Hello again

It's been a while since I've started and abandoned a draft of a blog post here. Even longer since I actually posted one. It's been a rough year since the last time I wrote. After a long time of turning inward and panicking, I've decided to try and chronicle what has made this the most difficult year of my life. Getting a PhD is no joke and it certainly isn't for the faint of heart. In the blog posts to come, I hope to tease apart the factors that make this so painfully true.

I've come to realize that no one goes through life in a vacuum and I'm sure there are others who are struggling with the same things that I am. There must be, right? I mean, I can't possibly be the only one.

I hope the act of (non-academic, non-forced) writing will help lift my spirits a bit. If nothing else, I would love for it to make my smart-ass tweenage son quit fucking calling me Eeyore. A girl can dream anyway. So stay tuned!

Enough social faux pas to go around...

I debated whether I should even write this post because it's...honest. Honest in a way that might hurt someone's feelings, although I doubt the people involved would read this. Let me preface what I'm about to say with this - it's not my intention to hurt anyone's feelings, quite the contrary. I'm going ahead with this post because it exemplifies some of the unspoken social difficulties of being a PhD student who, as a matter of course, interacts with other graduate students/postdocs/academics in general.

One of the senior graduate students in my department successfully defended her thesis yesterday, so two of my former lab mates - I'll call them "T" and "P" - were coming back for her defense and the reception afterwards. I hadn't realized they were coming until the master's student - I'll call her "D" - in my lab said so when she came in this morning. I guess they all communicate via texts, which I'm not included on. I felt a knot twisting in the pit of my stomach - I was dreading this.

Let me back up a bit. Both of my former lab mates are more than 10 years my junior and, although we got along well, I knew they weren't "my people", you know? The people with whom you develop fast chemistry, an easy rapport; it's something you recognize when it happens. T was good friends with another graduate student in a different department, "B", who would visit our lab a lot and we would drink with him in the lounge. It was fun. Fast forward somewhat and B gets engaged to his long-time fiancee. After a period of time, it becomes clear that I am not invited to the wedding. I get it, I've planned a wedding before. No big deal, right? Well, it also became clear that everyone else in my lab at the time (T, P, and D) are not only invited, but are hanging out with the bride and groom after the wedding. Um, ouch. That hurts, but after a while of feeling butt-hurt and not being able to talk to anyone about it, the feeling fades a little.

Until yesterday. So the whole fucking lab has been reconstituted for the day and guess what they can't stop talking about? How much fun they had at the wedding I wasn't invited to. I almost said something about it to explain why I wasn't being very sociable, but I just went to the other side of the lab and did some work instead. I don't think anyone was terribly bothered that I didn't want to talk. P was cordial enough, T was his usual friendly self, and D was just really excited to see them. I have no idea if they knew I wasn't invited or if they thought I was and had declined, or if they just didn't give a flying fuck about it altogether. But wow, that really felt shitty all over again.

I didn't handle it very maturely. When the newly minted doctor arrived at the reception in the lounge, I wasn't there to congratulate her. No one texted me to tell me she had come down, but I did hear the loud cheer come from the other end of the corridor. Granted, I'm not a baby and I could've - and probably should've - just sucked up my hurt feelings and gone down there to wait along with my lab's in-crowd and everyone else. I eventually sulked my way down to the lounge, grabbed a champagne, slammed it, had an awkward conversation with my boss for about two minutes, and left. Didn't really say anything to anyone else, either.

I left the lounge, I left the lab, I left the building. I just left. I went and picked up Elliot half an hour early because I couldn't deal with how I was feeling. I can't even name the feeling, really. Kind of rejected and unwanted, but those terms seem too strong. Feeling sorta kinda less than everyone else; feeling like the past illusions I'd had about fitting in were just that - illusions. This was the reality. I don't fit in here, I never have, and I never will. It's too late now anyway - I mean, there's no one left to fit in with. Whatever. It'll be okay, but the social crap has been the hardest part of the whole PhD experience. It casts a pall over everything - even the things I thought I liked - like doing science. I used to love doing science! Now I just want out. I just want to be done and move the fuck on.

