This may not end well

I’ve been in Pasadena for a few days, now, and I have lots to blog about but the thing that is consuming all of my energy right now is this:

I know beyond a reasonable doubt that I left three pairs of sandals here.*  Two of them are among my favorite pairs.  I cannot find them.  I have looked in the bedroom closet, under the bed, in the dresser, under the dresser, in the hall closet, in suitcases that are stored in the closet, in the trunk where the spare blankets are supposed to be kept (but instead houses my stuffed animals for some reason), in the linen close, under the couch and, in desperation, the filing cabinet.

The only thing left to do is to ask Husband where they are and pray he doesn’t say something infinitely stupid like, “I got rid of them.”

*Even if I didn’t remember that I had left them here, I just spent a week packing up and shipping everything from Grad School City, so I know they were not there.

[Update:  They were in the top drawer of the dresser.  I had only searched the bottom drawers thinking that, of course, the clothes would be in the top drawers because you'd want them to be where you could reach them easily.]

 

Can’t talk, busy packing

I have one more day to get all of my crap packed up and shipped.  Most of it is already in the mail, but there’s still a few odds and ends left in the apt.  I have lots to blog about but no time to do so.  Therefore, you will be getting random bulletpoints until I have time to write more.

• There are good times to get reacquainted with spending 24/7 with your spouse after living apart for 2.5 years.  Packing for a major move is not one of them.
• I had a dream that had Comrade Physioprof in it.  What does that say about the amount of time I spend in the blogging world?
• I tried to say goodbye to my advisor.  However, my eyes started tearing up so I ended with, “Well, I guess this is it!”  I’ll be sending him an email later.
• I really must learn how to dust.  Really.
• Husband and I may have internet addictions.  We both get online within 5 minutes of waking up in the morning.

 

Letting go

In the last couple of days, I have noticed that I’ve been a little in denial about the fact that I’m leaving the lab for good.  The first moment of realization came when I started cleaning out my shelf in the -20 freezer.  I had kept every cut plasmid and purified insert that I had used for cloning over my entire graduate career (because, yes, I did sometimes reuse them in other cloning projects).  I had also kept a large number of genomic DNA preps, diluted primers, vectors that had been linearized for integration into the genome and PCR products.  In all, I had around 12 boxes of this stuff.  And it was hard–really, really hard–to just throw it in the garbage can.  I kept thinking, “But, what if I need this?”

See, I’m a packrat.  A major packrat.  I have a very difficult time getting rid of things so it’s a good thing I’ve moved every 4 years or so because that forces me to purge my belongings.  Usually, all I have to do is consider the likelihood that I’ll use an item again and compare that to how much I really want to have to pack it in a box.  When my husband moved to California, it was even easier because I had to look at an item and decide if I really wanted to pay to ship it clear across the country.

In the case of lab, it should be even more cut and dried.  I’m leaving.  I’m not just leaving this lab, I’m leaving benchwork.  I am not ever planning on working in a lab again.  Therefore, I absolutely do not need any of this stuff.  Not a bit of it.  I had to keep telling myself that, though, while I threw out old plates and precultures from the cold room and cloning intermediates from the freezer and files in my desk.  I’d say, “But what if I need it?” and then wonder under what circumstances in my post-lab life I could possibly need the manual from a Qiagen miniprep kit.  I still can’t force myself to throw out my NEB catalog, though.  That thing has been my companion and reference book for so long, it would be like throwing away a part of myself.  And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be making dinner and I will suddenly really want to know if you can do a double digest with BamHI and HindIII.  Granted, this seems highly unlikely, but you never know.  I just can’t part with it.  Maybe after a year or so of being out of the lab I will be able to throw it out.

The thing of it is that, including the years I spent as a tech, I’ve spent about the last 12 years of my life working at a lab bench.  And, while I’m still certain I do not want to do a post-doc, leaving the lab bench has me feeling a little scared and a lot sad.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am overjoyed at the fact that when I go on vacation I will no longer have to ask someone to look after my yeast plates as well as my pet.  I am thrilled beyond measure that I will never again need to do a ritual dance around the PCR machine or have such bad lab karma that I get my grandmother to send me a bottle of holy water which I then proceed to wipe down my bench with because it’s either that or sit in a corner and cry.  I will never again stomp into lab and shout, “For the love of Qiagen, why can’t people clean up after themselves when they spill a culture in the shaking incubator?  Why???”

