Dream for a Depressed Grad Student

"That's for 5 years of my youth"

"And that's for all the mice I've tortured"

"This one's for the women I didn't save..."

"...that for the problems I didn't solve..."

"...this one for the questions I didn't answer..."

"..and here's for the diseases I didn't cure"

"That's for the 3 AM depression fits"

"That's for the constant worrying about never ever being able to afford a house"

"This one's for the grants that were never funded"

"There's 10 for the weeks of helplessness, inadequacy and loss of control"

"This is for the experiments that never worked..."

"..and the time courses that never produced interesting results..."

"..and the weekends spent in correcting proofs of manuscripts that never got submitted..."

"...poster sessions where noone came up to my poster...."

"..a big, fat one for crappy-ass conferences..."

"This here's for insane post-docs.."

"..let's not forget the socially inept grad students.."

"..demanding PIs who don't know what they're demanding..."

"..lily-livered mentors who quail in front of a thesis committee...."

"..thesis committee members, hah! A band of jerks if ever I saw one"

"Finally, here's 50 for the Shattering of my Illusions, you bastards"

Graduation gown confetti scattered around her feet as she glowed softly with satisfaction....and possibly exertion.

Another Theory Flash

Noone who has the capability or best fit to be in grad school would want to go into military training. Not just because war is clearly an archaic monstrosity that should have been abolished by now, but also because a person who has the mind of a prospective PhD candidate would pose too many questions to be a propah militant.

My sample size this time is a little bigger than my last theory-flash (where n=1), so I await reprisal with a quiet, optimistic confidence.

A Who's Who of Freaksville - 1

"Ooh there'll be extremely intelligent people here", I thought. "No more having to be bored during conversations so retarded that you want to claw your own eyes out with your bare hands", I thought. I even might have chuckled a little bit and rubbed my hands together (or not. but I could have). But this was three months back (or was it four?). Now, one term and a half later, numerous tests under my belt, jaded, weary and this close to being cynical, I have had to face up to the truth.

Grad school is nothing but one big, fat romp of a freak show. Freaks apparently abound in the corridors, pop out of fountains and lurk under the trees. There are (to be completely candid and scientifically detached about it) different levels of freakishness. Some are just severely socially retarded. Some are borderline normal (if you met them on the road you might even think "Awww how cute" and smile at them (but be warned. this is dangerous. hungry grad students should not be petted or smiled at. and all grad students are by definition hungry), or casually say "Have a good one" - shudder). And if you closed your eyes and pretended you were an arts major you might even believe they're normal (you'd have to close your eyes really tight, though).

I feel, you, my blogging public, requires a revue of these weirdos that populate my world (only for your own good, because I'm noble and selfless, not because I want to rant. the idea!). So, part 1 of the Who's Who of Freaksville. I introduce the One Who Scares Me (aka Nice Guy).

He is a nice guy. This is true. One of the nicest guys in class. One of the nicest guys I've met. Even, I'd go so far as to say (staking my integrity on this) that he's probably one of the nicest guys in the world. But people, people, a walking social disaster. It's not the sweatshirt that he's owned since the beginning of time and which smells distinctly of mothballs and some unidentified odor that I quail to investigate. It's not the unkempt hair which has seen neither scissors nor comb since it first sprouted out from the baby boy's bald head. Not even the mewing (he mews, apropos of nothing - which at least is normal because what could mewing be apropos of anyway unless you were talking to cats in an alley, behind a trash can) which is very unpredictable and can take you by surprise if you don't see it coming. I'd even go so far as to say it isn't the knocking over, tripping on, flailing hands into everything within a ten meter radius of Nice Guy. Lots of us sit at a coffee table and immediately knock over one glass of water, one cup of coffee, a chair and a newspaper in quick succession with fatal efficiency (well, not really, but maybe if you had some involuntary muscular contraction thing happening - one does not mock physical disabilities on this blog - ever). No, it's none of these things.

What it is, is the incessant, furious typing in class (furious as in the professors sometimes have to positively yell into their microphones to make themselves heard over the racket he makes), the ear phones in his ear playing music so loud that people 3 rows below and 3 rows above in a ten-seat-on-either-side bloc can hear Mana singing Perdito (I used to quite like the song. sigh) and worst of all his belief that everyone else is similarly endowed with blaring music and ergo, his screaming (yes, actual screaming) of comments about the lecture to the people sitting next to him, complacent in the belief that noone can hear him because (wait for it) he can't.

