach. Upon closer examination, the color isn't all that noticeable. It looks to be slightly lighter than natural, but has a lot of depth. I'm still not crazy about aging - coloring the hair, dabbing on cream to prevent wrinkles I think are already starting to appear under my eyes. I sigh at the very thought.
Friend emailed just as I was wrapping up the FM and we trotted across campus to get delightful Greek salads and sandwiches from Panera. Ah, kalamata olives, how I love thee and your mellow yet salty goodness. And if a piece of feta cheese dripping with vinaigrette tumbled down the front of my shirt, I muttered a brief curse ("Fluff!"), tossed the wayward chunk of cheese in the trash and happily returned to my bread and salad and water.
The moderately overwhelmed and panicky feeling from the FM has subsided as I've made slow progress throughout the day, as seen through locks of freshly-colored hair that hang in my eyes until I shake or push them away.
"Those are going to drive you nuts." Friend commented on our walk back from Panera, when I sighed and shoved at my hair yet again.
"Probably." I agreed. But they force me to keep my chin up - if I look down, the hair falls forward and is in the way. So I find myself sitting straighter and looking up as I work and drip food on myself and wait until it's time to go to this show Friend wants to see tonight. There are worse things, I would think, than a physical reminder to keep looking up. At least until I can find some bobby pins.
I think this was - as it should have been - a good day.
I slept late, taking the dog for a rather muggy walk around 9:00. Friend drove to work while I relaxed in the passenger seat. If I'm speaking truthfully, Friend drove to a parking lot while I rested and watched traffic go by. We were early for our hair appointments, so we wandered over to Starbucks. Once there, I enjoyed a java chip frauppicino with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top. I poked at it with my large straw, nibbling on the stray chip as it found its way out of the clear cup and between my curious teeth.
When it was time, Friend and I walked past the car and to the lovely Aveda salon where people were appropriate jealous of the treat I'd not yet finished. My stylist had called in sick, so I saw the owner - who charges more than twice what my guy does - for the price I normally pay. She was far too busy and talented to deal with scalp massages and shampoos so I was introduced to another girl who took care of the menial labor. Once my glasses were removed so she could begin rubbing my scalp, I sort of drifted along, doing what I was told and thinking nice thoughts. Once I was shampooed and combed, Owner returned. While she hummed and clipped, I thought briefly of gray hair.
"Owner," I said, as is my habit with each new stylist, "what would you recommend for coloring my hair? I have some gray and keep putting off actually making an appointment to fix it."
"Just do it." She said confidently. "Do a semi-permanent so you won't have a line when it grows, and you'll know that it's washing out if you absolutely hate it. But the effect is very subtle and shiny - you'll love it. Just do it."
"OK." I said, deciding I'd think it over. Then she sent her helper to the back to mix up the dye. I considered arguing - she did ask if I would allow them to do it then - but everything was hazy and I was in no hurry to arrive at work, so I shrugged and went along. Helper brushed the cream on my roots, then pulled it through the short length that remained after my cut. It barely brushes my shoulders and the color, I think, is quite subtle and shiny. My style, however, could only be described as big. I was Fluffy, formerly known as Katie. What hair I retained was nearly standing on end atop my head. I smiled and paid - the color and cut are quite pretty, I think - and frantically tried to mush down the hairsprayed fluff as I moved through the parking lot. As I was smoothing my hands over the top of my head, I heard my pager chirp a single time.
I scowled. I often am faced with reminder beeps because I miss the little song that plays when someone actually wants to speak with me. "Oooh, music." My brain - apparently also a bit fluffy - thinks, and enjoys the song until it goes away. I abandoned my 'flatten the hair!' plan to return a page as I wandered toward campus, trying not to overheat in the afternoon haze. I agreed to try to schedule an experiment for next week when I arrived at my desk and could look at the calendar.
I giggled when I caught sight of my reflection when I passed a shiny surface. Fluffy, I grinned, and was momentarily grateful that Friend finished and left the salon long before I did. I made my way to the office, sat down with a calendar and attempted to organize this event next week.
It was a big, um, Fluffing Mess. Multiple people were required, all of whom kept changing their minds on availability. There's this if X, then Y, but if A and not X, then Z, but if Z and X at the same time, then N. Given that I don't know and can't decide the likelihood of X or Y or A or Z or N, my life is a bit difficult. Given that one person in this FM (fluffing mess) is notoriously difficult, I was nervous the entire time. I did win in the end, but it was hours and 10 emails and 20 phone calls to get there. And the ND (notoriously difficult) one is being a bit...well, of a fluffing idiot. She was mean to me at the end just because she could be and I don't approve. She could make my life infinitely more difficult though, so I'll likely apologize to make future dealings easier. But not today - today I pout.
Between phone calls, I scurried to the bathroom, giggled at my hair once more, then brushed it firmly so that it was only moderately fluffy. Then I tied the top layers back, leaving only long bangs framing my face. I keep trying to shove them behind my ears - they're in my eyes! - but they don't reach. Upon closer examination, the color isn't all that noticeable. It looks to be slightly lighter than natural, but has a lot of depth. I'm still not crazy about aging - coloring the hair, dabbing on cream to prevent wrinkles I think are already starting to appear under my eyes. I sigh at the very thought.
Friend emailed just as I was wrapping up the FM and we trotted across campus to get delightful Greek salads and sandwiches from Panera. Ah, kalamata olives, how I love thee and your mellow yet salty goodness. And if a piece of feta cheese dripping with vinaigrette tumbled down the front of my shirt, I muttered a brief curse ("Fluff!"), tossed the wayward chunk of cheese in the trash and happily returned to my bread and salad and water.
The moderately overwhelmed and panicky feeling from the FM has subsided as I've made slow progress throughout the day, as seen through locks of freshly-colored hair that hang in my eyes until I shake or push them away.
"Those are going to drive you nuts." Friend commented on our walk back from Panera, when I sighed and shoved at my hair yet again.
"Probably." I agreed. But they force me to keep my chin up - if I look down, the hair falls forward and is in the way. So I find myself sitting straighter and looking up as I work and drip food on myself and wait until it's time to go to this show Friend wants to see tonight. There are worse things, I would think, than a physical reminder to keep looking up. At least until I can find some bobby pins.
I think this was - as it should have been - a good day.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Ed to Katie and back again
Ed to Katie
I enjoyed your presentation and have a method that you might consider. Please see the attached abstracts I presented at a recent meeting and let me know if you have questions.
Katie to Ed
Thank you. I actually have data that would be relevant to your method and would love to apply it. Would you mind sending the code?
Ed to KatieKatie to Ed
Please find attached the poster I recently presented using a different disease. You can see the results we obtained in the following regions and their interpretations. I think this has the potential to be powerful when looking at the patients you studied.
The results are lovely and I completely agree that there are some potentially interesting findings using my data. If I could take a look at the code you used, I’ll start running the analysis soon and get back to you with results.
Ed to Katie
I use code written by X to do step 1, Y to perform step 2 and Z to work through step 3. It’s a relatively straightforward process and should be useful.
Katie to Ed (not sent, but written)
Give Me The Code or stop talking about how useful it is! I said yes! I’ll do it! But I’m not writing the code myself – I simply don’t have time between juggling projects and making presentations and taking meetings.
Plus, I don’t write code myself. This should probably shame me greatly since it’s such a vital part of my job, but I don’t tend to be great at it. Therefore if I know there is code and you have the letters and numbers that form said code, I’d like to have a copy of it so I don’t have to spend weeks recreating stuff that already exists! Why must you make me feel guilty and inferior for taking the easy way out?
Give Me The Code. Please.
Katie to Ed (written and sent)
It sounds straightforward and makes perfect sense. Can you offer advice on where to get those separate components or would you prefer to take a look at the data yourself? Either way is fine – I’m more than happy to help however I can. Thanks!
Ed to Katie
I use a couple different machines and would like to analyze the data myself. If you can give me certain files, I should be all set. I’m excited to see how my methods can contribute to this project!
It was at this point that I sat back and sighed. At myself, of course, not Ed. I tend to assume that people are out to get me. That they want me to work constantly and read everything and be far more knowledgeable and organized than I am. In this case, I don’t think it was true. He was willing to help – and, I assume, had been from the beginning – but in my attempts to make his life easier, I kept asking for code he wanted to use himself.
It’s a learning process for me – figuring people out, discovering what’s expected from each potential collaborator. It can range from who returns email to which person needs to be paged. Estimates of how long it takes to get on someone’s calendar to who has the most political power to move proposals and grants through the proper channels. Who’s lovely to speak with and who is a bit too aggressive for my delicate sensibilities. Who responds to favors with an ‘of course!’ and who gets offended by their very suggestion.
The good news is I’m getting it. I’m not afraid – with my current skill set and in this particular environment – to push and push until I get the answer I need. A year ago, I probably would have ducked my head and forgot about the analysis because of my interpretation that Ed didn’t want to share his code. But I honestly don’t have time (or any great idea of where to start) to write it from scratch. But sending a few extra emails and dropping off a CD of data this afternoon should enable a potentially valuable collaboration with a man I like and respect.
I’ve noticed more and more that people are willing to help me out. I’m not new anymore – I’m one of them and they protect and help me according to that status.
The bad news is I still want to leave. I’m keeping my eye on next August for a moving date and will start to watch job postings in another few months. The idea of starting over – of finding out all those little details that make life so much easier – is exhausting. I’m comfortable here, but not very happy. I’m productive, but not fulfilled. This is good – sometimes it’s incredible – but it’s not enough. I think I can do better.
But for today, I triumphed over my instinct to stay home and sleep all day and to hide when someone didn’t immediately offer up the code I wanted. It’s coming along – being here is teaching me some important lessons.
As far as science, I guess I’ll let you know how Ed’s analysis goes. It will be one more component of an already complicated and extensive study. I suppose I could view my career much the same - a slow collection of separate components that may not individually be huge or important, but eventually will pool to make me relatively good at my job.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Like with fins?
“I didn’t want to say anything in the meeting,” Henry said, walking into my office after I returned from making my presentation, “but your equation was upside down. You had the two variables switched. The way you had it, it would be infinity!” Then he laughed, trailing off when I gave him a look that expressed my distinct lack of amusement. Given that he used to make attempts at public humiliation that left me enraged and discouraged, this was infinitely better.
After he stopped laughing, he stood and looked at me, so I noted his equation and considered it for a moment.
“I think you’re right.” I finally said. “Thanks for pointing that out – I’ll fix my notes.”
He nodded and launched into his critique of my talk. The meeting lasted over 90 minutes while we examined slides and discussed what I knew and wished I knew and thought I had wrong, but not everyone had a chance to talk enough. The meeting was good – I made some valuable notes on ideas I hadn’t even considered. I was extraordinarily (for me, anyway) prepared and had plenty of material.
Boss was pleased enough at the end to agree to go beg for additional funding with me. There was general agreement that I could pull off some sort of publication with a couple more patients accrued. This pleases me.
But back to Henry.
“It doesn’t make sense to use what you’re using. It’s a big problem.” He concluded.
I sighed, then paused to frown when I saw Maria – who I’d invited to attend the group meeting – was nodding enthusiastically along with his critique.