But there are plenty of things that I will miss, too.  I’ll miss going to see a really good seminar and then coming back to the lab to discuss it.  I’ll miss being in the lab when someone finally, finally gets the result she’s been waiting for and she runs through the lab screaming, “I did it!  I did it!” while waving a picture of a western blot.  I’ll miss being the person waving a picture of a western blot.

And so, I imagine that when I wipe down my lab bench for the very last time, there will be a few tears shed.

 

And now for something completely different

I realize the previous post might have been a bit of downer. It was important to me to write it, but it was also somewhat depressing.  And I can only take so much sadness in a week.  I have to offset it with a bit of laughter.  Therefore,  I give you LOLspores:

 

Something I’ve been thinking about

While writing about my yearly Lady Doctor visits, I thought of something I might like to share with all of you.  After this last weekend’s tragic events, I think it even more important that I share it now.

When I was 18, I went on The Pill.  Like most teenage girls of my acquaintance, I did this by visiting Planned Parenthood.  All throughout college, I went to Planned Parenthood for my yearly exams and to buy birth control.  During that time, depending on where I was, I happened to go to three different clinics in three different cities.  The experience was always as pleasant as such things could be, but in particular I really liked the clinic I went to in Boston.

The Planned Parenthood in Boston was very close to my school–within a few blocks.  It was housed on the first floor of a brownstone with apartments above it.  It was a truly wonderful environment.  The waiting room was cozy–more like a living room–the staff were warm and kind.  Like most apartment buildings in the city, it had a buzzer in the lobby and when you pressed it, the receptionist let you in.

I never had anything but good experiences there.  The staff really cared about what they were doing and their treatment was first-rate.  It was there that I was asked if I wanted to see my cervix during an exam.

It happened that, while I was in Iowa during my Christmas break one year, I messed up my pill prescription somehow.  I don’t exactly recall what I did but I must’ve forgotten to take my pill for three or four days in a row.  In any case, the mess up was such that I needed to call Planned Parenthood in Boston to find out what I should do.  I did this in the morning and talked to a very sweet woman on the phone who assured me that a nurse would call me as soon as one was available.

I went on with my day, I’m not sure what I did, probably read a book or something.  I know I did not turn out a TV.  Sometime in the afternoon, I made plans to meet up with a friend but I was still waiting for the phone call from Planned Parenthood.  This was in the dark ages before everyone and their dog had a cell phone, so if I left the house, I would miss the call.  So, I called the clinic.

Now, typically, when I called the clinic, my call was handled in a prompt and efficient manner.  This phone call was a little unusual in that I got randomly transferred a couple of times and had to repeat my problem a couple of times.  Things seemed to be a little bit confused, but the women I talked to were caring and professional just as they always were and I finally got my question answered and I hung up the phone.

A little while later, I turned on the TV for the first time that day.  And then, I sat in stunned amazement as I listened to the news reports centered on Boston.  That morning, sometime after I made my first phone call, a man had gone into two separate clinics in Boston and shot people.  This included the Planned Parenthood I went to.  And the receptionist, the one who was so nice to me on the phone, had been shot and killed an hour or two after I talked to her.

The most amazing thing about this story is that later that very same day, only hours after their colleague had been gunned down in that very clinic, there were people there answering the phones, people who very kindly helped me with my oh-so-trivial problem.

The next time I went to that Planned Parenthood, things were a little bit different than they had been.  In the lobby was a Boston City Policeman and a metal detector.  The policeman was friendly and jovial even while he searched my backpack, then looked for my name on the appointment sheet, then buzzed the receptionist, then allowed me into the building.  Inside, the receptionist sat behind bullet-proof glass.  The staff were just as friendly, just as competent, but the atmosphere had changed.  It was no longer warm and comforting there.  You couldn’t help but think about what had happened there.  How terrible it was that the receptionist had in all likelihood buzzed her killer through the door.  How scared and frightened everyone must’ve been.  How scared they must still be, bulletproof glass or no.

