This summer, I lived in the lab. With my grad student mentor by my side, I cultured an obscene number of cells. Over the course of the summer, we attempted a variety of studies. Our main project concerned metabolic engineering. Unsurprisingly, none of my cells did what I wanted. Granted I was trying to turn human cells into plant ones…but they could have at least tried to work with me. Before I left my internship, I had to kill all my cells. Despite the fact that they were needy, uncooperative, and entirely ungrateful, I miss them.
I loved lab work so much, I decided I’m getting a PhD.
To start my pursuit of a doctorate, I took the GRE. Getting into the exam was more difficult than breaking out of prison. The night before the test, I was informed that all test takers were required to use wooden pencils. Apparently, mechanical pencils provide an unfair advantage. I find that hard to believe given the test is online. Nonetheless, I’m superstitious and must take tests with a pink pencil (don’t ask). So, I set out hunting for pink wooden pencils.
Fortunately, I found some. Before I was allowed into the exam room, officials checked my ID, scanned me with a metal detector, inspected my glasses, and recorded me reading a statement saying I wouldn’t cheat. Then the unthinkable happened. They confiscated my lucky pencils. In their place, I received one wooden pencil with a non-functional eraser, which I used sheerly out of necessity. Worse still, I never got my pencils back.
The things I do just so I can be called a fake doctor.
This semester, I’ve started working in the histology lab at the hospital. My first shift, I spent two hours organizing microscope slides. I worked through stacks of slides, running through three different rooms all filled to the brim with filing cabinets. As I scoured thousands of slides, dating throughout the past decade, I worried about what I had gotten myself into.
Finally finished with the task, I prepared myself for more slides. Instead, the lab tech took me to the “Gross Room.” The name immediately made sense. Biohazard signs decorated every surface. The scent of formalin was so strong I could taste it. I had a vague idea of what I was about to do.
The lab tech directed me towards a shelf filled with organs. After an eternity sorting microscope slides, I drudged around the “Gross Room” throwing away containers of old organs.
When I finished, my boss asked me to accompany her on rounds. She handed me a basket and we set off around the hospital. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the basket was for holding organs.
We stopped at each department, greeted by some special delivery. It felt like I was holding my entire anatomy education in a shopping basket. At our last stop, twenty containers littered the surface of the table. My boss looked exasperated. I doubted this was what she wanted to see at 6:00 PM on a Thursday.
She mumbled, “I’d complain about all the slides I have to make but I bet that person didn’t want their organs removed either.”
Fair enough.
We brought our collection back to the surgical pathology room where two doctors huddled over the lab bench. As we presented our plentiful findings, they whirled around, revealing a colon in the sink.
My boss glanced at me. “Do you want to watch them open a colon?”
How can you say no to that?
With a swift cut down the center, the colon split open and spilled out into the sink. The doctors extracted tissues then dropped the colon in a bucket. Finished with the colon, they moved onto a leg.
A sentence I never thought I would write: I stood in awe as I watched a doctor saw through an amputated leg.
I witnessed my second amputation of the week when my roommate performed an emergency procedure on our Scrub Mommy. After spending three months in a UHaul, she's looking a little rough. During her surgery, we crafted Scrub Mommy lore: she has six kids (all with different fathers) and she is involved in a tragic romance with the short king Marcello Hernandez. Scrub Mommy has two sides: one soft foam, one abrasive plastic. The soft side is for Marcello, the rough side is for the streets. We shouldn’t be getting so attached. We need to throw her away.
Finally, on the topic of doctors, I am currently fighting with my mother’s doctor. A few weeks ago, I sent my mom a picture of my cell biology textbook claiming linoleic acid is an essential fatty acid. It isn’t, in fact it’s terrible for you. My professor raved about how reputable our book was in every class—I found this appalling. A few days ago, I sent another picture to my mom. The same textbook credited Watson and Crick with the discovery of the DNA double helix. My mom happened to be at the doctor, confused by my angry message, she showed it to him.
He told her the textbook was right. I told her to find a new doctor.
As a Woman in STEM, I could not stand for this injustice. Watson and Crick’s biggest contribution to science was stealing the work of my hero Rosalind Franklin.
I am currently in the process of writing a report detailing how Rosalind Franklin’s X-ray diffraction images indicated the double-helical structure of DNA. Trust, he will be hearing from me.
Perhaps the best reason as to why I should get a PhD: I am an excellent researcher.
What should we name our new Scrub Mommy?
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