If there's anything I've learned, it's this: it's not enough to love what you do to make it gratifying. It's not even enough to like the people you work with - I did. Someone has to like you back. It's about cultivating satisfying relationships. I don't know if other people have the same requirements; I have come to accept that I am high-maintenance. When I was at Eastern, my emotional needs were met, and I feel like I was at my best. I was probably the best student I've ever been, the best teacher, I was funnier, happier, thinner (not that looks should be important, but hey, they are). I felt needed, and important, and at the top of my game.

I don't think I'll be looking back on my time here with such fondness. That's being honest.

Summer (camp) in The D

For the next week and a half, I have to try really hard to act like a responsible adult/parent. Elliot is half-way through the three-week session of Camp Engineering, a summer day camp put on by Wayne State's College of Engineering. Drop-off is between 8:30 and 8:45 am Monday - Thursday, which means that I have to drag my grumpy ass out of bed before 7:00 am, get myself and the boy ready, and be out the door by 8:00 am. This is tough for someone like me, who prefers to keep vampire hours.

Anyway, the program we signed Elliot up for is "Creating Technological Toys". Not sure exactly what that means and I don't feel like trying to find out right now, but I should, since I think that could be construed as part of the whole "being a responsible parent" bit. Goddamn it. I tried asking Elliot what he does every day, but I didn't get very far with that approach. He did tell me that he met an 8-year-old who, at lunch, ate a bunch of corn dogs, pizza, and ice cream. I think this earned Elliot's immediate respect. All I really know is that he likes lunch. The kids go to the fancy dining hall on main campus, which has damn near everything a kid could want.

What I really wanted to write about was the cool swag he got. It's a bag, lanyard, and t-shirt all with pretty much the same logo (he was wearing the shirt and wouldn't stop moving so I could take his picture in it):

They get to walk to the Michigan Science Center, and I think they're supposed to go to the DIA, and maybe the museum of African-American history as well. He complains when he has to walk somewhere. So spoiled.

That's enough for now. I started this post a week and a half ago and just had to finish it already and move on. Take that, ADD!!! <shakes fist like an old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn> Mission accomplished.

Writing and...

Writing and what? I don't know. I'm having trouble organizing my thoughts and trying to articulate them in a coherent manner tonight. I guess I'll just keep typing and see what comes out.

Okay, so fairly recently I've decided that I want to get back into writing. Not the please think my research isn't a waste of the past several years of my life kind of writing I'll have to do to publish in a peer-reviewed scientific journal. And not the please, please, PLEASE give me money so I don't have to wash and reuse pipette tips, leading me to subsequently have to quit science altogether for a better-paying job at McDonald's kind of writing that's involved in applying for grant funding. Ooh, I really hate begging for money grant writing. I don't want to get myself more worked up about it, so I'm going to set that topic down now and back away from it slowly.

The older I get and the more stuff I read, the more I think that writing is not only technical (spelling, parts of speech, syntax, etc.), but also an art. Technically correct writing can be taught. The art and the grace of writing, I think, is more innate talent than anything else. At various points in my life, I've been told that I'm a good writer. What the hell does that mean??? It could mean damn near anything, really. One person's definition of good might be that my description of a technique or a situation is clear and concise. Another person might think I'm a good writer because my words read as if I'm speaking and not just banging shit out on a keyboard. I suppose there could be about as many definitions of "good writing" as there are people doing the defining. And the writing, for that matter.

This compliment is one that has been paid to me at many different ages, in many different environments and states of mind, and by many (very) different people. This raises the question: do I now have a responsibility to write because I'm good at it? I don't know. I have the same question about teaching. I feel like it's a shame to waste a talent, but I guess there are so many other factors to consider. "Like what?" you ask. That's an excellent question. I guess liking whatever it is that you're good at is helpful. My problem is that I seem to be unaware of what I like. I feel ambivalence about proclaiming my love for something that could become an integral part of my eventual career. Maybe it seems like a really big commitment or something. That doesn't really make sense though, especially since I've been with the same man for 23 years. That's a bit of a commitment there. Ack, I'm difficult.

To finish off this session of public navel-gazing, here's an article I forgot I had written for my high school newspaper, The Communicator. I was sorting through old papers in the basement (read: doing more navel-gazing) and found some of the stuff I had written when I actually aspired to be a writer. I barely even remember the event I wrote about, even though it seemed to be fairly traumatic/dramatic. Anyway, enjoy.

Holy shit, it's been more than a year...