My friends asked me why I continued to go there after the shooting.  I could have gone to the student health center in all likelihood.  But, I didn’t want to do that.  It seemed to me that if I truly supported the mission of Planned Parenthood then I should continue to go there and give them my business.  People like to say as a joke these days that if you [do whatever] then the terrorists win.  Well, that’s exactly how I felt.  The extremists wanted women to be afraid.  They wanted to shut down the clinics that give good quality health care to women who might not be able to afford it otherwise.  Well, the hell with that.  I would continue to go and I persuade all of my friends to go as well.  If I didn’t then the whackjobs had won.

On the Drugmonkey blog, I saw a reference to a post here which suggests that a good response to this last weekend’s events would be to donate to Planned Parenthood, perhaps in memory of George Tiller.  You can do so here.

It’s not often that you’re given a chance to truly stand up for your convictions, even if it’s not the easy thing to do.  Many women say that they are pro-choice, that they firmly believe in a woman’s right to choose, in a woman’s right to obtain good healthcare, in a woman’s right to obtain affordable birth control, in a woman’s right to have an abortion.  But, how much do they believe in that?  Do they believe in it enough to continue going to a clinic where a woman was murdered?  Do they believe in it enough to support it not just with words, but with money, too?  Do you?

 

Too much to say

Lately, I’ve been thinking about posting to the blog a lot and I’ve even started a few posts but I don’t even get them finished before a new blog post topic comes along and then I don’t feel like writing about the previous post anymore.  So, I’m just going to do the random bullet points thing:

• My brother’s baby was born May 9.  I would have blogged about it then but Nephew the 3rd had some problems at first and was in the neonatal ICU and it was just too hard to write about it.  He’s fine now and at home and everything is okay.
• Just found out my Husband’s brother’s baby is going to be a boy.  That’s four nephews for those of you keeping track.
• My 9th wedding anniversary was in early May.  It was sad that Husband wasn’t here so we could celebrate together.
• My birthday was in late May.  I am now 35.  I have been thinking a lot about my life, the past and the present and what I want for the future.
• My last day in lab is supposed to be this Friday.  I’ve been pretty apathetic about getting stuff done so now I’m going to cram it all in this week.
• My last appt. with my psychiatrist is tomorrow morning.  This makes me sad.  I wish I could take her with me to CA.
• There was no nonfiction book for May.  Thank goodness I read three in April so I’m not behind in my goal of reading 12 this year.
• I’ve been reading a lot of mysteries lately.  Not sure why.  Though I do like how everything gets tidied up at the end.
• I went to the bookstore yesterday and I saw books advertising recipes and knitting patterns and cleaning tips.  The surprising thing about this was that I saw them in the mystery section.  I do not need recipes or knitting patterns or cleaning tips in my mystery books.  If I want any of that, I’ll go to the non-fiction section.

I suppose that’s it for now.  I’ve got to get to lab and get cracking on finishing freezing everything down!

 

The Lady Doctor

Once a year, every year, it is necessary to go to what my friends euphemistically call “the lady doctor” aka the gynecologist.  This is rarely a pleasant experience for many, many reasons, even in the best of times.  You don’t go in there expecting to have a fun time of it.  And just about everyone I know has a story in which things have gone awry.   Zuska has recently shared her terrible experience with a physician’s assistant during her annual exam, so, in a show of solidarity, I thought I would share my “worst annual visit ever” story.

For several years, I had been getting my exam by a lovely nurse practitioner who was upbeat, kind and efficient.  However, she took a position elsewhere (as an instructor at a medical school, actually, so I suppose I was glad she was at least going to influence generations of health care workers) so I had to find someone different.  I tried to get the person a friend of mine saw but she was all booked up.  So, I got someone who was an unknown.

