5 "Aha!" Moments In The Lab

Alternatively, I could have also called this post "five illogical things I did in the lab today that seemed to make perfect sense at the time..."

1) If the label on a powder chemical says, "use mask, toxic to airways," pulling the collar of your pink, Nike long sleeve running shirt over your nose is not an acceptable substitute for a real surgical mask. In fact, the fabric doesn't protect at all from the diffusion of powder through the air, through the semi-spandex non-barrier and into your air passages. Indeed, as you are coughing and choking on the white substance, you will probably think back to what it does and why it's toxic: dissolve proteins. You may then be slightly concerned about it coming into contact with your lungs and the membranes being degraded...

2) If you are working with mice that are known to be a particularly aggressive strain, make sure the head is securely held back between your thumb and pointer and tail is wrapped tightly around your pinkie before attempting to inject estrogen inhibitor (particularly if you are a twenty something female hoping to have kids one day) with your other hand. The aggressive mouse will fight you, bite you, and squirm away from you before you can say "infertile." Before you know it, you will be on your hands and knees, heart racing, trying to grab the tail with oily, estrogen inhibitor all over your gloves, hoping not to get it on any of the surfaces.

3) If you are working with aforementioned aggressive mouse strain, be sure to notify the animal facility technicians of this lovely uniqueness. This prevents escape of feisty rodents from the cage to the Great Unknown. This is handy information if the mouse is worth, say, $400 plus six months of hard labor on your part.

4) If working with your mice requires you to be in a surgical mask for 5+ hours, be sure to take hourly breaks to get fresh air. This prevents development of mouse allergies and, for instance, nose bleeds. Should you get a nose bleed after being in a mask for six hours, do not be surprised and try not to leave a trail of blood from the lab to the bathroom. Oh, and FYI, the lab's paper towels are not very blood absorbent, so the blood will just pool on top and then spill over the sides, thus adding to the trail.

5) If making a buffer from a powder base, remember that a buffer is a detergent, even in powder form. So, should you spill several grams on the counter top, try not to clean it up with a wet paper towel or you will soon find the entire counter covered in suds. Not the worst thing to happen, but it will take at least 10 minutes to remove all bubbles and lots of H2O.

3 "Brought Me To Tears" Moments

This week has me thinking about moments that have moved me to tears--tears of joy, sadness, spirituality, and bittersweetness. Here are three strong memories, in no particular order.

1. I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan. Ghostbusters and HP and the Sorcerer's Stone were my first two DVDs. I even traveled to London (while I was in France) for the premiere of HP2. I also used to visit the website www.mugglenet.com every single day between the years 2001-2007.

When the 7th and final book was released, I was up in Acadia National Forest, ME on my annual camping trip with my Dad. He and I waited outside a bookstore in Bar Harbor from 10pm-midnight with a mix of excited adults, teens, and kids. I of course was wearing my red Harry Potter t-shirt that I had bought in London--I wore this to all of the book and movie releases.

Once I had the book in hand, I was dead to the world--okay, dead to my Dad who was the only person around. I read 3/4's of the book in my tent that night by the light of a small, red lantern. I stayed up the entire night reading it, as per tradition. We were headed back to MA the next day and as I was in super obsessive-bubble mode, I had to continue reading in the car, despite being susceptible to car-sickness. About two hours from our destination, I was cruising through the last fifty pages of the book.

Spoiler Alert!

J.K. Rowling led me into a very emotional place when she led Harry off to his doom--to face Lord Voldemort. As Harry faces Voldemort with fear (as any human would), but resolution and falls to the death curse, the tears started rolling down my own cheeks. I took a moment to put down the book--something which I've never done before, usually I have to bulldoze through--and I let out sobs of grief and sorrow. Even though I was well aware that I had at least 50 more pages to go and Harry would probably somehow survive, it was still poignant and beautiful. Touching. And it signified The End, which left me feeling lonely and empty. Which was I grieving for more: the "death" of Harry or the end of the series? Hard to say.

Of course, I was not alone when I started to bawl. My Dad was right next to me in the car and kept shooting me glances of concern. Fortunately he knew me well enough to remain silent and let me experience the bittersweet ending to the series in my Bubble.