Once, I sat next to him. Never again. At one point the professor shone his laser beam at us and made comments about the 'bearded gentleman in the back who is typing what I'm sure are my lecture notes, furiously' (true story). I thought I'd die of sheer embarrassment (at least I hoped fervently I would) while Nice Guy through all of it (it felt like a lifetime, I'm reliably informed it was 20 seconds) didn't notice that the professor was highlighting his forehead with a red dot.

Course he didn't notice (what was I thinking). I fear I cannot get out of grad school unscathed. Really. A deep, disemboweling fear. Wait for the next parts. You haven't heard nothing yet. This should have been a Halloween launch (in all fairness to the grand tradition of Halloween) but I was battling with my fears about then (and visiting various shrinks for help, dear god). So, think of it as an honorary Halloween launch. We'll just have a Halloween party all by ourselves. Bring the punch, I'll bring the gossip.

Licensing

I can see why you'd want to clean your gun in school. If I stretch my imagination. Maybe you're one of those people who are anal. You didn't have time to do it this morning so you brought it along to school, took it to a classroom, spread your stuff around and cleaned it. Decided to take a coffee break and left everything behind, ended up forgetting about it. Maybe. It could happen.

I can even see how someone would do it as a hoax. Maybe to get out of a test, a committee meeting, a conference, a meeting with a particularly obnoxious PI. You bring just the cleaning kit and the empty shell box, arrange it on the desk in one of the classrooms. You sneak away. Someone will eventually find it and there, problem solved.

If I try really hard, I can see someone deciding to kill themselves. You have OCD. You need the gun to be clean before you can use it. So you sneak it into school, find an empty classroom, clean it, leave the cleaning stuff behind (it seems pointless to lug it along with you), find an empty toilet stall, lock yourself in and shoot yourself. Maybe a med student who failed a year.

But I have to actually attempt an out-of-body imaginative exploratory venture to see why someone would want to shoot random people down. You're not happy with your life, so you decide to clean a gun, load it and kill a bunch of people you don't know from Adam? Go figure.

In Which this Seriousness Thing is Carried to its Limits

To my regulars (and I'm including you in that group, BM, even though you've decided to lurk and not comment of late!): I know all this serious feminist (uh oh used the f-word I did) rambling is totally below the belt. I know you're all going into shock, shaking your heads slowly and sobbing silently that I've joined the Dark Side. I assure you, lords and leddies, that I have not. Really really. This is just a riposte to Those Individuals who Suggest I'm Whee! Like As If!!! So I have decided to exhibit my Dangerously Grave Side (less of course I get an apology from Certain Slandering Individuals (didja see how I made you CSI? Cool, no?)). Yes, I have *nods head righteously* And sides it's kinda cool to think that any not-so-regulars who stumble in will now think I'm a bra-burning serious-thinking feminist. Joy.

Hennyway (and no, this is not a weapon, martial or otherwise), I sit in the backbench. Every lecture. Without fail. Even when I'm late. I have a buncha fellow backbenchers also. It's mainly cos I went through my first years in school being a front bencher (by compulsion not persuasion). Being emotionally and psychologically scarred by that experience at a tender age, I vowed to eschew anything resembling a front row for the rest of my life. As a corollary the only row I can inhabit during class now is the one right at the back, up against the wall. So, us backbenchers, we ask questions. Not incessantly. But whenever we can. Four of us are girls, the remaining eight are male. Of the four XXs, I'm the only one who asks questions. The guys all take turns being curious. Zat, m'hearties, is ze bachground and nov to ze foreground.

So, today during a really boring lecture on peptide analysis (yeah, it actually *is* as boring as it sounds), I had an epiphany. It was all because a girl in the front row asked a question (which had the unhappy incidental effect of waking up the guy sitting next to me who was taking what looked like a most refreshing break from the day's labor. He's Puerto Rican and he lends me all his Mana CDs so I really did feel bad that he was woken up). She is a confirmed prefacer, that one. You know the sort. Every question of hers is prefaced with an apology. "I'm sorry if this is a silly question, but...." "I think I didn't understand what you said right then but it sounded like...." " I'm sorry if you just said this and I missed it but..." Always. And then it struck me that all the prefacers in my class are female. Yes, it's true. Out of a class of a 100 people, where at least 10 questions are asked per lecture, with 10 lectures a week, that gives us a sample size of 100 questions. Of which prefacers are probably 25% or so. So that gives us 25 questions per week. And it's been 10 weeks since school started. Even a conservative estimate leaves us with a sample size of atleast 125 questions. In all this time only once was the prefacer a male.