I should’ve known things were not going to go well when in the beginning she asked if I had any plans on getting pregnant and when I said no she said, in a rather patronizing tone, “You can’t wait forever, you know.”  Really?  Gosh, I may be getting my PhD in cell biology but I am completely ignorant of the fact that women have a finite amount of time in which to conceive!

So, we go through the breast exam and all that, and then I’m in the stirrups, with my ass hanging off of the table as per usual and of course that’s when things really started to go downhill.  Because things are taking a lot longer than they ought to.  And she must’ve repositioned the speculum at least 5 times (does anyone else find those damn plastic speculums uncomfortable?  what happened to the metal ones???).  Then, she elevated the bed WAY up high, I mean I must’ve been 6 feet off of the ground.  After more futzing around (at this point, I would say I’ve been subjected to this for about 15 minutes which, if you’ve ever been in stirrups and had a speculum being constantly repositioned you know that that feels like FOREVER), I have the following conversation:

HER:  I can’t find your cervix.

ME:  Well, it was there the last time someone checked.

Now, I know I have a retroverted uterus (aka a “tipped” uterus).  I know this because my previous nurse practitioner told me (and when I asked if that was a problem, she said only in that it might make some sexual positions more uncomfortable than others and I had an AHA! moment).  This means, of course, that my cervix is not in the conventional position with respect to the rest of my anatomy.  However, I know that it is not impossible to find my cervix because not only have health care people been able to find my cervix fairly easily for many years I have also seen the damn thing myself*.  And, anyway, aren’t there only so and so many places to be looking for it?  I’m pretty sure there’s not that much room up there.

Finally, after five more minutes of searching, the woman found my missing cervix, scraped it and blessedly removed that damn speculum.

I should’ve written a letter of complaint.  But, I didn’t.  Actually, I should have told the stupid woman to take out the damn speculum and get someone in the room who knew what the hell she was doing.  But, I didn’t.  Because I’m a Nice Girl.  And because it’s difficult to feel empowered when you’re in stirrups with your legs wide open and your ass hanging off of the table.

This year, when I went to the lady doctor (at the same clinic), I got a different person–a nurse midwife–and I feared I would be subjected to another fiasco but all that happened is one readjustment during which I said, “I have a retroverted uterus,” and the nice woman replied, “You certainly do!” and moments later it was all over with.  Thank you, Jesus!

Note to self:  When looking for a new lady doctor be sure to ask in the beginning if she’s ever had problems finding a cervix.

*Once when I was having my annual exam, the woman conducting it asked, “Would you like to see your cervix?”  Now, the real answer to this question was, “No, thanks,” but that made me feel like I was being chickenshit so I said, “Why yes I would!” and a mirror was brought over and held in the appropriate position and I leaned way forward (difficult in stirrups) and saw my cervix.  Several years later another examiner asked me if I wanted to see my cervix and I said, “I’ve already seen it once before, thanks!”

 

Not going to change a thing

Not long ago, there was a big hullabaloo in blogland because a damn good blogger, Damn Good Technician, got outed at her workplace and subsequently removed her blog (she has since re-established her blog).

This caused several people to question whether they should continue blogging or at the very least if they should change what they blog about (Drugmonkey links to some of these posts and Mrs. Comet Hunter weighs in on the topic as well).  This is a difficult decision to make and depends on why you blog in the first place.  Some people blog mostly to give advice and encouragement to other scientists which means there is probably little on their blogs for the Powers That Be to be angry with.  Others blog frankly about their circumstances in order to help others in similar circumstances and to reach out to a sympathetic community for support.  This may mean that what they write about their superiors is not complimentary.

I have written about the challenges of anonymity in the past.  And, I admit, when I heard about this latest kerfluffle I felt a little twinge of fear that one day I, too, could be outed.  When I blog I try to be very careful not to mention the subfield I work in or the proteins I study or the general questions the lab investigates.  I also don’t talk about local issues or say much about the weather in order to keep my location something of a mystery (although it is obviously within driving distance of Iowa).  I never, ever, ever, never, ever use my real name and my pseudonym in the same context.  My pseudonym even has a separate email account.  So, I can be reasonably sure nobody is going to find me with a google search.