“I didn’t pick those parameters because I thought they were pretty.” I offered tiredly. “There are several other disease states that are looking for similar effects with exactly those parameters. Given that they were successful and the biological model we’re using indicates those parameters would be likely correlates.”
“Anything can correlate if you look at enough parameters! Even…the color of the sky!”
I scrunched my face further to indicate both displeasure and confusion. “I see your point.” I said slowly, trying to think. Henry is very smart and sees details I definitely miss. “But if there’s a question before me, I tried to answer it the best I could.”
He nodded, so I continued. “Statistics exist to consider a sample size and the effect magnitude. It’s not a color of the sky thing – there’s a biological mechanism and studies have shown – in other diseases – that these parameters are valuable. And while my dataset is incredibly complex, I think there are interesting findings there. The nontrivial part is in explaining them without overstepping what we actually can know.”
Henry smiled, looking somehow pleased with me, but Maria stepped in.
“I think it sounds feeshy.” She said.
“Feeshy?” I repeated, thinking of words I knew. She made a swimming motion with her hands and I nodded immediately. “Oh, fishy! OK!” Then I pulled back to frown at her. “Wait. Fishy? What?”
“Fishy. It doesn’t make sense.” She said, looking at Henry for back-up. He frowned and backed away, throwing a statement at me that we’d talk later. My feeling – though I could be wrong – was that he’s been waiting for me to stand up for my ideas. He wants to be heard, then he’d like to argue. When I backed down in the past, I think his frustration allowed him to taunt me. It sucks that it happened, but I appear to have finally found a way to interact in a way that isn’t excruciating. Either that or he was tired too. I don't know. Regardless, I avoid working with him. If he makes my time unpleasant - for entertainment or boredom or personal style - I'll avoid spending time with Henry.
I waved a hand at him as he left, noted that email was piling up from others in the meeting who had ideas or suggestions, then turned back to face Maria. “What doesn’t make sense?” I said, being a bit aggressive. I’m all for questions, but to attack a method – a well-established, highly popular, many journals devoted to it method – because you have a feeling it’s fishy? Seriously?
She listed a couple of standard concerns about the method - not completely true, but I saw her points - and I explained how we protect the data from each of the major problems, though there is some risk of confounding your experiment if it’s not properly designed. She eventually shrugged and said she might do some reading at some point.
I opened my mouth to offer her some references, then turned around. I think I’m reaching my limit with this particular student. She leaves regularly, sometimes when I’m trying to work with her on things. She talks on the phone a good percentage of the time she’s around. She has yet to write anything about her research plan and never did help with the project I gave to Ken. I’m too busy and tired to coax someone into proper thought and behavior.
And there lies the problem, I think. She was trying to fit in – pick out flaws, fix errors, make suggestions. Those are all good things and the approaches vary depending on personality. I don’t have to love each person, but I can respect talent and thought when it’s expressed in some decent manner. But I have little patience for someone who belittles a well-studied field out of ignorance, then refuses to expand her scope of understanding. It also makes me unlikely to invite her to more meetings given that she’s going to side with anyone who tries to make me look stupid. I’m not up for battling people from all directions. Perhaps I should feel badly about that – and I don’t expect her to be constantly affirming.
But fishy? Really? Curses.
But the day started with advice – good advice – from Quiet Mentor, along with several powerful introductions. Quiet Mentor, by the way, is a pretty big deal. After the meeting, I have more data than when I started, thanks to some suggestions on where to find extra information and papers. I have an alternate analysis method for a piece of data I was planning to ignore. It was a good day.
Perhaps it’s catty of me, but I didn’t believe it to be fishy at all.
After he stopped laughing, he stood and looked at me, so I noted his equation and considered it for a moment.
“I think you’re right.” I finally said. “Thanks for pointing that out – I’ll fix my notes.”
He nodded and launched into his critique of my talk. The meeting lasted over 90 minutes while we examined slides and discussed what I knew and wished I knew and thought I had wrong, but not everyone had a chance to talk enough. The meeting was good – I made some valuable notes on ideas I hadn’t even considered. I was extraordinarily (for me, anyway) prepared and had plenty of material.
Boss was pleased enough at the end to agree to go beg for additional funding with me. There was general agreement that I could pull off some sort of publication with a couple more patients accrued. This pleases me.
But back to Henry.
“It doesn’t make sense to use what you’re using. It’s a big problem.” He concluded.
I sighed, then paused to frown when I saw Maria – who I’d invited to attend the group meeting – was nodding enthusiastically along with his critique.
“I didn’t pick those parameters because I thought they were pretty.” I offered tiredly. “There are several other disease states that are looking for similar effects with exactly those parameters. Given that they were successful and the biological model we’re using indicates those parameters would be likely correlates.”
“Anything can correlate if you look at enough parameters! Even…the color of the sky!”
I scrunched my face further to indicate both displeasure and confusion. “I see your point.” I said slowly, trying to think. Henry is very smart and sees details I definitely miss. “But if there’s a question before me, I tried to answer it the best I could.”
He nodded, so I continued. “Statistics exist to consider a sample size and the effect magnitude. It’s not a color of the sky thing – there’s a biological mechanism and studies have shown – in other diseases – that these parameters are valuable. And while my dataset is incredibly complex, I think there are interesting findings there. The nontrivial part is in explaining them without overstepping what we actually can know.”
Henry smiled, looking somehow pleased with me, but Maria stepped in.
“I think it sounds feeshy.” She said.
“Feeshy?” I repeated, thinking of words I knew. She made a swimming motion with her hands and I nodded immediately. “Oh, fishy! OK!” Then I pulled back to frown at her. “Wait. Fishy? What?”
“Fishy. It doesn’t make sense.” She said, looking at Henry for back-up. He frowned and backed away, throwing a statement at me that we’d talk later. My feeling – though I could be wrong – was that he’s been waiting for me to stand up for my ideas. He wants to be heard, then he’d like to argue. When I backed down in the past, I think his frustration allowed him to taunt me. It sucks that it happened, but I appear to have finally found a way to interact in a way that isn’t excruciating. Either that or he was tired too. I don't know. Regardless, I avoid working with him. If he makes my time unpleasant - for entertainment or boredom or personal style - I'll avoid spending time with Henry.
I waved a hand at him as he left, noted that email was piling up from others in the meeting who had ideas or suggestions, then turned back to face Maria. “What doesn’t make sense?” I said, being a bit aggressive. I’m all for questions, but to attack a method – a well-established, highly popular, many journals devoted to it method – because you have a feeling it’s fishy? Seriously?
She listed a couple of standard concerns about the method - not completely true, but I saw her points - and I explained how we protect the data from each of the major problems, though there is some risk of confounding your experiment if it’s not properly designed. She eventually shrugged and said she might do some reading at some point.
I opened my mouth to offer her some references, then turned around. I think I’m reaching my limit with this particular student. She leaves regularly, sometimes when I’m trying to work with her on things. She talks on the phone a good percentage of the time she’s around. She has yet to write anything about her research plan and never did help with the project I gave to Ken. I’m too busy and tired to coax someone into proper thought and behavior.
And there lies the problem, I think. She was trying to fit in – pick out flaws, fix errors, make suggestions. Those are all good things and the approaches vary depending on personality. I don’t have to love each person, but I can respect talent and thought when it’s expressed in some decent manner. But I have little patience for someone who belittles a well-studied field out of ignorance, then refuses to expand her scope of understanding. It also makes me unlikely to invite her to more meetings given that she’s going to side with anyone who tries to make me look stupid. I’m not up for battling people from all directions. Perhaps I should feel badly about that – and I don’t expect her to be constantly affirming.
But fishy? Really? Curses.
But the day started with advice – good advice – from Quiet Mentor, along with several powerful introductions. Quiet Mentor, by the way, is a pretty big deal. After the meeting, I have more data than when I started, thanks to some suggestions on where to find extra information and papers. I have an alternate analysis method for a piece of data I was planning to ignore. It was a good day.
Perhaps it’s catty of me, but I didn’t believe it to be fishy at all.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Snippets of Work-Related Nonsense
Work
Once again my desktop has been littered with work rather than blog posts or book chapters (of the fun type). I did take out the actual book chapter today, made the corrections Friend helpfully noted with a pink pen (so much friendlier than red, I think) and scowled at EndNote. It is a powerful tool, but I’ve no idea why it decided to flub up the formatting of some of my references. I fixed them by hand, saved the document, then took it to the PC in my office. EndNote isn’t installed there so it can’t reformat away from my pretty copy. I shall send the final version from that computer to the publisher – I think I’ll do that later this week and see what happens. It’s my first experience with penning a real chapter, so I’m unsure as to the next stage of such an endeavor.
IGOPWDWKTII Conference
I received an email last week announcing a call for abstracts. I hadn’t heard of the conference, so I was about to delete it when I decided I was bored enough to glance it over. It turns out this group is focused on exactly what I hope to do. It might as well be called the IGOPWDWKTII (International Group of People Who Do What Katie Thinks Is Important, as if it wasn’t obvious.) They went with a different name for some reason, but the two projects which currently occupy so much of my time would fit beautifully with their proposed program.
Given that I was just recently lamenting that I acquired data at exactly the wrong time of year – conferences are held in the spring so abstracts were due in the fall – an opportunity to present my work to a highly-relevant audience was dropped in my lap. So I’ve been processing data and capturing images and playing in Photoshop in order to create abstracts for this meeting. It’s all quite…well, boring. Which also explains the blog silence. Unless you want to hear about how I tricked EndNote or love Photoshop or was thwarted by UsefulProgram, I don’t have a lot to say.
Dr. Icing was thrilled with his project’s abstract, but he’s good like that. All optimistic excitement, even when things are going to hell. Since I’m more of an “oh, bother. What’s going to go wrong now?” type of personality, it was only a matter of time before we started to bug each other. But we do try to get along and have a mutual appreciation of talents and personalities going on.
Tomorrow – Day O’ Meetings
Quiet Mentor is harder to figure out, largely because he’s so, well, quiet. I ran into him the other day while meeting with a new patient. He stopped, smiled and shook my hand. Several days later I got email from his secretary requesting a meeting. So I’ve been preparing documentation for tomorrow at 9AM. I’ll go sit in his gigantic office with the pretty sitting area – he generally takes the sofa while leaving the graceful armchairs to visitors.
In a rather serendipitous event, Boss asked me to present at group meeting again. So I can use the Quiet Mentor data twice. I should point out that presenting so often is a minor annoyance. I realized that of all the postdocs in my cohort, I’m the only one who works quite closely with Boss. I rather like it though – he’s smart and resourceful and very helpful. But he keeps closer track of me than the others, meaning I take more turns at journal club because I mention cool articles I’ve read. I get to present almost every other meeting lately because he knows I’ve been collecting data. And it’s good – I should present data to a bunch of faculty members to ask good questions and offer interesting suggestions! It’s a valuable opportunity and not every mentor provides pizza to lure the department to meetings so his post-docs get a lot of attention. But it does take time to prepare! Isn’t it someone else’s turn?!
I’m the only one doing clinical work though. I have the results from actual humans with actual cancer. So people are rather interested in that – it’s highly relevant right now rather than something that might work out in the next 5 years if all goes well. And the slides (all 40 of them) are done apart from a couple of images I forgot to load on my USB drive. I should get excellent feedback tomorrow that lead to even more work. Lovely, I sigh tiredly.