I can't believe it's been more than a year since I've last posted! I've thought about writing for some time, but just haven't done it until now. I actually just read my last post from March of last year, forgot that I was the one who wrote it, and thought what a good writer that person was...I'm fairly tipsy at the moment because we went to Hopcat Detroit to celebrate my PI's homecoming from India. He was awarded a Fulbright scholarship and had been in India for 5 months. In the meantime, my lab-mate and I both had birthdays, so he took us out for lunch (and beers) to belatedly celebrate our acceleration towards death.

So, what's happened since I last wrote? Hmm, let me think (it's a bad sign when I have to stop and think about what I've done over the past 13 months). I suppose the biggest thing was my foot surgery in September of 2014. I had surgery on my right foot to fix the damage I had done by dropping a heavy glass casserole dish on my big toe joint several years ago. I had a bone chip in the joint space and had developed arthritis that made it hard to walk. Every time I took a step and my toes flexed on push-off, it felt like I had broken glass for synovial fluid. Every single step, every single day for 6 years or so. It got to the point that I had changed my body mechanics so much that I (probably) tore the meniscus in my right knee while playing laser tag at a birthday party with kids my son's age. I got my crippled ass beat by those little punks. Even now, after I've recovered from surgery and had several weeks of physical therapy, lost some weight (yay!) and gained some strength through exercise - my functional left calf is a full 1/2" bigger in diameter than my gimpy right calf. It's crazy! I didn't realize what difference 6 + years of accommodations would make on my legs. I still have almost constant pain in my right foot when I walk, but now it varies from pretty intense (fairly infrequently) to damn near nonexistent (happening more and more these days). It's a definite improvement over pretty intense pain with every step I took, every single day. I might even be able to briefly wear high heels at some point soon! Before the surgery, my toes could not flex enough to wear even a 1" heel without excruciating pain. I'll likely never be able to wear 6" stilettos, but that's okay. I don't really want to feel like an amazon, looking down, literally, at my husband.

That's enough for now, but I've got more to say in upcoming blog posts. Yes, that's plural - I'm back, baby!

Age isn't just a number anymore

Today I finally saw my gastroenterologist for the first time in a couple of years. I'm supposed to see him yearly so he can keep tabs on my ulcerative colitis (UC), but that usually means that I have to take at least a half day off from work. Plus, I felt fine and I didn't want to go all the way to Brighton just to be told that I seem to be doing well (duh - I would've let him know if I wasn't) and 5 minutes later I'm out the door again. My GI wouldn't write another script for my immunosuppressant unless he saw me again. Fuck. That kind of forced my hand since I'd already been out of meds for a week due to UM's shitty online patient portal, where Rx requests apparently go to die. So off to Brighton I went.

A 1:30 appointment ensured that I didn't get jack shit done during the productive part of the day. Once they got me into an exam room, I sat and waited about 15 minutes before some doctor I'd never seen before came in. He asked me the standard questions - how have you been feeling? How often do you have bowel movements? Are they a normal consistency? Do you ever see any blood or mucus in your stools? Fun stuff and no room for modesty. This new doc didn't have any discernable facial expressions and he had an eastern european accent - not a good combination for putting a female patient at ease (I know it's not fair, but all I could think of was the movie "Hostel"). He eventually finished interrogating me, but not before advising me that I should only use ibuprofen sparingly because it can tear up my gut.  He didn't know that I already know this or that I gobble that shit like candy during my period, or when I have a headache, or when my maimed foot hurts, or...whenever I think something might start to hurt at some point. I told him that I try to limit my use of it.

Dr. Hostel left and a few minutes later he came back with my regular GI doc, whom I really like. My regular GI apologized for strong-arming me into coming to see him and said that it's really important to keep close tabs on me because of the medication I take. This particular drug is an immunosuppressant because it inhibits DNA replication - which particularly affects T-cells, but can affect anything with DNA that needs replicating. I have to have labs drawn every other month to make sure that I still have enough white blood cells and to make sure my liver is still functioning normally. He told me that he's had some patients, who were stable for ages, suddenly have a precipitous drop in the numbers of white blood cells (WBCs). The lack of WBCs is called leukopenia and initially presents without noticeable signs or symptoms, but can quickly become life-threatening. Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before. Every time I get bullied into going and getting my blood drawn, I always check my lab results online to make sure they're normal. I used to work at UM processing these very blood samples, so I know what to look for. I never depend on someone else to tell me if I'm okay or not.