2. Three years ago on Christmas, my Grandmom passed surrounded by me and my family. We were not particularly expecting this to happen that day, but the increasingly bad cases of flu hinted that we wouldn't have much more time with her. My grandmother was a deeply religious Irish Catholic. I don't claim to be particularly religious or even spiritual for that matter, but the fact that she died on that particular day (and with all of us there) had us all thinking that the Angels had indeed come down from Heaven and taken her with them. I cried at her passing of course, but not tears of sorrow and sobbing (ok maybe a little bit of that kind too), but quiet tears of wonder and peace. Here is a woman that had lived a full life--she died at 98 and was independent and strong up until the last 6 months of her life. Here is someone whose faith would claim that this Holy Day made her passing more meaningful. And finally, she was at peace, she would no longer be suffering. If anyone was going to Heaven, it certainly would be her.

3. To conclude my year abroad study in France, I had an internship at the Tour du Valat Biological Station in the wetlands of the Camargue. Ten french researchers and I lived on the lands in a dorm and got to know each other quickly and deeply. On the last night there (and in France), we went to a secluded beach, built up a bonfire, roasted veggies, meats and toasted me off with many, many bottles of wine. Unfortunately/fortunately, we overslept and my goodbye was very rushed as I jumped on a moving train and threw kisses. I slept the whole way to Paris and didn't give myself a chance to let the moment sink in until I heard "final boarding for Flight 256 to Boston." This announcement triggered an explosive chain reaction: Oh, it's time to leave. I'm going back to the States. Ah when will I be back??!!??


And then the flood gates opened. I broke out into shaking sobs which included wheezing, tears, and wails. I can't recall ever losing control like that (especially not in a public place). I somehow collected my belongings and made my way to the gate. Since I couldn't say anything besides spasmodic contractions of the throat, I thrust my papers at the male attendant and looked at the floor. In french he consoles, "Oh, poor thing, are you leaving behind your lover?" I nod my head and pass on.

Yes, I felt like I was leaving a lover behind. A part of my soul. I was at home in Provence. I was living to the fullest: speaking other languages, learning about different cultures, meeting new people from a range of backgrounds, enjoying nature and its beauties, participating in centuries-old traditions...I couldn't want more from Life. I knew that I was meant to be there.

Faced with the return trip to the States, I was overwhelmed: I could barely remember how to speak English let alone melt back into 'habitual' life.

Six hours later, the sobbing had waned to silent tears only to be jump started again once the Boston skyline came into view. I was questioned at customs for ten minutes, mostly because I was talking in a french accent. (Official: Where are you from? Me: Massachusetts. O: Yes, but where are you really from--originally? Me: Hamilton...MA? O: I mean what country? Me: USA? O: Why do you have an accent? Me: (I start sobbing again) ...I...school...France...no...english... year... Official: Ooookkkaaayyy. Just tell me your name again. Me: Martin (accent)...I mean Marrr-tinnnnn. Please...let...pass. O: Okay, I'll let you go but I don't like this.

My Dad was waiting outside Logan with the car. He was so excited to see me and was all smiles--I mean it had been an entire year since I'd been home. Whatever control I had regained I lost completely when I saw him. My Dad was like, "Nina, I'm so glad you're so happy to be with us again. Umm yeah."

5 Most Embarrassing Race Moments

If you've been running in races since the sixth grade, shit happens...literally.

5. I took a year and a half off from running between senior year of high school and spring of freshman year at Colby because of IT band problems...in this time, the most exercise I did was walking from my house to school. When I started running again in January of 2001, I found that I had, surprise, lost all fitness. My first race back, I got dead last in the 400...by five seconds. Five seconds in the 400 meter race is equivalent to at least ten minutes behind in a mile race. It was pitiful and embarrassing.

4. Again, freshman year of college. I attempted to triple jump as I had in middle school and high school. The bounding drills caused me to get incredibly painful shin splints so I would have to pull a "seagull on hot sand": shifting my weight from one leg to the other and then back again. The pain was particularly acute at one indoor meet, so I decided to take some ibuprofen. Well of course the regular dose was not enough...20 pills later I was feeling a bit loopy. At the end of the meet, I jump onto the bus and am ready to head back to Colby. One by one my teammates climb onto the bus and say, "Whose Colby sweatshirt is this?" "Whose Colby tank top is this" "Did someone leave their spikes on the risers" "Who left their Colby sports bra by the track." I embarrassingly kept raising up my hand. Whoops. In total, I had left ~20 items of clothing strewn about the track. It's a wonder that I was still fully clothed. Chalk it up to dehydration. Chalk it up to ibuprofen overdose. Whatever. That earned me the title (and end of season award) for "I-took-so-much-ibuprofen-I-left-all-my-shit-at-the-track-and-apparently-my-brain-too." Definitely felt a bit sheepish after that and stopped triple jumping. NB, my other end of season awards included "The Prime Rib" Award (I'm particularly fond/proud of that one) and the "Full-Body Spandex Suit" Award (let me know if you want to hear about that).