Ruck the Fetreat
I recently received a less than exciting email announcing the polar bear retreat. I skipped it last year – the last time I saw Winnie before she died, she was talking about how harshly her abstract formatting was criticized. It hurt her feelings and I was rather offended at the petty nature of the complaints. I mean, honestly.
This year, there are the standard requests: Margins must be correct! Only one author! No affiliations! Must make up a polar bear name, but nothing like Snowball or Cupcake! No color figures! Submit abstract while you're upside down, but standing on one hand, not two!
And this year – to cut down on the rehashing of old work – you can’t submit anything that’s already been done. It can only be proposed work. This actually works in my favor. I have all sorts of stuff I’ve planned but haven’t started! The polar bears have finally played directly into my comfort zone. Actual work? Um… Proposed work? I have all kinds of that!!
But I will never understand the idea of traveling 4-5 hours and staying at a hotel to see people we work with every day. Which is why I skipped it last year and might do so again this year. But I actually rather like the idea of presenting work not yet done. No data – just ideas, thoughts, hypotheses that might not pan out. I think the input gained would be valuable and the room for truly creative thinking would be huge. So good plan on that one, polar bears. You still freak me out – the potential for biting or clawing remains high, after all – but I do think you’re on the right track with this one.
Bored and boring
So that's about it. Abstracts and email and meetings. Maybe something mildly entertaining will occur at a meeting tomorrow and I can tell you about that. Here's hoping!
Once again my desktop has been littered with work rather than blog posts or book chapters (of the fun type). I did take out the actual book chapter today, made the corrections Friend helpfully noted with a pink pen (so much friendlier than red, I think) and scowled at EndNote. It is a powerful tool, but I’ve no idea why it decided to flub up the formatting of some of my references. I fixed them by hand, saved the document, then took it to the PC in my office. EndNote isn’t installed there so it can’t reformat away from my pretty copy. I shall send the final version from that computer to the publisher – I think I’ll do that later this week and see what happens. It’s my first experience with penning a real chapter, so I’m unsure as to the next stage of such an endeavor.
IGOPWDWKTII Conference
I received an email last week announcing a call for abstracts. I hadn’t heard of the conference, so I was about to delete it when I decided I was bored enough to glance it over. It turns out this group is focused on exactly what I hope to do. It might as well be called the IGOPWDWKTII (International Group of People Who Do What Katie Thinks Is Important, as if it wasn’t obvious.) They went with a different name for some reason, but the two projects which currently occupy so much of my time would fit beautifully with their proposed program.
Given that I was just recently lamenting that I acquired data at exactly the wrong time of year – conferences are held in the spring so abstracts were due in the fall – an opportunity to present my work to a highly-relevant audience was dropped in my lap. So I’ve been processing data and capturing images and playing in Photoshop in order to create abstracts for this meeting. It’s all quite…well, boring. Which also explains the blog silence. Unless you want to hear about how I tricked EndNote or love Photoshop or was thwarted by UsefulProgram, I don’t have a lot to say.
Dr. Icing was thrilled with his project’s abstract, but he’s good like that. All optimistic excitement, even when things are going to hell. Since I’m more of an “oh, bother. What’s going to go wrong now?” type of personality, it was only a matter of time before we started to bug each other. But we do try to get along and have a mutual appreciation of talents and personalities going on.
Tomorrow – Day O’ Meetings
Quiet Mentor is harder to figure out, largely because he’s so, well, quiet. I ran into him the other day while meeting with a new patient. He stopped, smiled and shook my hand. Several days later I got email from his secretary requesting a meeting. So I’ve been preparing documentation for tomorrow at 9AM. I’ll go sit in his gigantic office with the pretty sitting area – he generally takes the sofa while leaving the graceful armchairs to visitors.
In a rather serendipitous event, Boss asked me to present at group meeting again. So I can use the Quiet Mentor data twice. I should point out that presenting so often is a minor annoyance. I realized that of all the postdocs in my cohort, I’m the only one who works quite closely with Boss. I rather like it though – he’s smart and resourceful and very helpful. But he keeps closer track of me than the others, meaning I take more turns at journal club because I mention cool articles I’ve read. I get to present almost every other meeting lately because he knows I’ve been collecting data. And it’s good – I should present data to a bunch of faculty members to ask good questions and offer interesting suggestions! It’s a valuable opportunity and not every mentor provides pizza to lure the department to meetings so his post-docs get a lot of attention. But it does take time to prepare! Isn’t it someone else’s turn?!
I’m the only one doing clinical work though. I have the results from actual humans with actual cancer. So people are rather interested in that – it’s highly relevant right now rather than something that might work out in the next 5 years if all goes well. And the slides (all 40 of them) are done apart from a couple of images I forgot to load on my USB drive. I should get excellent feedback tomorrow that lead to even more work. Lovely, I sigh tiredly.
Ruck the Fetreat
I recently received a less than exciting email announcing the polar bear retreat. I skipped it last year – the last time I saw Winnie before she died, she was talking about how harshly her abstract formatting was criticized. It hurt her feelings and I was rather offended at the petty nature of the complaints. I mean, honestly.
This year, there are the standard requests: Margins must be correct! Only one author! No affiliations! Must make up a polar bear name, but nothing like Snowball or Cupcake! No color figures! Submit abstract while you're upside down, but standing on one hand, not two!
And this year – to cut down on the rehashing of old work – you can’t submit anything that’s already been done. It can only be proposed work. This actually works in my favor. I have all sorts of stuff I’ve planned but haven’t started! The polar bears have finally played directly into my comfort zone. Actual work? Um… Proposed work? I have all kinds of that!!
But I will never understand the idea of traveling 4-5 hours and staying at a hotel to see people we work with every day. Which is why I skipped it last year and might do so again this year. But I actually rather like the idea of presenting work not yet done. No data – just ideas, thoughts, hypotheses that might not pan out. I think the input gained would be valuable and the room for truly creative thinking would be huge. So good plan on that one, polar bears. You still freak me out – the potential for biting or clawing remains high, after all – but I do think you’re on the right track with this one.
Bored and boring
So that's about it. Abstracts and email and meetings. Maybe something mildly entertaining will occur at a meeting tomorrow and I can tell you about that. Here's hoping!
Monday, May 28, 2007
Humph
I can't write anything.
I have tried and failed and tried again. It's just not happening for me today. Chienne had a big adventure yesterday - heading to Friend's then Friend's friend's house. She was very good and rather sweet, but I can't be patient enough to watch the words appear on the screen.
I wrote one abstract on Saturday and have been battling the other one since. It's a tremendously complex dataset - at least I hope it is because it's beyond me to understand it. And just when I had a decent idea, I hit a major technical glitch. I understand the cause, but I can't find the solution. So I'm going to get the files out of UsefulProgram and into DifferentProgram and try to trick UsefulProgram into reading them the way I want instead of the way it thinks is best. Dammit.
Friend arrived a couple of hours ago to avail herself of my water and garden hose to clean her car. She's been out there ever since, doing what, I can't imagine. Spray, wash, rinse, shower to remove sweat. 20 minutes tops. Perhaps she has decided to build a new car... I suppose I could look, but it's all hot out there. I'd rather not.
Instead I shall load up my USB drive (Minie, I think, with her pink ribbon) and try to fool my programs. I'm tired and crampy and am not looking forward to the remainder of this week.
Phooey and such.
I have tried and failed and tried again. It's just not happening for me today. Chienne had a big adventure yesterday - heading to Friend's then Friend's friend's house. She was very good and rather sweet, but I can't be patient enough to watch the words appear on the screen.
I wrote one abstract on Saturday and have been battling the other one since. It's a tremendously complex dataset - at least I hope it is because it's beyond me to understand it. And just when I had a decent idea, I hit a major technical glitch. I understand the cause, but I can't find the solution. So I'm going to get the files out of UsefulProgram and into DifferentProgram and try to trick UsefulProgram into reading them the way I want instead of the way it thinks is best. Dammit.
Friend arrived a couple of hours ago to avail herself of my water and garden hose to clean her car. She's been out there ever since, doing what, I can't imagine. Spray, wash, rinse, shower to remove sweat. 20 minutes tops. Perhaps she has decided to build a new car... I suppose I could look, but it's all hot out there. I'd rather not.
Instead I shall load up my USB drive (Minie, I think, with her pink ribbon) and try to fool my programs. I'm tired and crampy and am not looking forward to the remainder of this week.
Phooey and such.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Odd
I mimicked the man outside – ducking down and prancing away at a fast pace. I ended up in my hallway, dog looking up from my feet as she followed me from the front window.
“Stay away from the windows.” I warned her. “Maybe we should lay down on the floor? I don’t really know.” I frowned for a moment, feeling the adrenaline rush, and tapped my index finger to my lips, thinking. I ducked down and scampered again, retrieved my cell phone and hurried back to the hallway.
I pushed and held the number 2, then waited for one of my parents to pick up.
“Hi.” Mom said, sounding distracted.
“There’s a cop with a gun drawn outside my house!” I told her excitedly.
“What?” She said, more confused than worried. “Are you watching a show? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” I told her, a little breathless. “I was reading my book on the couch and I kept hearing sirens and yelling. Lots of yelling. So I got up and tried to see what was happening. They were blocking traffic at the corner, so I was looking out my side window, trying to see what was happening. I had given up and turned around when I noticed 2 police cars were blocking the street right in front of my driveway. When I was looking out the front window, I saw a policeman get out of his car, pull out his gun, then sort of crouch/prance out of my line of sight!”
“Really?” She said, as if I call and make up stories about men and guns all the time. “Are you OK? What’s happening now?”
“I’m fine. The animals and I are considering the duck and cover method as we stand here in the hallway. I got scared – I’m not used to men with guns! But I think I’m going to go look.”
“Outside?” She said, sounding alarmed. “Don’t go outside if there are guns!”
“No – I’m just going to peek out my window again.”
“Call me back!” She insisted and I shook my head, dropping my voice to a whisper for no apparent reason as I crept slowly from the hallway.
“I’m taking the phone with me.” I said softly. She obediently fell into silence too so nobody could hear us. From inside the closed house. We’re smart like that.
“Oh, I think it’s OK.” I told her quietly. “There’s a woman out there trying to get past the police cars on foot. They’re not letting her go so she’s taking out her cell phone. But she can see better than I can. My stupid garage is in the way. There are 2 police cars in front of my house and the ambulance pulled forward now. I wonder if they’re going to load someone in it! Oh, I hope so! Not that I want someone to be injured, of course, but that’d be cool to see.”
“Are there still guns?” She asked, still quiet. “Should you be by the window?”
“The people across the street are out with their dog and children, all watching. I’m OK.” I reported, squinting through the blinds as I perched on the arm of the chair in front of my window. “People are just walking around – I can’t see what’s going on. I wish I could go outside.”
“If your neighbors are out, you could probably go too.” She offered. “But be careful.”
“No, I’d be embarrassed.” I decided. “But I could go out back! Peek around the side of the house from my fenced yard!”
“Good idea.” She said. “Are we being quiet again?”
I confirmed that we were and slipped on flip flops and tiptoed through my crunchy grass to peer around the side of my light brick home. I pulled back to report what I’d found.