I just wonder what those women are *really* apologizing for.

Seen on Apron: Kiss Ze Artist*****

"Did you put the AAA at 4 degrees?"

I don't look up from my plates, "Dunno."

"It has to be kept dry. Did you remember to put it in the lyophilizer?"

I'm trying to keep the sequence* straight in my head, dammit! "Dunno."

"Revealed**!!!! Would you look up for *one* second?? This is important. Where did you store it? You used it last!"

I throw my hands up in the air dramatically. "I am an artist! I extract DNA out of single cells. I identify gel shifts where other people can see nothing***! I take cells that are so sick that they're almost dead and keep them alive long enough to get the data we need from them. I come up with complicated experiments**** that will help save the world. How am I supposed to remember where the fuck I put the AAA!! I don't, ok?! I'm an artist for Chrissake!!"







"Right. So you forgot."



*Until you've added minute levels of colorless liquids at varying volumes to 50 microtubes you haven't encountered a need for concentration and focus. Sigh.

**OK, so he didn't call me that. But assumptions of anonymity and all that.

***This was when I was accused of seeing Madonna in my blots. Hah! Look who had the last laugh (me, btw, I had the last laugh)

****This is true. I do. So complicated in fact that D.L (my boss) almost always vetoes it on grounds of impracticality. People just don't appreciate my genius.

*****Ok I made that one up. But they should make some like that. Though I have no clue who'd buy them. But still.

Feeling Groovy

There comes a time in all our lives when the world suddenly becomes perfect. For two minutes exactly (I timed it). I just got some fantabulously splendiferously marvelliciously happy-making news. I actually (for 120 seconds) forgot all the other itty-bitty knicky-knacky problems that plague and pestilent (if anyone asks me if this is a real word when used in this sense I shall lie without a blush) me. I was wrapt in blissful contemplation of ummm pretty much nothing. But it was definitely blissful contemplation. I identified it as such immediately (not for nothing am I a molecular geneticist, we are quite sherlocky in our identification of conditions of the spirit if we say so ourselves). At the end of afore-mentioned time frame I realised that

1. It was a pretty stupid thing to have been worried about in the first place.
2. The news I heard while good was not really thatgood.
3. It brought with it its own share of troublesome decisions.
4. None of my other problems had vanised (most surprisingly).

And zat, peepul, is ze vairy essence of ze human naycher.

(Yes, yes, we mggs also have an alarming tendency to address stray thoughts to trees. What to do? We are like this only :)

Interview Blues

The caffeine made her perky and she knew she was at her best when she was perky. They had said make sure you don't have coffee breath. She popped some gum into her mouth while walking from breakfast to her first interview. Last minute panic-induced attempt to rid herself of the gum had left a potted plant a little richer by one chewed up wad of Wrigley's. Keep your handshake firm and dry, they'd said. She made sure that her hand wasn't limp in theirs. You don't want them to feel like someone's handed them a dead slab of fish. Keep your back straight, you don't want to look like a slouch, they'd said. She sat so erect that she thought her spinal cord would snap. Look relaxed and happy they'd said. Her jaws were aching from smiling already. Don't talk too fast. The goras won't understand, they'd said. She enunciated clearly and didn't use any slang. Look interested in what they say and ask intelligent questions if you have any, they'd said. She'd concentrated like she'd never concentrated before. Her head was aching, her hands were trembling from nervousness, her back was aching but she asked intelligent questions. It was almost over. The home stretch. Everyone seemed happy. The boss-man stood up, shook her hand, saying "We think you'd be a productive addition to our department. We look forward to seeing you again. If you have any questions, just ask Gus." It was over. Her knees went weak. She smiled like she meant it for the first time that morning. "Hop on the bus, Gus.", she quipped, witty with relief. The boss-man looked bewildered. "Excuse me?" he smiled in anticipation of elucidation. "Fifty ways to leave your lover", she clarified, chuckling a little, residually.

The door closed behind her softly. The last ten minutes will always get you, they'd said.

