DICK and the MAN

Remember the Furtive Foot who so rudely interrupted the smooth continuity between my rump and the floor at last year's NIH meeting? The one and the same that lay captive to the MAN?

He is my beneficiary and patriarch.

$23,000.

Doris Duke, our dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, is his masquerade. He is The MAN responsible for my year here.

And so yesterday I had to present to him my year of research in 10 minutes.

I took a lot of time on this presentation. I tried hard to make it clean and concise. In the process it was deprived of its richness.

All the WORDS spoken...so many WORDS. Over 500 pages of WORDS spoken by adolescents, parents and providers.

Lost in translation to The MAN whom I could see was struggling to find the p value among my quotes.

"So how do I know you are not making all of this up? Can you put in a few numbers and tables in there? Like maybe the CD4 count trends of these children...to see how sick they are?

I looked him straight in the eye, studied every relief on his disgruntled face and finally realized:

I am in control here.

It was as though every sentence he uttered was scripted.

So I confidently responded:

"While I DID document the CD4 counts of these children, among other measures of illness, I don't think it really matters how SICK these children are. Regardless of how SICK these children are, they still NEED to be transitioned, and my agenda today was to describe to you some of the BARRIERS to transitioning care of these adolescents."

He paused. He reflected. The discomfort was palpable.

"Hmm. Fair enough. Ok lets get moving, I'm sure we could talk about this all day. Our next presenter is Heather Duke, who is going to give his talk on Modulation of the Anti-Tumor Immune Response with Immunotherapy (aka protein isolation of cell surface markers on Cutaneous T cell Lymphoma).

Heather Duke is actually a 6' blond haired blue eyed abercrombie and fitched out bloke. Every other Fellow whose company I keep fits a similar description.

I am the only woman to have received the fellowship this year. I am the only medical student who is not going into a surgical specialty or into radiation oncology.

I used a lot of four letter expletives later than night to describe my company at the meeting. Somehow it seemed to flow so naturally.

One ****, I'll call him DICK for now, made an especially smarmy comment. the MAN had asked each of us to make a comment about last presenter, and I said that I don't have anything more to add to what has already been said...and just before I was about to give one additional comment, DICK said: "so you mean we've reached the point of theoretical saturation?" He was throwing back a phrase I had used in describing our qualitative analysis. You could tell he was waiting to use that line all evening.

I ignored DICK's comment and moved on. And that was that.

I will say this: three of my mentors showed up to my presentation, and they were all very pleased. And mind you that all three were previously hard core quantitative researchers who have published in esteemed journals (including NEJM). They are all extraordinary people who were willing to push the envelope a bit and take a chance on me, "the flighty social scientist"/"the blossoming academic." And I am so so grateful.
~.~.~
An email from my mentor, in the aftermath:

"TARA: No thanks are necessary. It was a pleasure to see this all come to
fruition in a wonderful 10 minute pearl.
... By the way, the 2 students who went after you stunned me with
their inability to make their data accessible to the audience. I simply could not follow them, even though they had lots of beautiful data. They will be able to write
nice papers with pretty figures but they certainly could not give me two sentences to store in my head for even 15 minutes.
So thanks for being the star! You make us all look good. And
you have taught me a lot. That's what this is all about: we provide the resources and the time and you teach your teachers.
Gratefully, "

Masquerade

I am the quintessential New Yorker.

(and/or Jersey Girl. Take your pick.)

Bitter. Jaded.

Pale and Dry.

A Ball Buster.

I wasn’t always so. In fact, in high school, I radiated. I exalted the sun. I glorified the Great Outdoors. I ran twice a day, 5-6 days a week. Come rain (snow, hail) or shine.

I was sun-kissed all year round.

So it wasn’t surprising to anyone that I shunned the ivy league to go to school in California. I didn’t get "Stansbury," my first pick out west, but my second seemed remarkably a better fit than anyone could have imagined.