“There are more police cars that way. There’s been a bag of trash – or what I thought was trash – in the middle of the street all day. They moved that aside. And there’s a gold car with all the doors open sitting behind the ambulance. People are sort of clustered around it. Hold on – I’m going to look again… Oops – someone saw me that time.” I smiled sheepishly at the young cop and watched him grin and nod politely. “I think I should go back inside.” I told Mom.
“Probably.” She laughed.
“I think it’s OK now – nobody’s going in the ambulance. Nobody’s prancing around with a gun anymore. It seems to be relatively calm.”
“I should let you talk to your father then. I’m sure he’ll have advice or questions.” She sighed, then took the phone to my dad.
“Hi.” I said then asked what he was doing.
“Watching TV.” He sighed. “It’s raining so they canceled the cruise-in.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We need the rain here – my yard is all dry and icky. But at least I didn’t have to mow this week!” Then I thought I should have watered the plants while I was doing reconnaissance outside. Nah, I decided. Too obvious. I’ll do it later when I see if anybody moved the trash bag in the street.
I updated Dad on the situation and he told me that it depended on the type of gun as to what bullets could travel through. I am apparently to stay behind a wall and not behind a door or window. Which makes sense, but I can’t see through walls! I need to know what’s happening in my busy but safe little suburb.
“Maybe there’s a dead body in it.” Dad guessed of the black plastic bag.
“It’s been there all day.” I told him.
“There could still be a dead body in it.” He defended his choice, but I disagreed. “Maybe someone stole that car.” He brainstormed after asking me if I’d go out and ask the police what was going on. I refused. “Or they were selling drugs. Or maybe someone’s undercover and saw someone … do something illegal. Then the guy tried to run away, which is why they had guns out.”
“Sure, Dad.” I said, still watching people sweating outside in this miserable heat that has descended upon us. I had an otherwise boring day, begging off a shopping trip with Friend to be cranky on my own. I finished one abstract for a small but highly relevant conference. The data are beautiful – the abstract's exquisitely pretty and I worked for hours on analysis and figures and fixing mistakes. I’m delighted that it’s off to co-authors already. I also took trash to the dump, acquired donuts from a new shop in the next town, got Chienne a cheeseburger, and settled down to read another story in a very hot book. (I haven’t been fond of romances in past months – have been reading for pleasure very little, actually. I ordered books about a week ago and devoured 3 in 2 days. I’m reading again!)
Dad launched into a boring story about his new garage – the mistakes they’ve made already, things he’ll put in the garage, things he won’t put in the garage, people he’d like to show the garage, people who won’t be allowed in the garage…I stopped paying attention, interrupting only to report that the police were taking of their pretty purple latex gloves and placing biohazard bags in the ambulance. As the conversation grew boring, I began to lose interest in the people outside. Most of them had left, leaving only a single car with flashing lights and the stolen/drug dealing/undercover car in the street.
I returned to the couch, waiting for an opening to end the conversation. I finally pounced on one and hung up. The tow truck came for the car as I was writing this. Now I’ll go water my plants and see if the black bag is still there.
It has been a very lazy day – apart from the sharp excitement of the moment when I saw a gun. But I’ve enjoyed the quiet productivity and have spared the world from my general bad mood. I shall let you know if I ever hear what happened outside my door. But you now know as much as I do.
“Stay away from the windows.” I warned her. “Maybe we should lay down on the floor? I don’t really know.” I frowned for a moment, feeling the adrenaline rush, and tapped my index finger to my lips, thinking. I ducked down and scampered again, retrieved my cell phone and hurried back to the hallway.
I pushed and held the number 2, then waited for one of my parents to pick up.
“Hi.” Mom said, sounding distracted.
“There’s a cop with a gun drawn outside my house!” I told her excitedly.
“What?” She said, more confused than worried. “Are you watching a show? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” I told her, a little breathless. “I was reading my book on the couch and I kept hearing sirens and yelling. Lots of yelling. So I got up and tried to see what was happening. They were blocking traffic at the corner, so I was looking out my side window, trying to see what was happening. I had given up and turned around when I noticed 2 police cars were blocking the street right in front of my driveway. When I was looking out the front window, I saw a policeman get out of his car, pull out his gun, then sort of crouch/prance out of my line of sight!”
“Really?” She said, as if I call and make up stories about men and guns all the time. “Are you OK? What’s happening now?”
“I’m fine. The animals and I are considering the duck and cover method as we stand here in the hallway. I got scared – I’m not used to men with guns! But I think I’m going to go look.”
“Outside?” She said, sounding alarmed. “Don’t go outside if there are guns!”
“No – I’m just going to peek out my window again.”
“Call me back!” She insisted and I shook my head, dropping my voice to a whisper for no apparent reason as I crept slowly from the hallway.
“I’m taking the phone with me.” I said softly. She obediently fell into silence too so nobody could hear us. From inside the closed house. We’re smart like that.
“Oh, I think it’s OK.” I told her quietly. “There’s a woman out there trying to get past the police cars on foot. They’re not letting her go so she’s taking out her cell phone. But she can see better than I can. My stupid garage is in the way. There are 2 police cars in front of my house and the ambulance pulled forward now. I wonder if they’re going to load someone in it! Oh, I hope so! Not that I want someone to be injured, of course, but that’d be cool to see.”
“Are there still guns?” She asked, still quiet. “Should you be by the window?”
“The people across the street are out with their dog and children, all watching. I’m OK.” I reported, squinting through the blinds as I perched on the arm of the chair in front of my window. “People are just walking around – I can’t see what’s going on. I wish I could go outside.”
“If your neighbors are out, you could probably go too.” She offered. “But be careful.”
“No, I’d be embarrassed.” I decided. “But I could go out back! Peek around the side of the house from my fenced yard!”
“Good idea.” She said. “Are we being quiet again?”
I confirmed that we were and slipped on flip flops and tiptoed through my crunchy grass to peer around the side of my light brick home. I pulled back to report what I’d found.
“There are more police cars that way. There’s been a bag of trash – or what I thought was trash – in the middle of the street all day. They moved that aside. And there’s a gold car with all the doors open sitting behind the ambulance. People are sort of clustered around it. Hold on – I’m going to look again… Oops – someone saw me that time.” I smiled sheepishly at the young cop and watched him grin and nod politely. “I think I should go back inside.” I told Mom.
“Probably.” She laughed.
“I think it’s OK now – nobody’s going in the ambulance. Nobody’s prancing around with a gun anymore. It seems to be relatively calm.”
“I should let you talk to your father then. I’m sure he’ll have advice or questions.” She sighed, then took the phone to my dad.
“Hi.” I said then asked what he was doing.
“Watching TV.” He sighed. “It’s raining so they canceled the cruise-in.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We need the rain here – my yard is all dry and icky. But at least I didn’t have to mow this week!” Then I thought I should have watered the plants while I was doing reconnaissance outside. Nah, I decided. Too obvious. I’ll do it later when I see if anybody moved the trash bag in the street.
I updated Dad on the situation and he told me that it depended on the type of gun as to what bullets could travel through. I am apparently to stay behind a wall and not behind a door or window. Which makes sense, but I can’t see through walls! I need to know what’s happening in my busy but safe little suburb.
“Maybe there’s a dead body in it.” Dad guessed of the black plastic bag.
“It’s been there all day.” I told him.
“There could still be a dead body in it.” He defended his choice, but I disagreed. “Maybe someone stole that car.” He brainstormed after asking me if I’d go out and ask the police what was going on. I refused. “Or they were selling drugs. Or maybe someone’s undercover and saw someone … do something illegal. Then the guy tried to run away, which is why they had guns out.”
“Sure, Dad.” I said, still watching people sweating outside in this miserable heat that has descended upon us. I had an otherwise boring day, begging off a shopping trip with Friend to be cranky on my own. I finished one abstract for a small but highly relevant conference. The data are beautiful – the abstract's exquisitely pretty and I worked for hours on analysis and figures and fixing mistakes. I’m delighted that it’s off to co-authors already. I also took trash to the dump, acquired donuts from a new shop in the next town, got Chienne a cheeseburger, and settled down to read another story in a very hot book. (I haven’t been fond of romances in past months – have been reading for pleasure very little, actually. I ordered books about a week ago and devoured 3 in 2 days. I’m reading again!)
Dad launched into a boring story about his new garage – the mistakes they’ve made already, things he’ll put in the garage, things he won’t put in the garage, people he’d like to show the garage, people who won’t be allowed in the garage…I stopped paying attention, interrupting only to report that the police were taking of their pretty purple latex gloves and placing biohazard bags in the ambulance. As the conversation grew boring, I began to lose interest in the people outside. Most of them had left, leaving only a single car with flashing lights and the stolen/drug dealing/undercover car in the street.
I returned to the couch, waiting for an opening to end the conversation. I finally pounced on one and hung up. The tow truck came for the car as I was writing this. Now I’ll go water my plants and see if the black bag is still there.
It has been a very lazy day – apart from the sharp excitement of the moment when I saw a gun. But I’ve enjoyed the quiet productivity and have spared the world from my general bad mood. I shall let you know if I ever hear what happened outside my door. But you now know as much as I do.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
A Rambling Post
I need to clean. I have clutter everywhere and dishes are piled up, waiting to be deposited in the dishwasher. I have mail to sort and data to process. My trash needs to go to the dump. I really should vacuum.
I’m tired. And hot. And rather cranky for some reason.
I had to be in early this morning for an experiment. Chienne pranced around, eager for a walk, and I sighed and calculated how many minutes I could spare. I woke at 4AM, worried over something that caught my attention, then finally found sleep at 5:30. When I woke at 6, I’d been dreaming. I don’t dream of Grandma often and for some reason I hate to lose time with her, even if my subconscious is imagining it. She was giving me beautiful flowers in this lovely red vase. I didn’t want to take it because I wondered if someone else needed it more – all I wanted was to stay with her. Young and safe and loved.
But as the light creeping past the blinds grew brighter and more insistent, I dragged myself from comforting dreams and gulped coffee to coax my mind completely awake. I clipped a leash on my dog and sighed impatiently as she paused multiple times to sniff. I was sweating just from standing on the curb and walked for no more than 5 minutes before turning around to come home.
“If you can’t walk like a good girl,” I lectured loftily as she trotted beside me, confused, “then we have to go home. Plus, I’m hot and need to get ready to leave.”
I feel like too many things are upsetting lately. Not devastating or overwhelming – just bothersome.
“Does this need to be here?” Someone asked today. She was helping with a portion of the experiment and started something when I wasn’t looking. I have the reputation of being flexible, which is good. But there was a reason I wanted one thing done a particular way. She could get as snippy as she wanted on this point – I held firm.
“Yes.” I said calmly and watched her struggle to fix the problem. She huffed and puffed and made sure I knew how very hard her job was.
I didn’t feel badly at all. I could have fixed it, wanted, in fact, nothing more than to ask her to get out of my way. With her continued expressions of exasperation, I wasn’t even slightly tempted to bend. I needed this particular piece done my particular way. And eventually it was. I also got more data that I expected from this patient.
I returned to the office to drink coffee until my hands shook and efficiently ran through initial analyses. Everything looks good so far. Pleased with my progress – I have lots of data in a useful form – I came home.