A Study of the Behavioral Patterns of Homo sapiens scientificus in Captivity

Aim: To identify and characterize the behavioral patterns observed in Homo sapiens scientificus (common name: Human Scientist) when enclosed in a specific habitat (a Conference Room) over extended periods of time (8 hours).

Materials and Methods: A set of 35 human scientists (give or take a few) were enticed into a 'Conference Room' with no little difficulty. The observer (also the author of this paper) remained in the said 'Conference Room' with experimental group and made notes at varied time points detailing the behavioral patterns of specific specimens as well as any general patterns observed. Materials used included Notebook:1 and Pencil: 1.

Observations: Time course over a time frame of eight hours:

0800 hours: A group of the experimental species is herded into annexe by enticements in the form of a breakfast buffet. The near stampede that succeeds the announcement of free bagels proves completely non-fatal since all members of the group appear extremely skilled in the art of extracting bagels from a table whilst fighting off other equally skilled individuals. Some members are almost strangled by their ties (an unfortunate sartorial decision indicating what is believed to be lack of experience and a sign of extreme immaturity within the group) but these specimens are untangled from general crowd and settled safely in a corner by expert organisers of the event.

0815 hours: Attempts are made to move the group of said species to adjoining conference room (the site of the experiment). This task proves more difficult than foreseen due to (one can only assume) the excellence of the stale 2-day-old bagels still surviving the initial breakfast rush.

0830 hours: Expert organisers of event with keen foresight bring jugs of hot coffee and cold orange juice into the conference room. On announcement of this new nutrtional addition to the morning repast, the group of human scientists is successfully manouvered into the conference room. On the heels of last entrant the doors are smartly closed.

0845 hours: Whilst the participants in the experiment are intently occupied with coffee and juice, the inaugral speaker quickly mumbles an introduction and ushers the first speaker in. The expert organisers are observed sporting hunted looks at this critical juncture and a cordon is formed by them at the various entry points to prevent sudden breaks from the coffee/juice table. Fortunately before the experimental group is aware of the conference beginning, it begins. The group seems bewildered by this but quickly settles into the comfortable chairs provided to work off the unaccustomed activity undergone to procure breakfast and coffee.

0945 hours: The second speaker ascends the dias and makes the customary jokes. The experimental group beguiled by the orange juice sniggers at appropriate pauses. Two pertinent questions are even asked at the end, causing speaker to adopt the hunted look from the organisers.

1015 hours: Said observer after 4 cups of coffee is enthusiastically engaged in a quest for the rest room after successfully dodging cordoning organisers. Therefore, the data for next ten minutes is lost although the observer thinks several significant thoughts involving great empathy for both Schrodinger and his cat.

1025 hours: Observer re-occupies observation post and intelligently notices that nothing significant has changed. A few erstwhile members of experimental group have decided to catch 40 winks (no doubt, in order to refresh themselves for the next speaker) but for the most part there is much interest in the current presentation on crypreservation of samples.

1045 hours: While waiting for next speaker to begin his endless presentation, observer has brief but illuminating conversation with neighbour about the efficacy of freezing human subjects and reviving them after 20 years. No conculsion is reached but there is general agreement that it would make an admirable dissertation topic.

1050 hours: New speaker of Asian origin. Observer understands only every second word, and attempts to recreate the rest of the sentence from these words. While this is an amusing game for 5 minutes, it's appeal soon palls and said observer seeks new methods of amusement.

1145 hours: Observer wakes up with a start recommences observation. Topic of next presentation is a so-called 'hot topic' and rival researchers are present in the experimental group. Much gripping entertainment is expected. At end of presentation there is a five minute free-for-all. The expert organisers step in at the first signs of a fist fight and firmly declare this the 'last question'. Much disappointment is swallowed by rest of bloodthirsty audience.

1250 hours: Lunch is announced. There is a repeat of breakfast buffet scene (expounded on in further detail in Appendix 1). In the pell mell, said observer loses her notebook and pencil but is not much perturbed by it. Weightier matters occupy her mind.

1315 hours: Posters are arranged in adjoining room for active perusal by experimental group. Other than the occasional (metaphorical) bared teeth, the passage of time is uneventful. Since observer is engaged at her post next to her poster she is unable to make a detailed firsthand analysis of proceedings. Her primary source for this time interval is the gossip auditory evidence she collects from independent external sources.