3. Sophomore year of college. I was at a race at Tufts and wicked excited because my whole family was coming out to watch. Before the race, my mom was standing next to me and helping me to take off my warm up clothes. Once down to my race tank and underwear bottom, my mom gives me a good look up and down, smiling in support..until her gaze rests on my neck. Instantly her eyes narrow and her smile transforms into a grimace. "What is THAT?" she barked. "What?" "You have a hickey on your neck! I can't believe it. Don't let your father see this." My hand automatically shoots up to try to cover the evidence. But what are we kidding, you can't hide anything in my skimpy track uniform. I then had to walk proud over to the start line to greet my coaches and teammates. Apparently my mom was correct, my boyfriend must have gotten a little too frisky before the meet, and left a nice love bite for all to see. And everybody did see it. Nice. My sprint coach laughed, my head coach raised her eyebrows, and at least my teammate threw up her hand to give me a high five.

2. In the eighth grade I was an awesome distance runner. I often placed first by a minute or two. At the end of the cross country season, we had a big state meet at Pingree School in Ma. Kids from all over MA were competing in this meet = more competition = more pre-race jitters for Nina. The first half of the race went very smoothly, I was in a solid standing in the top ten and was feeling smooth. Little by little however, I became aware that I had to go to the bathroom...and not just pee, but a full on number two. The race was only 3.1 miles, so I figured I would just hold it in. Unfortunately, after five minutes of holding it in, I started to get sharp pains in the ol' GI tract, pains that turned to stabbings. I had a choice. Pull over to a Jiffy John and lose precious time. Or relax. I mean really relax. Ha. I chose the latter option and just let it go. The results were twofold. On the one hand, pooping in your race bloomers is obviously disgusting. What if some came out and I left a trail of droppings? Oh God. And then there's the stewing. Ah, yes, yuck. But on the other hand, I got rid of the pains, I felt light and smooth again. I was able to kick it in and get 8th place (and a nice little trophy). The embarrassing part was not just the act of defecating in my shorts; the embarrassing part came afterwards when everyone came up to congratulate me. I had to make an excuse and high tail it to the Jiffy Johns (finally) and clean myself up as best I could. Wow. I was pretty committed/insane even back in the 8th grade.

1. Most embarrassing moment ever. May 5, 2007. Broad St 10 mile race. In the two weeks leading up to the race, I had been suffering from a bad case of bronchitis: coughing, wheezing, fevers. Obviously this is not a good way to prepare for a race. I was feeling better by race day and felt compelled to do it because my Dad comes down every year to do it; it's a special event that we share together (though we don't actually run it together). That year my running buddy Melissa and I were running it together. Things were going well at an 8 min/mile pace for the first 7 miles. Around mile 7.5 however, the consequences of the illness started to rear their ugly heads. I got a case of brick legs and my tummy started to act up and I start coughing lots of nice balls of phlegm. Fun fun. I was determined to just keep going, so I threw back some Gatorade and put one foot in front of the other. By the last 200 meters I was feeling like complete crap and my stomach was definitely having a bad reaction to the orange Gatorade. 100 meter mark comes into view and I realize that I'm not going to make it...not going to make it in the sense that I had to pull over and puke on the sidelines. This is unfortunately not the most embarrassing part. Melissa tugs at my hand and says, "Come on, Nina, let's just finish this. It's right over there." Me being masochistic, stupid, stubborn, easily goaded--however you'd like to describe it--totally let her pull me in. I hadn't gone more than 50 meters when I got that queasy feeling again. And oh man, in the last 100 meters, of course the street is jam packed with spectators and worse, CAMERAS. That's right film and video. I'm pleading with myself, "Please, please, please, not now. Not here!" I think that I'm in the clear when I reach two feet in front of the finish line, only to suddenly experience an involuntary heaving. Oh no. As Melissa observes that I'm slowing down and tugs on my hand again, the vomiting commences. Not just any kind of spew...uncontrollable projectile vomiting (and what was the culprit--uh huh, the orange Gatorade). In front of hundreds of people and, oh yes, right into the cameras (only five feet in front of me and I was projecting the Gatorade at least three feet. Impressive?). Yes, so what's my awesome race photo from that year? That's right, they caught the projectile vomit on camera. And not after the fact; as it's coming out of my mouth. OMG. Grossest (and, come on, it's a bit hilarious too) moment ever.

As I was writing this post, I realized that I have many embarrassing moments (none so disgusting as that last one, thank goodness). These ones are the first that came into my head. I haven't even gotten into the wonders (and pitfalls) of marathoning. Perhaps another time.