I ordered brush cleaner from Sephora and it waited on my front porch. I adore Bare Minerals and have noticed my fancy brushes aren’t as soft as they once were. Using my special shampoo, I massaged the applicators and watched the froth turn beige on my fingers.
I couldn’t see that they were dirty before, I mused, rubbing gently and tipping the brush toward the drain as I began to rinse it clean. I could, however, feel that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t blatant or disgusting – just not quite right as I swirl-tap-buffed powder on each morning. My house isn’t filthy either – it just needs a bit of attention to clear out clutter and remove trash. I'm not sure why I don’t just work at it instead of napping and reading and…I don’t know. Hanging around, I guess.
I need to present my study twice next Wednesday – Boss and Quiet Mentor are pleased with the prospect of data and would like their respective departments to see what I’ve done. Which involves clearing away some of the mental and physical clutter and deciding what I actually want to do with all this pretty data. Yet I feel unsure and irritable and itchy with the need to do mindless cleaning instead.
The inevitable question in both presentations will be to move forward (and if so, with what money) or change directions. And I don’t know. While I have gained confidence enough to insist upon my choices when I’m sure they’re right, I have many moments where I just don’t know. This is one of them. My hesitation in beginning with some of the many ideas that I have indicates that, in some sense at least, I don’t want to know.
In the event that I have hidden guck in my life and brain – metaphorical make-up and moisturizer and dust – that needs to be washed out and rinsed clean, I should work on that.
I am taking better care of myself. I drink some sort of V8/juice amalgam on the way to work. It takes of orange and…tomato. The latter is vague, but I still taste it. It’s bearable though, so I sip juice instead of soda on my morning commutes and remind myself that I don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables. I take my anti-depressant each night. I’ve been making it to work more often than not (this week, anyway). It’s really OK.
Yet I had to walk away from the post to clean a bit. Pick up trash and gather laundry and place cat toys in a basket and dog toys in bins. I took care of dishes and did some thinking.
“Oh, no.” I moaned in sympathy last week when Friend told me one of her labmates hit a wall. He tried his last idea and it didn’t pan out. “I won’t do that.” I confided. “If I can’t think of two ideas, I won’t try my last one – I want something to inspire hope.”
I think that’s it. I want the project to work. I want to be happy and healthy. I find myself afraid of sacrificing the current status – mediocre yet hopeful – for something different, even if different is better. I don’t want to know that my methods failed to yield anything useful. That my hypotheses – vague as they were – are wrong. That returning a call from a new therapist I might meet won’t end up making me any better. That even if I were thin and lovely, I’d remain less than lovable.
Luckily, there are people who force the issue. Boss keeps prodding me to talk about progress, offering continuous encouragement and motivation. Friend will gently ask about a new therapist at some point. And I grew overwhelmed with the need to pick up my house. Incremental progress counts, I think. But I also get the feeling I’m becoming unstuck. Even if it’s a bit painful, I hope that’s the case.
I’m tired. And hot. And rather cranky for some reason.
I had to be in early this morning for an experiment. Chienne pranced around, eager for a walk, and I sighed and calculated how many minutes I could spare. I woke at 4AM, worried over something that caught my attention, then finally found sleep at 5:30. When I woke at 6, I’d been dreaming. I don’t dream of Grandma often and for some reason I hate to lose time with her, even if my subconscious is imagining it. She was giving me beautiful flowers in this lovely red vase. I didn’t want to take it because I wondered if someone else needed it more – all I wanted was to stay with her. Young and safe and loved.
But as the light creeping past the blinds grew brighter and more insistent, I dragged myself from comforting dreams and gulped coffee to coax my mind completely awake. I clipped a leash on my dog and sighed impatiently as she paused multiple times to sniff. I was sweating just from standing on the curb and walked for no more than 5 minutes before turning around to come home.
“If you can’t walk like a good girl,” I lectured loftily as she trotted beside me, confused, “then we have to go home. Plus, I’m hot and need to get ready to leave.”
I feel like too many things are upsetting lately. Not devastating or overwhelming – just bothersome.
“Does this need to be here?” Someone asked today. She was helping with a portion of the experiment and started something when I wasn’t looking. I have the reputation of being flexible, which is good. But there was a reason I wanted one thing done a particular way. She could get as snippy as she wanted on this point – I held firm.
“Yes.” I said calmly and watched her struggle to fix the problem. She huffed and puffed and made sure I knew how very hard her job was.
I didn’t feel badly at all. I could have fixed it, wanted, in fact, nothing more than to ask her to get out of my way. With her continued expressions of exasperation, I wasn’t even slightly tempted to bend. I needed this particular piece done my particular way. And eventually it was. I also got more data that I expected from this patient.
I returned to the office to drink coffee until my hands shook and efficiently ran through initial analyses. Everything looks good so far. Pleased with my progress – I have lots of data in a useful form – I came home.
I ordered brush cleaner from Sephora and it waited on my front porch. I adore Bare Minerals and have noticed my fancy brushes aren’t as soft as they once were. Using my special shampoo, I massaged the applicators and watched the froth turn beige on my fingers.
I couldn’t see that they were dirty before, I mused, rubbing gently and tipping the brush toward the drain as I began to rinse it clean. I could, however, feel that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t blatant or disgusting – just not quite right as I swirl-tap-buffed powder on each morning. My house isn’t filthy either – it just needs a bit of attention to clear out clutter and remove trash. I'm not sure why I don’t just work at it instead of napping and reading and…I don’t know. Hanging around, I guess.
I need to present my study twice next Wednesday – Boss and Quiet Mentor are pleased with the prospect of data and would like their respective departments to see what I’ve done. Which involves clearing away some of the mental and physical clutter and deciding what I actually want to do with all this pretty data. Yet I feel unsure and irritable and itchy with the need to do mindless cleaning instead.
The inevitable question in both presentations will be to move forward (and if so, with what money) or change directions. And I don’t know. While I have gained confidence enough to insist upon my choices when I’m sure they’re right, I have many moments where I just don’t know. This is one of them. My hesitation in beginning with some of the many ideas that I have indicates that, in some sense at least, I don’t want to know.
In the event that I have hidden guck in my life and brain – metaphorical make-up and moisturizer and dust – that needs to be washed out and rinsed clean, I should work on that.
I am taking better care of myself. I drink some sort of V8/juice amalgam on the way to work. It takes of orange and…tomato. The latter is vague, but I still taste it. It’s bearable though, so I sip juice instead of soda on my morning commutes and remind myself that I don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables. I take my anti-depressant each night. I’ve been making it to work more often than not (this week, anyway). It’s really OK.
Yet I had to walk away from the post to clean a bit. Pick up trash and gather laundry and place cat toys in a basket and dog toys in bins. I took care of dishes and did some thinking.
“Oh, no.” I moaned in sympathy last week when Friend told me one of her labmates hit a wall. He tried his last idea and it didn’t pan out. “I won’t do that.” I confided. “If I can’t think of two ideas, I won’t try my last one – I want something to inspire hope.”
I think that’s it. I want the project to work. I want to be happy and healthy. I find myself afraid of sacrificing the current status – mediocre yet hopeful – for something different, even if different is better. I don’t want to know that my methods failed to yield anything useful. That my hypotheses – vague as they were – are wrong. That returning a call from a new therapist I might meet won’t end up making me any better. That even if I were thin and lovely, I’d remain less than lovable.
Luckily, there are people who force the issue. Boss keeps prodding me to talk about progress, offering continuous encouragement and motivation. Friend will gently ask about a new therapist at some point. And I grew overwhelmed with the need to pick up my house. Incremental progress counts, I think. But I also get the feeling I’m becoming unstuck. Even if it’s a bit painful, I hope that’s the case.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Amazing
First, if you’re looking for the Postdoc Carnival (Edition 4), it’s one post down. I’m blushing over the compliments and pleased with the number of visitors. I hope that interested parties found new blogs and entries - there are so many people who grant glimpses of what can be involved with our work. I’m glad my turn is over (I was nervous! I wanted it to be OK.), but will definitely try again if called upon to do so.
Second, I have a bit of a story.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go.” I suggested, watching the clock and starting to fidget in the hospital room. I prayed before I arrived.
“Please don’t let this be awful.” I requested as I gathered files and forms to leave my office far earlier than I expected. Since beginning work with doctors, I’m being cured of my tendency to arrive early. Since patients thus far have paged me up to 60 minutes before our scheduled appointment, I’m discovering people must do a tremendous amount of waiting in hospitals.
I did some myself to make this particular experiment work. In spending an hour watching minutes tick by, making small talk with family members and trying to hurry various staff members along, I have little idea how people tolerate such annoyances when ill. The caveat is that I believe I work at a tremendous institution that truly values patient care. It wasn’t that anyone was being anything less than helpful – it’s just that everything moved really slowly.
The disparity is disconcerting. My patient is my priority – I’ll drop everything to attend to her. In her room, she sometimes fell behind others with more urgent needs. Transport and nursing and meal delivery and paging various doctors. It’s complicated and difficult and exhausting, even to watch.
(I do have a question about med students. How many are there? Must they be everywhere? There are all these children in white coats, milling about, typing on computers, talking to each other in herds. What the hell are they doing? Isn’t one or two sufficient? And when I’m using the elevator with my patient, must they all cram in and lean on her wheelchair? I was forced to glare menacingly at one of the egotistical pups. For crying out loud. Sorry – I’m sure medical students are great and under tremendous stress themselves. But they were the only ones who made my day more difficult.)
We finally got started and as impressed as I was by the hospital staff and their overall attitude (speed notwithstanding), I was awed by my patient. I’ve said before that a willingness to participate in research that has little power to help them moves me.
This one – even among people I respect more than nearly anyone I’ve met – was special. Thrilled to participate even when weak, sparkling with personality even when exhausted.
“Will I get to read about what you’ve found?” She asked when I had her arranged back in her room. I helped organize the food that had been delivered while we were gone, offered to call her family on their cell phones since they were elsewhere in the hospital, fluffed pillows, helped her arrange covers, went to fetch ice, told her nurse we were back.
“Of course.” I answered with a smile as I watched to make sure she didn’t need help pouring her Coke in the styrofoam cup I’d filled with ice chips. I smiled when I realized she has strength I don’t dream of possessing. I stopped for a moment to smile at her, struck with the wonder of triumph of spirit over disease, if only for a few hours. “I’ll let you know when I have something pulled together and we’ll talk again in a few weeks. Then I can see how much better you’re doing.”
“I hope so.” She offered in a slightly raspy voice that lilted with…something bright – I can’t find the right word – even when she struggled for breath.
“I hope so too.” I said, smoothing my hand over her shoulder and sending the most fervent prayer I’ve offered recently.
Someone walked by while I was collecting data, pausing to ask how it was going. I deal with sicker patients than most of my colleagues, so they’re curious with what I’m able to obtain.
“Quite well.” I said. “Better than I hoped, actually. She really wanted to participate – she thought it was important to do research and wanted to be a part of it. So headaches or transport problems or afternoon appointments weren’t going to stop her. I would have called it off at any point and must have told her 20 times that if it was uncomfortable at all, we’d stop. But she’s doing beautifully.”
“I pay grad students for some of my stuff.” My colleague reported, bemused.
“I know. These patients are stronger than most people. I don’t really understand it, but I’ve found it to be true with those I’ve met. It’s amazing.”