1345 hours: Observer realises that she does not have a control group for the experiment. She contemplates ditching it. Then she realises that she can always fudge control group data for the paper. So she sensibly decides in the last minute to continue.

1400 hours: Experimental group herded back into conference room. The expert organisers are prepared with tea this time around and the progress is smooth. However some of the experimental group having wisened up, nip into the room for tea and then leave with muttered comments about vital ongoing experiments in their labs. The expert and by-now-exhausted organisers don't care anymore and are busy sucking up most of the tea themselves.

1415 hours: Man with sticking out ears sitting in front of observer keeps bobbing his head into her line of vision. Observer is appalled by her overwhelming urge to grab his ears and yank his head out of her line of vision. Observer masters the impulse by sitting on hands. Hers, not his.

1445 hours: Presentation on the evils of aspirin. A much awaited issue that is presented by a competent speaker. Most of the experimental group appears pacifist, satisfied by their whiled away day. Much hilarity ensues during a discussion of how one subject treated with various doses of aspirin died not from aspirin overdose but from a cancer that was picked up unawares by the subject.

1515 hours: Keynote speaker makes speech. A specific group call, 'the boot-licking hyena laugh' makes an appearance at regular intervals. Hysterical applause at the end. A couple of overenthusiastic members of group attempt to extend a standing ovation but are embarrassed into sitting back down by the glares of would-be-aspirants to the position of Keynote speaker. The observer observes that it's a dog-eat-dog world and decides to jot that down, only to remember that her notebook was lost during lunch. She then observes that such is life and rues that she cannot note this profundity down either.

1545 hours: End of conference for the day. The observer is unable to make further observations as she is carried away in the current of jostling experimental specimens headed for the elevators.

Conclusion: The experimental group, Homo sapiens scientificus appears to be completely at home in captivity. No stereotypical behaviors e.g pacing or (literal) teeth baring were observed. There was no self mutilation, or periodic scratching and sneezing. The group did appear to perform a crucial ritual when in the vicinity of any nourishment. It is our belief that this ritual allows establishment of hierarchy within the group. Some amount of appeasement of higher order members by lower order members was manifested, primarily in the form of enthusiastic applause and inappropriate laughter. Verbal communication was used effectively by experimental specimens analogously to 'antler locking' manifested by males of other species. We conclude from the experiment that these individuals can be kept locked in a room indefinitely as long as they are equipped with an overhead projector and provided with food at regular intervals.

Acknowledgments: We thank all the participants in the experiment. We are also eternally indebted to our parents without whom we could not have achieved this landmark publication. We particularly thank our mentors who were never rude or dismissive or unencouraging or unreasonable.

Public Advisory

We suggest the general public (i.e. people we work with, people who are on the same elevator as us, people who are sitting next to us on the bus, people who, in short, come within speaking distance of us) please not talk to us or expect us to make/understand sparkling repartee at any point in time before noon, on any day of the week. We believe this will prevent, abolish and exterminate painful conversations like this one:

Gora boy in lab (Gbil): So, are you going to get dressed up in traditional Indian dress for the presentation?
Me: Huh? Wha-?
Gbil: Y'know, the wossit. That all you Indian chicks wear. Are you gonna wear it tomorrow?
Me: Huh? What's a traditional Indian dress?
Gbil: It's called a sari. Maybe you've heard of it.
Me: Oh! Right. No. I don't know how to wear one.
Gbil: (in between bouts of mocking laughter) You don't know how to wear one?? All the other Indian chicks I've met know how to wear one.
Me: Well, I don't.
Gbil: What about the round dot? The bindi? Do you know how to wear that? Those arm bracelet things? An anklet maybe?
Me: Oh just *&$@ off (and then because of rigorous training inflicted by my mum while I was still at a tender age), please.

Since, we as always endeavour to give satisfaction to the multitudes who clamour around us for our fascinating discourse, we entreat the public to help us help them. Thank you for your attention. And please remember, fore nooned is fore doomed. Have a nice day.