Anyway, he proceeded to tell me that at my next annual follow-up we'll have to schedule me for a colonoscopy. People with ulcerative colitis have an increased risk of developing colon cancer starting within 8-10 years of the initial diagnosis. Next year will be my 8th year living with UC, so my rising cancer risk necessitates undergoing a screening colonoscopy every 2-3 years for the rest of my life. Shit just got real. Life is all fun and games until you learn that you have to have a camera with a cutter shoved up your ass every couple of years until you die. Can't wait to start having regular boob squishings too - woot!

So far, I've got a messed up old lady foot with matching trick knee, a spastic colon, wicked hangovers that last for days longer than they used to, enough white hair that it can be seen from a pretty good distance - not to mention the hair that no one ever told me would turn white (sex-ed part 2 should take place between the ages of 30-35. Seriously). Finally, the only remaining milestones in my life are getting regular colonoscopies at 39, mammograms and black birthday balloons at 40, and membership in AARP at 50 (hello senior discounts!). At this point it's even debatable whether I will have a real job again before I hit retirement age. And I still feel stuck in that awkward age between my coworkers in their mid-late twenties and my friends who are literally counting the days until they retire. And who says age is just a number? Right now it's everything.

Some girls have all the luck

Not too much has happened since my last post. The hell of the holidays is past, we finally put the damn Christmas tree away, I've taken some impressive pictures of building fires from my lab window. Those are the highlights of the last six or seven months. Now that we're caught up, the next two or three months are going to be very busy, exciting, and stressful. Next Wednesday, I have to give my research data presentation, a.k.a departmental seminar. I don't know what I'm going to talk about and I haven't started working on it yet (shhh!). Should make for a fun weekend.

I leave for an international Vibrio conference in Edinburgh, Scotland (!) on the 29th of this month. Me and my two lab mates are going together. They are graduating by the end of the summer, so this is sort of a last hurrah. I am presenting a poster on zebrafish diarrhea. Haven't started working on that either, but at least I got my passport renewed. The new passports are ridiculously and embarrassingly patriotic. There's eagles and Franklins and Liberty Bells and page after blank page bragging about how great 'Murica is. Good God, it's hideous. Oh well. One of my biggest fears about this trip is forgetting 1) my passport, and/or 2) my poster. I expect to be either drunk or hungover about 80-90% of the time while we're there. We don't leave for home until April 5th. I've never been to Europe and I'm really nervous and excited - I mean, they have real castles over there!! Should make for a fun week.

In May, I'm going to the national American Society for Microbiology meeting in Boston. By myself. Oh, and I've been selected to give a Young Investigator oral presentation in the "It Takes A Villus" session about gut pathogens. When I submitted my abstract, stupid me checked the box to be considered to give a talk. I thought that I had a snowball's chance in hell of being picked for a talk instead of a poster, like I was planning. I guess the Polar Vortex was more powerful than I realized. I still haven't told my boss or the rest of my lab. And, obviously, I haven't even thought about starting to work on this yet. Even though oral presentations are technically easier than poster presentations, I'm terrified.

Today, I finally saw a podiatrist for my foot that's been messed up since I dropped a glass casserole dish on it 5 years ago. It hurts every time I take a step, particularly when my big toe flexes upwards, and it's gotten progressively more painful over time. In addition to my injury, it turns out that I inherited two different foot defects - one from each parent. The podiatrist took one look at me and said that I have flat feet, which I must have gotten from my flat-footed father. Apparently having flat feet inhibits normal extension of my big toes, aside from any injury. After he took x-rays, he told me that I also have a bunion on my jacked up foot (thanks, Mom!). After looking closely at the x-ray, I could also see a bone fragment from the original injury that is wedged in the joint space. Ouch. The podiatrist proposed doing surgery to correct the bunion and to increase the joint space and clean out bony debris. Unfortunately, this involves breaking a metatarsal and placing a screw in it, meaning I'll be in a surgical boot for 6 weeks. Since it's my right foot, I won't be able to drive for those 6 weeks. I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to swing this, but I'm willing to do almost anything to stop being in chronic pain. Should make for an interesting summer. Stay tuned...