After making sure she was settled and comfortable in her room, I thanked my patient with all sincerity.
“Hi.” I said when I saw her family heading toward her as I was departing.
“Did she do OK?” Someone asked and I nodded enthusiastically, juggling the files with which I arrived.
“Perfect. She’s amazing.”
“We know.” They smiled and moved past me toward her again.
I’m blessed to know that too. To be able to pray for such fantastic people, to hopefully take some steps that will improve the hours they spend at the hospital. It’s daunting and tiring, but it’s also awe-inspiring. It seemed important to document such an event.
Second, I have a bit of a story.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go.” I suggested, watching the clock and starting to fidget in the hospital room. I prayed before I arrived.
“Please don’t let this be awful.” I requested as I gathered files and forms to leave my office far earlier than I expected. Since beginning work with doctors, I’m being cured of my tendency to arrive early. Since patients thus far have paged me up to 60 minutes before our scheduled appointment, I’m discovering people must do a tremendous amount of waiting in hospitals.
I did some myself to make this particular experiment work. In spending an hour watching minutes tick by, making small talk with family members and trying to hurry various staff members along, I have little idea how people tolerate such annoyances when ill. The caveat is that I believe I work at a tremendous institution that truly values patient care. It wasn’t that anyone was being anything less than helpful – it’s just that everything moved really slowly.
The disparity is disconcerting. My patient is my priority – I’ll drop everything to attend to her. In her room, she sometimes fell behind others with more urgent needs. Transport and nursing and meal delivery and paging various doctors. It’s complicated and difficult and exhausting, even to watch.
(I do have a question about med students. How many are there? Must they be everywhere? There are all these children in white coats, milling about, typing on computers, talking to each other in herds. What the hell are they doing? Isn’t one or two sufficient? And when I’m using the elevator with my patient, must they all cram in and lean on her wheelchair? I was forced to glare menacingly at one of the egotistical pups. For crying out loud. Sorry – I’m sure medical students are great and under tremendous stress themselves. But they were the only ones who made my day more difficult.)
We finally got started and as impressed as I was by the hospital staff and their overall attitude (speed notwithstanding), I was awed by my patient. I’ve said before that a willingness to participate in research that has little power to help them moves me.
This one – even among people I respect more than nearly anyone I’ve met – was special. Thrilled to participate even when weak, sparkling with personality even when exhausted.
“Will I get to read about what you’ve found?” She asked when I had her arranged back in her room. I helped organize the food that had been delivered while we were gone, offered to call her family on their cell phones since they were elsewhere in the hospital, fluffed pillows, helped her arrange covers, went to fetch ice, told her nurse we were back.
“Of course.” I answered with a smile as I watched to make sure she didn’t need help pouring her Coke in the styrofoam cup I’d filled with ice chips. I smiled when I realized she has strength I don’t dream of possessing. I stopped for a moment to smile at her, struck with the wonder of triumph of spirit over disease, if only for a few hours. “I’ll let you know when I have something pulled together and we’ll talk again in a few weeks. Then I can see how much better you’re doing.”
“I hope so.” She offered in a slightly raspy voice that lilted with…something bright – I can’t find the right word – even when she struggled for breath.
“I hope so too.” I said, smoothing my hand over her shoulder and sending the most fervent prayer I’ve offered recently.
Someone walked by while I was collecting data, pausing to ask how it was going. I deal with sicker patients than most of my colleagues, so they’re curious with what I’m able to obtain.
“Quite well.” I said. “Better than I hoped, actually. She really wanted to participate – she thought it was important to do research and wanted to be a part of it. So headaches or transport problems or afternoon appointments weren’t going to stop her. I would have called it off at any point and must have told her 20 times that if it was uncomfortable at all, we’d stop. But she’s doing beautifully.”
“I pay grad students for some of my stuff.” My colleague reported, bemused.
“I know. These patients are stronger than most people. I don’t really understand it, but I’ve found it to be true with those I’ve met. It’s amazing.”
After making sure she was settled and comfortable in her room, I thanked my patient with all sincerity.
“Hi.” I said when I saw her family heading toward her as I was departing.
“Did she do OK?” Someone asked and I nodded enthusiastically, juggling the files with which I arrived.
“Perfect. She’s amazing.”
“We know.” They smiled and moved past me toward her again.
I’m blessed to know that too. To be able to pray for such fantastic people, to hopefully take some steps that will improve the hours they spend at the hospital. It’s daunting and tiring, but it’s also awe-inspiring. It seemed important to document such an event.
4th Postdoc Carnival
Having never hosted a carnival, I perhaps went overboard with the number of posts included. There is a tremendous amount of good reading here though, some of which I hope is new to some of you. Exploring these authors and ideas should keep you busy, but remember to keep writing. ScienceWoman sneaks in a postdoc carnival on June 23 before beginning a faculty position. But on with the fourth carnival of What's Up, Postdoc? Happy clicking and reading!
Let's start with a delightful "postgrad allegory."
After that, wouldn't you like to become one of us? Or maybe continue in our community from a different location?
Are you still in grad school? Sunil wonders if the PhD process is getting too long.
Navigating the Challenge offers tips from a successful search for a position.
If you're searching for a lab, perhaps Biocurious might be able to help.
Still lost? Try PonderingFool for some sage advice.
If you're interviewing, make sure you spend some time with current students/postdocs in your prospective lab - Image Goddess is trying to warn you!
Do you learn from example? Fun facts and a personal reflection en route to a postdoc from The Argo.
Janus Professor finds a great postdoc while trying to escape her graduate lab.
Rob triumphs after his own torture (see 24-33).
Toaster on Fire experiences disappointment and continued hope when searching for a first postdoc.
Freely Jointed Chain (very cool name) starts early on the search for her next lab.
And Status: +61 is already starting to fit in.
The_Girl_From_Ipanema shares her successful interviewing story.
As EnnuiHerself plays the waiting game to hear about postdoctoral funding, I'm wishing her the best of luck.
Who needs cash?
We're poor - no joke.
Adventures of a Postdoc wonders why we can't make more money.
CK@Thirsty shares the salary confusion.
The Argo has suggestions!
Now are we sad about all the stuff we can't afford? Perhaps it's time for everyone to join Luckybuzz for a drink not only to retain sanity, but also for your health!
Questions and Answers and Informational Posts.
Please see Rising to the occasion for a lovely description of what a postdoc does.
Research - and its friend administrative work - know few boundaries. Title Troubles provides some insight (and questions) on goals and limits.
Please see The Daily Transcript for a fantastic discussion on the proximity of Biotechs.
Adiabatic Invariants asks if there are there personality characteristics that make a postdoc successful.
ScienceWoman juggles tasks and describes her part-time post-doc.
Pros and cons of extensive collaborations at hypoglycemiagirl.
Our jobs are hard.
Would you say your postdoctoral work is more magical or carefree? Incoherent Ponderer doesn't seem to think either adjective fits. I tend to concur.
Perhaps your collaborators, like Steven's, are hostile and withhold their toys?
Or is it the nature of our work? Little White Lies explains the "Re" in Research.
Chall discusses being quiet in a rather intense seminar.
Lou has a truly unpleasant colleague. Insults are Not Cool.
Andrew copes with a massive data analysis.
Despite considerable work, Saxifraga still experiences guilt over non-constant publication production.
Yet if we don't hurry, someone else might publish in our area of interest.
Then again, The Eternal Postdoc points out that sometimes one needs a break. It is confusing...publish, perish, or take a nap? I sometimes go with the latter.
Ian has some thoughts on embracing uncertainty.
And Chris provides some perspective. (I received serious traffic from that post. Thanks, Chris!)
Propter Doc ponders study abroad. Is there a point? For her sake, I really hope so.
Am I a woman scientist? asks What jobs?
Day By Day provides some excellent thoughts about evaluating priorities.
Acclimating (and receiving benefits) without assistance from Pondering Fool.
Huh. That's a bit discouraging. Should I have done an MD instead? Open Reading Frame presents some reasons it might be wise.
What if you're just unhappy? PhDiva feels a bit stuck.
Ready to leave our ranks? The Ivory Schmower seems to be a wonderful resource.
Thank you.
I volunteered to host in order to help the fabulous Propter Doc who has shouldered more than her share of the carnival duties. But I'm also rather honored to be part of a community of such thoughtful and talented people. The hours of searching for new writers were, I think, well spent. For those that I faithfully read, you provide perspective, entertainment and a great way to procrastinate. Oh, and the images are meaningless - I made them in Photoshop. I'm just trying to be visually as well as intellectually interesting.
See you all next month!
Let's start with a delightful "postgrad allegory."
After that, wouldn't you like to become one of us? Or maybe continue in our community from a different location?
Are you still in grad school? Sunil wonders if the PhD process is getting too long.Navigating the Challenge offers tips from a successful search for a position.
If you're searching for a lab, perhaps Biocurious might be able to help.
Still lost? Try PonderingFool for some sage advice.
If you're interviewing, make sure you spend some time with current students/postdocs in your prospective lab - Image Goddess is trying to warn you!
Do you learn from example? Fun facts and a personal reflection en route to a postdoc from The Argo.
Misery loves company, but there appear to be happy endings for many of us when searching for labs.
Janus Professor finds a great postdoc while trying to escape her graduate lab.Rob triumphs after his own torture (see 24-33).
Toaster on Fire experiences disappointment and continued hope when searching for a first postdoc.
Freely Jointed Chain (very cool name) starts early on the search for her next lab.
And Status: +61 is already starting to fit in.
The_Girl_From_Ipanema shares her successful interviewing story.
As EnnuiHerself plays the waiting game to hear about postdoctoral funding, I'm wishing her the best of luck.
Who needs cash?
We're poor - no joke.Adventures of a Postdoc wonders why we can't make more money.
CK@Thirsty shares the salary confusion.
The Argo has suggestions!
Now are we sad about all the stuff we can't afford? Perhaps it's time for everyone to join Luckybuzz for a drink not only to retain sanity, but also for your health!
Questions and Answers and Informational Posts.
Please see Rising to the occasion for a lovely description of what a postdoc does.Research - and its friend administrative work - know few boundaries. Title Troubles provides some insight (and questions) on goals and limits.
Please see The Daily Transcript for a fantastic discussion on the proximity of Biotechs.
Adiabatic Invariants asks if there are there personality characteristics that make a postdoc successful.
ScienceWoman juggles tasks and describes her part-time post-doc.
Pros and cons of extensive collaborations at hypoglycemiagirl.
Our jobs are hard.
Would you say your postdoctoral work is more magical or carefree? Incoherent Ponderer doesn't seem to think either adjective fits. I tend to concur.Perhaps your collaborators, like Steven's, are hostile and withhold their toys?
Or is it the nature of our work? Little White Lies explains the "Re" in Research.
Chall discusses being quiet in a rather intense seminar.
Lou has a truly unpleasant colleague. Insults are Not Cool.
Andrew copes with a massive data analysis.
Despite considerable work, Saxifraga still experiences guilt over non-constant publication production.
Yet if we don't hurry, someone else might publish in our area of interest.
Then again, The Eternal Postdoc points out that sometimes one needs a break. It is confusing...publish, perish, or take a nap? I sometimes go with the latter.
What's next?