Geneticist, Molecular Geneticist

So, you think that Molecular Geneticists are uncool, geeky people who squint through microscopes all day? That they're bespectacled, Einstein-haired freaks whose concept of 'Gourmet Dining' is limited solely to speculating endlessly on whether there's pepperoni or mushrooms on the (free, of course) pizza that they'll get at the Lunchtime Seminar on 'YVR00324 and it's Effects on Tumor Suppressing Growth Factors like TGF Beta-2 in the M22 Cell Line'? Perhaps you imagine that they're alright hidden away in their labs, but come a true crisis in the Real World they'd be as clueless as the rest of humanity?

I have one word for you : Ptuiii (and if I had another one, it'd be Ha! said in a sorta snarky, despairing, hopefully-cynical way). Cos, us Molecular Geneticts are actually more hip and happening (noone uses that expression anymore, do they? *decides to ask around but can't find anyone in her lab who knows*) than all the rest of your journalists, and novelists, and fancy analysts with your parties and your trendsetting clothes put together! You jeer. You mock. The cry goes up, "But how? Where's your proof?". You might expect to flabbergast us with these questions, leave us gasping for an answer in the face of your shrewd and inquisitive search for the Truth. But no! We stand firm. Cos, We have An Answer.

If the world was on the brink of destruction and the Only Thing (Only Thing, mind you) keeping it from complete annihilation was a 0.8% 300ml Agarose gel that had to be moved 3 inches on a soggy piece of filter paper in under 5 minutes, who dya think you'd call? What price all the James Bonds and Bill Gates and Che Guevaras then? See, why I said Ptuiii (and a possible Ha!) earlier? Cos noone, but NOONE, would be able to get you out of that fix quicker than your local resident Molecular Geneticist. So, bow down to the world-saving might of the Uber-Cool Ultra-Trendy Supra-smoking-hot Molecular Geneticists, and pray for their Mercy, Earth-cretin.

Update: I should warn you that the title won't make sense, unless you say it like Bond, James Bond.

Epiphany #1

The problem isn't that there aren't any answers, the problem is in that there *are*.

(I'm still not sure if this is an epiphany or crap, but it seemed ridiculous to title it Crap #1, though I know not as ridiculous as some of the other things these pages have seen :D).

So, I was measuring stuff out (cos that's what the scummiest of the scum does* in a lab) and distributing it among various measuring cylinders all day today. That sort of activity fatally gives you time to think, and eventually your mind comes up with these dazzling flashes of intuition (or whatever the heck it is). And I figure that the whole bloody thing** is just a result of not being able to accept the answer. (It's like when a guy asks you out, and you politely say No, but Thanks, which he then interprets to mean I really truly absobluminitely wanna go out with you but I'm such a shy retarded half-wit that I can't bring myself to say Yes. And then he hounds you.) That's the problem with the world. And that's why we need god. Cos otherwise what's the answer to the question why?

*Is scum a collective noun? Should the verb be do?

**'thing' meaning all those awful 3 in the morning questions like 'What is the meaning of all of this?' and 'Why am I here?' (though that one is often caused simply by a combination of alcohol and high spirits, and can quite easily be answered by conscious bystanders) and 'If I disappeared tomorrow would it make a difference to any freaking person in the world?' (also all too often most easily answered).

Update: See the strip right on top? That is what I'm talking about. XKCD rocks!

Dark Room

I walk in. The darkness blinds me, and he shuts the door on me with finality. A frantic impulse to turn around and hammer at the door, plead to be let out. "It isn't locked", I remind myself. Shut in with my own thoughts. A situation to avoid at all costs, normally. But sometimes inescapable. Who was that who had said 'To love yourself is the beginning of a lifelong love affair'? He must have been an exceptionally nice person. I fumble for the light switch. Momentary panic, and then the flooding relief of the familiar switch against my fingertips. Red light gently washes over me. So gentle that I can hardly discern the menacing outlines populating the room. I still an overwhelming impulse to whip around and confront the stranger breathing down my neck. "There is noone else here", I whisper reassuringly under my breath. Willing myself to stop chasing shadows, an atavistic impulse at best. I reach for the familiar satin. Black, of course. I can hardly see it. But the touch brings back reality. The solid rectangle reminds me of my purpose, of the world on the other side of the door. Light, people (even the annoying ones), chatter. The darkness changes. It lifts off my eyes. It gives me back some space, generously. Claustrophobia recedes. I hear myself hum a tune. I roll up my sleeves and get to work. The darkness whispers in my ear. It is my friend. I smile.