Another precaution I take is that very few non-bloggers know who I am IRL.  In fact, I can think of only one.  Wait, she’s blogging now, too.  Okay, so we’re back to none.  My husband and a few friends know about the blog but they don’t know the name of the blog, my pseudonym or the URL of the blog.  Some have asked and I’ve refused to tell them.  Not so much because I don’t want them to read what I’m writing, I just don’t trust non-bloggers to fully understand why I’m blogging under a pseudonym and I don’t trust them to protect my anonymity.  Not that I think they would out me on purpose.  They just might be careless in what they say in the comments or IRL and that might cause a problem.  This has also led me to not link to perfectly lovely blogs because they know who I am and they are too open about who they are and where they live.  Paranoia is your friend when it comes to protecting your identity.

However, I do post from lab so someone from my lab could sneak peeks over my shoulder and maybe find my blog and I do comment on other blogs under my pseudonym from lab so a stats program will pick up that IP address and if any of those bloggers are at the same institution, they’re going to know where I am.  Although, if I’m commenting on a blog the author is probably not going to out me because she may be worried about being outed herself.

I also give quite a few personal details of my life (mental breakdown, anyone?).  Enough that, if you stumble across my blog and you know me IRL you will almost certainly know that it’s my blog.  You may also recognize yourself in the posts (there really can’t be more than one person who fits some of these descriptions–like Husband, for instance).  I’ve also mentioned where I’m going to be moving to and when and what books I’m reading and where I’m from originally.  There’s definitely enough there to identify me.  I suppose this means that I have a n0n-zero chance of being outed.

Despite the risks (and there aren’t nearly as many for me at this moment as there are for other people since I am almost done with my program and have no plans to stay in academia), I am not going to change what I blog about for several reasons:

1. Venting on the blog gives me an outlet for my thoughts and feelings that is unique and important to my mental well-being
2. The support I get from the commentors and from being a part of this community is amazing
3. I want to help other people who may be going through the same things I have gone through

So, I’m not going to change how I blog and I’m not going to obsess about the possibility of being outed (though I will continue to be cautious).  However, I know that’s not going to be the choice everyone makes and I respect that.  Everyone has to do their own risk/benefit analysis and come up with a plan that’s right for them.  It will be sad, though if everyone becomes to scared of being outed to write frankly about their situations.  We’ll lose some very valuable insight.

 

“Permission to write”

After a fairly nice meeting in which nobody questioned whether or not I faked my data, my thesis committee gave me “permission to write,” which means that they think that I’ve done enough for a PhD and deserve to graduate.  You can’t schedule your defense here until your committee has given you permission to write.  I think this is one of the reasons that so few people have problems at their defense here.  Your committee has to formally agree that you’re ready before you can even think about scheduling your defense.

So, that is now out of the way and I will put in a call to my second cousin Luigi and let him know that I won’t need help moving that centrifuge after all.

w00t!!

 

Amusing myself

While I’m waiting to set up for my committee meeting (which I will do in about 10 minutes), I am amusing myself by imagining the terrible, terrible things I could do to my committee if they refuse to let me go.

Currently, I am digging into my Sicilian heritage for ideas.  I actually don’t have much Sicilian blood in me, but it is strong.  Mostly, it manifests itself in my tendency to talk with my hands which I do so emphatically many nearby people are drawn into the conversation because I have hit them.  So, keeping that in mind, and the fact that my family is currently obsessed with Mafia Wars on Facebook, I am thinking of ways I could send my committee to sleep with the fishes.  I’m thinking chaining a Sorvall floor model to their legs and tossing them in the river will do the trick.  We’ve got an old one of those that nobody ever uses that would be perfect for such a thing.

Alternately, I could take the “Real Genius” route and have my astrophysicist husband build a giant, space-based laser that could fry them in their houses.

I will keep these things in mind if the going gets rough.

Which it won’t.

Because I am awesome.

I feel a little nauseous.