Ian has some thoughts on embracing uncertainty.And Chris provides some perspective. (I received serious traffic from that post. Thanks, Chris!)
Propter Doc ponders study abroad. Is there a point? For her sake, I really hope so.
Am I a woman scientist? asks What jobs?
Day By Day provides some excellent thoughts about evaluating priorities.
Acclimating (and receiving benefits) without assistance from Pondering Fool.
Huh. That's a bit discouraging. Should I have done an MD instead? Open Reading Frame presents some reasons it might be wise.
What if you're just unhappy? PhDiva feels a bit stuck.
Ready to leave our ranks? The Ivory Schmower seems to be a wonderful resource.
Thank you.
I volunteered to host in order to help the fabulous Propter Doc who has shouldered more than her share of the carnival duties. But I'm also rather honored to be part of a community of such thoughtful and talented people. The hours of searching for new writers were, I think, well spent. For those that I faithfully read, you provide perspective, entertainment and a great way to procrastinate. Oh, and the images are meaningless - I made them in Photoshop. I'm just trying to be visually as well as intellectually interesting.See you all next month!
Monday, May 21, 2007
Sigh.
In a surprising turn of events, Maria was sitting at her desk when I got there this morning. The department has, for the most part, left for Germany so I was anticipating a day of calm quiet. Maria is neither boisterous or noisy, so I didn’t mind her presence (well, until she turned the thermostat up to 70. I like being cold! Shivering is fine! It probably burns calories). She worked quietly, speaking several times on the phone. The second time, I noted that she sounded annoyed, her lyrical accent becoming clipped and stern.
I continued to analyze data and printed a copy of my chapter. I was going to bribe Friend to proofread it – she says she’s skilled at such tasks – then go through it again myself. It’s been nearly a month since I’ve looked at it and I’m nearing the deadline. I was organizing the pages that had printed, putting my figures neatly behind the body of the paper, when I noticed a man sitting in the corner.
“Hello.” I said, then glanced at Maria. She was ignoring him. Before I could ask if he was in trouble, she turned and jerked her head toward the door. I raised an eyebrow, amused that the young grad student was clearly bossing the scholarly older man.
“Have you met my boyfriend?” She asked as she gathered her belongings.
“Nope.” I answered, reaching to shake his hand. Weak, I frowned, then eased my expression of disapproval. The poor guy was obviously already being scolded for his tardy arrival to take Maria home. He offered his name, then lifted her bag to his shoulder and started listing the tasks he’d completed that day as they walked from the office and up the stairs nearby.
I smiled, returning to my pages containing my chapter and seeing that my analysis step had finished. Then I winced momentarily. I officially skipped my last therapy session with Dr. Counselor today. Apparently the “finished forever” line was a trick to make me work harder. I disapprove and have chosen not to return. We exchanged a couple emails and he wondered why I didn’t want to come back and I said he told me not to come back then I didn’t answer the email he sent after that. No more rejection! This time, I'm calling it done. I never get to end anything - I'm the one who gets to say no more here.
I should see someone else. I know. Given that I’m waiting on doing that, I shouldn’t feel jealous and inferior and miserable that I don’t have anyone. That there is no man to come carry my bag and drive me home. That there’s something so wrong with me that the men I do grow to love somehow can’t escape me fast enough. And while it makes sense taken individually, as a collective romantic past, it’s hugely depressing and demoralizing. Not a single one keeps in touch or shows a speck of interest in how or what I’m doing now. That’s not good. In some way I alienate them so completely that erasing the memory completely appeals. Again, not good.
Anyway.
I met another patient in the afternoon, as sweet as could be and equally sick. Even I, with my ‘let’s discuss every private detail I can muster!’, recognize that it’s inappropriate to discuss such events. Suffice it to say that it hurts. Each patient, every visit, each moment I spend considering their data – I ache with regret and sorrow.
So that happened, then I headed back to my office to find my method of choice had failed miserably. I took a break, did some reading online, and was starting to click productively instead of recreationally when Jill poked her head in. I smiled briefly, then turned to quickly finish what I was doing.
“Have you heard from Dawn?” She asked, and I turned to dig through a pile of papers. I came up with a card shaped like a terrier.
“She left me a card – it was here this morning – but I haven’t seen her.” I replied, swiveling in my chair. “Why? Did you hear from her?”
And in dramatic fashion Jill so enjoys, she stepped aside to reveal a sheepish-looking Dawn.
“Hello!” I smiled at her, then felt myself get weepy. I blinked back unexpected tears while Jill shooed Dawn into a chair and closed the door when she left. We talked for about an hour. Job searches and pets, family and possible locations to work, hair styles and movies. She stayed for about an hour before leaving to battle traffic.
“We could have dinner sometime.” I offered tentatively when she stood up. “I know you have family and friends here, but I don’t have very many. I really do like you and I’m so proud of you for how you’ve acted. So.”
“I have your number.” She said, smiling. “Most of my friends have left, but we could definitely get together.”
I nodded and turned back to my desk. Sighed.
While I moped over people who refuse to stay in my life, I gently moved Winnie’s violet from its perch on my file drawers and carefully removed the dead blossoms. The deep purple blooms continue to appear, but it’s requiring more and more maintenance. So I work at it, allowing room for the new buds to open. I hope she was happier than I knew her to be. I hope she’s somewhere perfect now.
As for the other people I loved and lost, I have some sense that they’re well. And that’s good – I like knowing (or assuming) they’re happy and healthy and busy. I want to be happy and healthy and busy. And in love.
The day actually wasn't so awful. It just could have been a lot better.
I continued to analyze data and printed a copy of my chapter. I was going to bribe Friend to proofread it – she says she’s skilled at such tasks – then go through it again myself. It’s been nearly a month since I’ve looked at it and I’m nearing the deadline. I was organizing the pages that had printed, putting my figures neatly behind the body of the paper, when I noticed a man sitting in the corner.
“Hello.” I said, then glanced at Maria. She was ignoring him. Before I could ask if he was in trouble, she turned and jerked her head toward the door. I raised an eyebrow, amused that the young grad student was clearly bossing the scholarly older man.
“Have you met my boyfriend?” She asked as she gathered her belongings.
“Nope.” I answered, reaching to shake his hand. Weak, I frowned, then eased my expression of disapproval. The poor guy was obviously already being scolded for his tardy arrival to take Maria home. He offered his name, then lifted her bag to his shoulder and started listing the tasks he’d completed that day as they walked from the office and up the stairs nearby.
I smiled, returning to my pages containing my chapter and seeing that my analysis step had finished. Then I winced momentarily. I officially skipped my last therapy session with Dr. Counselor today. Apparently the “finished forever” line was a trick to make me work harder. I disapprove and have chosen not to return. We exchanged a couple emails and he wondered why I didn’t want to come back and I said he told me not to come back then I didn’t answer the email he sent after that. No more rejection! This time, I'm calling it done. I never get to end anything - I'm the one who gets to say no more here.
I should see someone else. I know. Given that I’m waiting on doing that, I shouldn’t feel jealous and inferior and miserable that I don’t have anyone. That there is no man to come carry my bag and drive me home. That there’s something so wrong with me that the men I do grow to love somehow can’t escape me fast enough. And while it makes sense taken individually, as a collective romantic past, it’s hugely depressing and demoralizing. Not a single one keeps in touch or shows a speck of interest in how or what I’m doing now. That’s not good. In some way I alienate them so completely that erasing the memory completely appeals. Again, not good.
Anyway.
I met another patient in the afternoon, as sweet as could be and equally sick. Even I, with my ‘let’s discuss every private detail I can muster!’, recognize that it’s inappropriate to discuss such events. Suffice it to say that it hurts. Each patient, every visit, each moment I spend considering their data – I ache with regret and sorrow.
So that happened, then I headed back to my office to find my method of choice had failed miserably. I took a break, did some reading online, and was starting to click productively instead of recreationally when Jill poked her head in. I smiled briefly, then turned to quickly finish what I was doing.
“Have you heard from Dawn?” She asked, and I turned to dig through a pile of papers. I came up with a card shaped like a terrier.
“She left me a card – it was here this morning – but I haven’t seen her.” I replied, swiveling in my chair. “Why? Did you hear from her?”
And in dramatic fashion Jill so enjoys, she stepped aside to reveal a sheepish-looking Dawn.
“Hello!” I smiled at her, then felt myself get weepy. I blinked back unexpected tears while Jill shooed Dawn into a chair and closed the door when she left. We talked for about an hour. Job searches and pets, family and possible locations to work, hair styles and movies. She stayed for about an hour before leaving to battle traffic.
“We could have dinner sometime.” I offered tentatively when she stood up. “I know you have family and friends here, but I don’t have very many. I really do like you and I’m so proud of you for how you’ve acted. So.”
“I have your number.” She said, smiling. “Most of my friends have left, but we could definitely get together.”
I nodded and turned back to my desk. Sighed.
While I moped over people who refuse to stay in my life, I gently moved Winnie’s violet from its perch on my file drawers and carefully removed the dead blossoms. The deep purple blooms continue to appear, but it’s requiring more and more maintenance. So I work at it, allowing room for the new buds to open. I hope she was happier than I knew her to be. I hope she’s somewhere perfect now.
As for the other people I loved and lost, I have some sense that they’re well. And that’s good – I like knowing (or assuming) they’re happy and healthy and busy. I want to be happy and healthy and busy. And in love.
The day actually wasn't so awful. It just could have been a lot better.
Bad Example
Maria,
I just wanted to make sure everything was OK since I hadn’t seen you around in awhile. I hope you’re doing well and research is moving along – please let me know if you have any questions or if I can help. I’m hoping to put in more regular appearances at the office in the near future, so feel free to touch base whenever it’s convenient.
Katie
She arrived a couple of hours later for the first time in a couple of weeks.
“Hey.” I said, turning from my computer screen and list of things to do. “How are you?”
“Good. Guilty.” She offered.
I cocked my head at her. “Guilty? Is something going on?”
“I haven’t been in much.” She said, looking away. I nodded – hard to argue with non-existent attendance. But I do more than my share of working from home, so I’ll happily give her the benefit of the doubt. I also understand personal situations taking priority over work. I have extensive experience with depression and being oddly unable to motivate myself into clothes other than pajamas and out of the house toward campus.
“Young man,” Winston Churchill asked a young Billy Graham, “do you have hope?” A visiting pastor delivered the sermon at church yesterday and spoke of Christian hope. The belief that there is shining light in the midst of a world seemingly filled with darkness. That through belief in God we have the comfort and courage to work toward what is just and good and kind when doing so seems difficult and somehow worthless.
It is, for me, an uphill battle sometimes. It’s not that I’m always lazy – I can have extraordinary bursts of valuable productivity. It’s just that I don’t always care – I feel somehow distant from people or projects and would rather watch TV and nap. Is my work going to help my patients? Unlikely. Is it going to get published in journals of high impact factor, easing my transition into an independent career? Probably not. If it did, do I want to be a professor? Not so much, I think.
Working-my-way-toward-middle-aged Katie, do I have hope? I fear not. At least not enough. Pessimism has cloaked me so that I don’t often feel the wounded surprise when something doesn’t go my way, but I also don’t feel the bright anticipation when starting a new project or convincing myself to go to church or trying to exercise a bit. I just don’t really care.
Which likely explains my feeling of distance from church and prayer and God.