Of Science and Depression

A topic that I feel is amazingly underrepresented in modern psychology. Poets and artists have the luxury of creative depression. They can languish. They can complain about the unfeeling world. They can be neglected and ignored. They can be misunderstood or not understood at all. They can glamorously cut their ears off. The can go into a decline and die gloriously in penury on the streets. Monuments will be built for them. Their art will be feted. Their tortured souls extolled. But scientists! It's a whole, different story, and a very sad one.
Can you imagine Einstein having torments of agony trying to explain relativity to uncaring citizens? If he explained the theory to a grad student, and the grad student (poor chappie) had no clue what the great physicist was talking about, the said g.p would 1. be totally oblivious that the grad student had not understood it (mainly because grad students early in their career, as toddlers even, learn the art of nodding and looking alertly attentive - its an art form really) 2. assume that the grad student has no clue what gravity is in the first place, never mind a grand unifying theory and therefore be truly unperturbed by the grad student's lack of comprehension (in fact Albie might have had a fainting fit if the grad student had immediately understood the magnificence of the theory and asked pertinent questions) 3. not only ignore all signs of incomprehension on part of g.s but also reel out a series of experiments that have to be completed by the end of the week, to be included in a grant proprosal, to be written up and submitted on his desk by day after tomorrow.
It is indeed the sad lot of us scientists that we have to stuggle on with eternal cheer and optimism, explaining theories that people actually care about and which make a difference to the world at large. Not for us the incomprehensible squiggles on a large white canvas that will then be misinterpreted continuously for the next eight centuries by pompous art critics (in fact any incomprehensible squiggle will be called into question by the Thesis Committee and investigated to an inch of its life *sigh*). Nor the communion with stars in the bareness of space enclosed by four walls (mainly because it is of course logically impossible to commune with stars in the presence or absence of bare space), the blinding life-changing truths revealed by the inner soul and accepted as gospel (cos of course the blinding epiphany has to be subjected to *some* sort of experimentation -preferably in triplicate- before any conclusion can be safely reached, let's not even get into the number of reviewers who have to pass it before it can come close to publication), or even the comfort of estrangement from kith, kin and the world at large (for one, any Indian family would be unbearably proud of having a child who's a scientist-which of course is why there are no geeks in India- and for another, there are always other grad students grubbing for free food, snotty PIs shadowing your every move, warring post-docs each wanting a share of the pie, I mean it's a whole different world inside a lab, believe me! And a very crowded one, full of opinionated, arrogant, extremely intelligent people). Since all the respectable avenues for depression and a cheerless existence have thereby been removed from the average scientist's grasp, there is no choice but to be happy.
Imagine this scenario. A bunch of cancer cells arrive in the lab, the cells are plated, diluted and squinted at under the microscope. Now, if you were a poet or an artist, it would have been the work of a moment to picture the exceptionally brilliant, popular, 18 year old cheerleader who is right at this instant lying pallid and comatose on a hospital bed, waiting to hear news that could well be a death knell, depending on strangers to decide if she will live or die. This could lead to the creation of an epic poem, a masterpiece on the uncertainty of life etc etc. But since (for all events and purposes) you're a grad student, the conversation you'll have will be along these lines:
Grad Student 1: Wonder which patient these cells came from. Life can be so uncertain. One moment you're alive and the next minute you're dying of some genetic mutation that you might or might not have inherited from you great grand mother on your father's side. It makes you thi-
Grad Student 2 (with great excitement): Dya see that knob like thing on the left hand side corner of the field. Doesn't that look like aneuploidy? Man!! These chromosomes are so screwed up!! This is just perfect!! It completely proves our hypothesis.
Grad Student 1 (galvanised into action and elbowing GS1 out of the way): OMG! You could be right!!! But wait, though there's a knob-like thing there, look at the right hand side corner where you will see.......

See, what odds we have to struggle against? This whole week I've been struggling to stay depressed, but I've realised that inspite of the complete lack of sun over the past week, the cheerless grey skies, the incessant rain, the lack of any results from my various experiments, the having to work overtime, the fact that I didn't get some news about something that I was hoping to get news about, inspite of all this, I cannot keep up the depression. Science is a killer that way. I give up!

Update: I know that someone's going to point out that Einstein had what could be considered as a nervous breakdown during his career, so I counter that by saying it was complicated by a bilious stomach!! How can you romanitcize a nervous breakdown when it's accompanied by a stomachache????!!!!