So I chose sunshine over the gray skies of Morningside Heights, West Philadelphia and Baltimore. And I had no regrets.

Every high schooler has his or her role in the system. I was the Long-Skirted Recluse (LSR) who loved to bask. Future tiller of soil and planter of seeds. A Rebel, whose only cause was warm weather and sunny skies.

So what happened?

Now I am a pale, puffy academic who is seeking out the IV. Even though I hate it, especially the one in which I am currently doing research, which I have secretly nicknamed "Heather Chandler." (or Heather Duke or Heather McNamara. Depending on my mood.)

As in "Dear Diary, I HATE Heather Chandler."

I am Veronica Sawyer.
(For those of you who haven't caught on yet: "Heathers" is one of my all-time favorite movies.)

~.~.~.~.~

What happened was that I wound up deciding to marry the quintessential Californian. A Scruffy, Sun-kissed, Hoodie Wearing, Skateboarding Californian. A Pacifist. A Dirty Hippie. To be fair, he does not truly hail from the Golden State. He lives five minutes from the border. But he is definitely Californian.

So I surmise based on the fact that every “war story” is prefaced with “Whoaaa. Dude.”

Um. Yeah.

So my Skater Boy had me figured out much earlier than anyone else ever did. He magically fleshed the beast that lies within. He knows that I am really the same Zantac-popping type A kid that every other student at The Dwight-Englewood College Preparatory School was.

Only worse. I am the Quintessential Imposter. A Masquerader.

And so my true colors emerge.

The Californian: sunny, warm, friendly, breezy. Laid back.

Mellow.

The New Yorker: cloudy, cold, bitter, dry. Serious.

Intense.

Me.

paradise now

i'm having a bridezilla moment.

one after another.

yesterday i found *the perfect* apartment for our first home. it was open and sunny and it had a lovely little patio with a garden. I imagined myself, in a bright yellow floral scarf covering all but a few strands of maverick hairs, capri pants with dirt stained knees and my old trusted birks, tilling away and harvesting my 2x4 foot plot of land. Romantic, no? Tara, newlywed, newly anointed earth goddess, tiller of soil, planter of seeds.

keep in mind that neither of my thumbs are remotely green. but i am learning. and i finally am listening to my mother, who was blessed with two.

so I eagerly put down my application. I confidently scribbled my *income,* which technically is below the poverty line, and my *employer,* a winning combination of Doris Duke, the dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, and the Federal Government, my patriarch and lender.

Believe it or not, the owner did not think this income was sufficient. So she asked if I could have my parents cosign.

Now I have great credit. And I have managed to do pretty well with my meager salary, if I do say so myself. Of course it helps that I am a single woman who doesn't have to pay for a car or my cell phone, thanks to my folks. But I am, and have been for about seven years now on top of all my other bills. And there are MANY other bills I have had to pay.

So I stuttered and fumbled over my words and eagerly tried to convince this woman that I was CAPABLE.... without my parents help. I just didn't want to bring them into this...they have done too much for me already.

She said she would get back to me. But there were other people waiting for this apartment too.

I lost sleep over this. I kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking that my future husband is a better candidate than I am because his parents are his *employer.*

What is wrong with this system? I thought this was the land of hope and dreams and hopeful dreams...

and opportunity.

Today we decided to go check out a studio, which was considerably cheaper. It is a lovely open space, with new hardwood floors and south facing windows...but it is small. And it does not have a garden. The place belongs to Dave's current landlord who is a bit of an eccentric, an art gallery owner who doesn't like to do anything formally...ie no credit checks involved, no employment history, nothing. Just faith in us, newlywed students who have never had a problem making rent.

Clearly my kind of woman.

We sat on the steps, basked in the springtime sun and mulled. If we decided to go with this apartment, we would not be able to entertain very many guests. And I wouldn't be able to till and harvest. Our first home would be small and intimate.

But bright, open and sunny.

The garden would have to wait.

So we took it. Our first home.