Last Monday, Maria turned to check her email, offering answers to a couple of questions that I’d asked over recent weeks. I considered it, pausing from clicking buttons while I faced away from her, sighed then turned to face her again.
“Are you OK?” I asked. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“No.” She shook her head and I spared a moment’s envy for the length of her hair. “My sister had her baby.” She confided, and I smiled widely.
“Congratulations!” I said. “A boy or girl?”
“Boy.” She grinned and told me a weight. I nodded as if I knew how big that meant the baby was. I remain a bit leery around the tiny creatures. I like them better when they’re a bit older. “But it was difficult for my sister. The cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. Twice.”
I blinked in dismay. “So they did a C-section?”
“No, she didn’t want that. But they had to keep the baby in the hospital for longer than we thought.”
“But he’s fine now?” I said, not wanting to hear bad news.
“Oh, yes. He’s precious.” I nodded and congratulated her again.
“So I haven’t been in much – I feel bad.” She said and I paused to think. I believe that most people are capable of making it through grad school. If you find the right environment and project, you can show up every day and make progress, fail and try again, meet people and solve problems while creating new ones. But that desire to do so must be present.
To do a graduate degree just because one is unsure of other options leaves one with my particular problems. In possession of a PhD I’m not sure I want to really use. Struggling to go in some days, not out of overwhelming depression, but because of a minor earache. I was on campus for Monday of last week – that’s it. I accomplished very little at home even, but am not overwhelmed for this week. There just isn’t much going on.
Since this happened after my discussion with Maria on Monday, I’m quite sympathetic to her problem.
“I spent a lot of my graduate career feeling badly.” I said slowly, trying to think and speak carefully. “Guilty because I didn’t work hard enough, inferior because it took me longer to understand some things, hopeless when stuff didn’t work. It’s not the best use of your energy – feeling badly about yourself and your work. Instead, I think I should have made decisions and been OK with them. Let myself take a break sometimes, deal with family issues, work when the urge strikes. It’s difficult to sort out, but you’re far enough along to trust yourself when you make decisions.”
She considered me for a moment, then abruptly asked what happened with Dawn.
“She’s not coming back.” I said softly. “I haven’t heard anything official, nor do I expect to do so, but I think things are going to play out in a way that keeps her away.” Then I shook my head and sighed again. “Sometimes things aren’t fair. I…don’t know what to do or say about that. It’s just not fair sometimes.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” She said. “Work in research with people who are unfair and selfish.”
I nodded – it’s a decision one must make, I suppose. Do you work to change things? Duck your head and do your work? Or walk away? I can’t help her decide that, so I moved on.
“How’s your prospectus coming along?” Since she switched labs so late in her time at my current institution, the powers that be are hurrying her to decide what she’s going to do so she doesn’t lose more time.
“I haven’t really started it.” She confessed and I blinked. That was nearly 3 months ago that we spoke of it, I thought. Her research was moving along at a nonexistent pace rather than just slow. This makes me less eager to help her – it seems like throwing time away.
“Well,” I said, knowing I should say something in response, “if you’d like me to look at something or help in some way, just let me know.”
Except I’ve been out of the office for each day since then. And while I’d happily respond to email, it’s not the same as turning a chair to ask a quick question. That was how I gave part of her project to Ken. We’d waited too long, something had to be done, I was complaining about not knowing how to loop the Matlab code most effectively and he did it for me. He was also around when I met with the PI for that data and I pulled him into the meeting after giving him all the credit he was due. I was rather pleased when our collaborators directed questions to him and he was able to discuss the science behind the code. It’s research at its best – the merging of skills and interest for rapid progress toward some reasonable goal.
Yet Maria was absent and missed it.
I often am too. The nature of my projects make them portable and I can be highly productive at home. I rarely feel guilty about skipping the drive to campus, but perhaps I should.
I hope Maria looks to Ken as a better role model than me. But I also hope to provide a bit of a better example. Which means I should get dressed and make the trek to work.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Staying home
I missed the very first conference I could have attended. I wasn’t able to pull an abstract together between by start date in May and the deadline in November. So the following May found me dogsitting for Carrie while she and her husband traveled with our research group to Hawaii. That’s right – Honolulu. And I stayed home, not by choice, but because I wasn’t invited. It continues to stick in my mind that the females in group all – without exception – missed their first conference opportunity. The males – again, without exception – attended each and every confidence available to them. But that’s not really my point.
Since then, I have happily packed my bags and a poster tube – even when presenting talks, I had poster sessions – and headed off to some new city to explore. I like conferences. I see them, in fact, as one of the perks of doing research. Congregating to listen and learn and network – I find it all quite wonderful. And when else can one finish a thesis while watching the ocean on South Beach? Or take pictures in temple gardens before giving a talk in Japan? Look down on a city from the tallest tower and drink wine, all the while hoping you don’t catch SARS? Embrace the cloudiness and history in the UK? Drink coffee from Starbucks located on each block while frowning that Seattle is much hillier than I expected?
This November, I had no data. I recycled graduate material for last year’s conference, tromping to Seattle before flitting off to Hawaii to spend time with M. But I learned very little, choosing to hide in my hotel room and wonder what was wrong with my pseudo-relationship with someone I met online. Not such good times. I’m also very isolated within my group of peers, not sharing an office (or building for that matter) with people who would attend this big conference. So the urge to pull something together and battle the online submission system never arose.
I have, however, waited patiently for the regret to swamp me. To say that I missed a chance to go to Europe! To sadly watch as posters were printed and talks rehearsed, flight reservations confirmed and rides to the airport arranged.
“I decided not to go this year.” I reported to people as they asked. “I didn’t have much data, so I’d rather hang around hope to recruit patients. And there’s a smaller conference closer to home in June.”
Today is when most of my researchy friends are departing for Germany. I blinked in surprise when Boss mentioned he’d be out all next week. The calendars for our toys are booked by folks outside my niche, other than me. I will collect patient data next week and count the time spent here at home as a good decision. I don’t feel up for dealing with international travel, though I do enjoy it. I continue to be surprised that I’m not at least sort of jealous – and maybe I will be when I see photos – but am content to be planning a weekend of mowing my lawn and writing my novel rather than making my way around the world.
Perhaps part of it is that I’m looking at a very busy June. M – my bestest friend from graduate school – will arrive on June 4 and stay with me that week. She has yet to meet Chienne since I’ve traveled to see her in the past years (she lives in Hawaii – it makes more sense to go there). So I’ll show her around my current city. We’ll get massages and take a road trip (I’m thinking Biltmore.) and eat and talk and laugh. When she leaves, I’ll head north to drop off Chienne and Sprout with my folks, then continue on to Chicago.
I love Chicago – it was where we took weekend trips when I was growing up, so it continues to bring this nifty excitement and joy for me. I tend to connect through O’Hare whenever possible (I know – weird – but I’ve had good luck there) since I like being close to Chicago somehow. I’ll meet Carrie at O’Hare and we’ll share a room for the following week, making fun of presenters, sitting side by side with our laptops, finding restaurants my picky friend will enjoy and perhaps talking about a bit of work.
After she heads back home, I’ll grab my car and head just a touch north to where Elle and Tom have their apartment. They get me for the weekend and we’re planning on exploring their neighborhood since I’ll have already spent several days in the city. It’s eclectic and hip up there – I always feel a bit out of place – but I love seeing my wonderful friend from college look so at home and happy. I’m hoping to stop by Rachel’s house on my way home from seeing Elle.
The eager anticipation I experience when thinking about June is more than enough to keep me content with being home right now. I’ll work and prepare for my weeks of friends and travel and wish my colleagues well.
There are few things that keep me happier today than looking forward to tomorrow. Which probably means that to make my weeks more productive and content, I need to plan better weekends. But for now, I’m off to mow the jungle that is my lawn. I’m surprisingly pleased with that for now.
Since then, I have happily packed my bags and a poster tube – even when presenting talks, I had poster sessions – and headed off to some new city to explore. I like conferences. I see them, in fact, as one of the perks of doing research. Congregating to listen and learn and network – I find it all quite wonderful. And when else can one finish a thesis while watching the ocean on South Beach? Or take pictures in temple gardens before giving a talk in Japan? Look down on a city from the tallest tower and drink wine, all the while hoping you don’t catch SARS? Embrace the cloudiness and history in the UK? Drink coffee from Starbucks located on each block while frowning that Seattle is much hillier than I expected?
This November, I had no data. I recycled graduate material for last year’s conference, tromping to Seattle before flitting off to Hawaii to spend time with M. But I learned very little, choosing to hide in my hotel room and wonder what was wrong with my pseudo-relationship with someone I met online. Not such good times. I’m also very isolated within my group of peers, not sharing an office (or building for that matter) with people who would attend this big conference. So the urge to pull something together and battle the online submission system never arose.
I have, however, waited patiently for the regret to swamp me. To say that I missed a chance to go to Europe! To sadly watch as posters were printed and talks rehearsed, flight reservations confirmed and rides to the airport arranged.
“I decided not to go this year.” I reported to people as they asked. “I didn’t have much data, so I’d rather hang around hope to recruit patients. And there’s a smaller conference closer to home in June.”
Today is when most of my researchy friends are departing for Germany. I blinked in surprise when Boss mentioned he’d be out all next week. The calendars for our toys are booked by folks outside my niche, other than me. I will collect patient data next week and count the time spent here at home as a good decision. I don’t feel up for dealing with international travel, though I do enjoy it. I continue to be surprised that I’m not at least sort of jealous – and maybe I will be when I see photos – but am content to be planning a weekend of mowing my lawn and writing my novel rather than making my way around the world.
Perhaps part of it is that I’m looking at a very busy June. M – my bestest friend from graduate school – will arrive on June 4 and stay with me that week. She has yet to meet Chienne since I’ve traveled to see her in the past years (she lives in Hawaii – it makes more sense to go there). So I’ll show her around my current city. We’ll get massages and take a road trip (I’m thinking Biltmore.) and eat and talk and laugh. When she leaves, I’ll head north to drop off Chienne and Sprout with my folks, then continue on to Chicago.
I love Chicago – it was where we took weekend trips when I was growing up, so it continues to bring this nifty excitement and joy for me. I tend to connect through O’Hare whenever possible (I know – weird – but I’ve had good luck there) since I like being close to Chicago somehow. I’ll meet Carrie at O’Hare and we’ll share a room for the following week, making fun of presenters, sitting side by side with our laptops, finding restaurants my picky friend will enjoy and perhaps talking about a bit of work.
After she heads back home, I’ll grab my car and head just a touch north to where Elle and Tom have their apartment. They get me for the weekend and we’re planning on exploring their neighborhood since I’ll have already spent several days in the city. It’s eclectic and hip up there – I always feel a bit out of place – but I love seeing my wonderful friend from college look so at home and happy. I’m hoping to stop by Rachel’s house on my way home from seeing Elle.
The eager anticipation I experience when thinking about June is more than enough to keep me content with being home right now. I’ll work and prepare for my weeks of friends and travel and wish my colleagues well.
There are few things that keep me happier today than looking forward to tomorrow. Which probably means that to make my weeks more productive and content, I need to plan better weekends. But for now, I’m off to mow the jungle that is my lawn. I’m surprisingly pleased with that for now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
