Gordon

When I was in middle school, I really loved the Barenaked Ladies album, "Gordon." One song I still very much enjoy is "Brian Wilson." From time to time, if I'm feeling vaguely melancholy, I'll put on that song. "You can call me Pavlov's dog," I'll sing.

I’m thinking about this album because I’ve spent this past week at a “Gordon” conference on neural development, in Newport, Rhode Island, learning about recent and exciting neurodevelopmental research. We’re not supposed to discuss any of the science we learned at this conference, as it’s all cutting-edge, unpublished, top-secret stuff. Apparently the first rule of the Gordon conference is that you don’t talk about the Gordon conference. This is a rule that I am about to break. “You say you think there’s a traitor among us,” the Barenaked Ladies might say. 

Last Sunday, I waited in a lounge in the Embassy Suites for a bus to take me to the conference center. I was typing merrily away on my computer, when an old man came up to me. “Do you work here?” he asked. I did not, I assured him; I was a bona fide scientist. But I still helped him figure out how to get his bus ticket and how to log onto the wifi network. After that, we were friends.

And you really need friends at these conferences because they are quite intense. Everyone seems to be friends and enemies, collaborators and competitors, all at the same time. It generates, in my opinion, a tense atmosphere that is overlaid with a somewhat disingenuous camaraderie. You can tell that there is a shared passion and love for science, but there is also a commonly held fear that at any moment the scientific machine will spit you out. For me, at least, it’s an incredibly complex emotional landscape. It almost makes you want so spend the week, “lying in bed, just like Brian Wilson did.”

Of course I didn’t spend the week lying in bed (partly due to the fact that no matter what I did to the thermostat, my room stayed at 65F the entire time). I went to all the talks, and I participated in and overheard many conversations about the world of science. Many of these conversations were a little disquieting. For instance, I overheard a woman who had just started her own lab speaking with a postdoctoral fellow. “The interview process is exhausting,” she warned him. “Setting up your lab is exhausting. Make sure you have the emotional reserves.”

In another case, I was having lunch with a bunch of scientists, including an Australian who was two years into having his own lab. “My first year with my lab was the worst of my life,” he told us. “I was sick all the time, both physically and mentally. I was always at the doctor or psychiatrist.” The rest of us at the table stared blankly at him for a moment, not sure what to say. Suddenly he grinned and said, “Sorry to be so bleak. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

There were so many other examples of these types of stories, including a graduate student who told me that all the non-tenured neural development faculty at his institution had been abruptly fired, and a University of Chicago postdoc who divulged that her graduate PI was “broken” when he didn’t get tenure. “Science is a harsh mistress,” I remarked at one point to a table of graduate students and postdocs. They laughed and nodded in agreement, and we all sipped thoughtfully on our diet cokes.

One nice thing about this conference is that we had “free time” scheduled every afternoon between 1:30 and 4pm. I spent a lot of this time with Sarah, a postdoc from the University of Chicago. We toured one of the Newport mansions, the Breakers, once owned by the Vanderbilt family. We both agreed that the overwhelmingly ornate décor made us uneasy – it seemed unwelcoming and over-the-top. For example, over one doorway there were carved cherubs sitting in front of a steam train, and one of the cherubs was holding an anchor and a railroad spike. This confluence of classical architecture with the romanticism of industrialization was a little terrifying. “What have we done and what are we continuing to do to this planet,” I wondered.

Walking along the ocean was by far the most pleasant aspect of this scientific vacation. One afternoon, I went on a long solo quest along the “cliff walk.”  I peeked into tide pools, and eventually came to a pristine beach with beautiful white sand. The light was glittering on the waves, which reminded me of a children’s story I used to love. It was about these beings called the “glitz,” which are born from the sun, and spend the day dancing on ocean waves only to die with the setting of the sun.  I couldn’t resist rolling up my pants and wading in, experiencing a brief moment of bliss.

Speaking of bliss, I learned at this conference that I still love science. Not every talk at this particular conference was fascinating, but I love the scientific method, I love the crazy new techniques that these top institutions are developing, and I think that furthering the overall knowledge of our species is incredibly rewarding. I’m not surprised that so many people want to do this as a career, and I think it’s so important to train people to think scientifically.

But I also decided that a career at one of these top R01 grant institutions would likely break me. Those who have made it, who have tenured positions at top institutions, seem incredibly happy. They have the freedom and money to research anything they want, and they have the undying respect of everyone in their fields. But the path to that point is fraught with so much peril and, given the problems I’ve had with anxiety and depression, I worry that I would be unhappy pushing my way towards the top of the scientific heap.

I’m still staying in the world of science, however. Science media, writing, and editing are a few exciting career opportunities. This conference gave me the opportunity to speak with editors from Neuron, Nature Neuroscience, and Development, and my friend from the Embassy Suites has a son who works as an editor for Developmental Cell. Yay networking! I’ve also come to think that working at a smaller institute, like a liberal arts college, could be a great path for me. In addition, it’s possible to continue working in science as a “research professional,” which is a less stressful way to stay in research. Learning about these so-called “alternative” careers gives me a great deal of hope for the future. There are so many ways to serve science other than being an R01 researcher.

So thank you, Gordon, for this new perspective, for the beaches, for the mansions, and for the people. And I’m so happy to be going home now.

"I don't think I need a rubber room, but that might be nice.
I'm not a manic depressive paranoid or schizophrenic
So I don't need your advice.
I am crazy just like you."

Wedding in a Lost Land

I spent my childhood summers in a magical place called, somewhat unromantically, Baldwin’s Mills, which is a small town in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. It is beautiful, as it surrounds a lake and is overlooked by a mountain. It’s the perfect setting for a Canadian fairy tale, if such a thing existed.

Back in the 1980s, my parents, aunts, and uncles managed to synchronize their reproduction and, as a result, by the 1990s there was a gaggle of almost 20 kids, each related to one another in some way. We were set loose in the giant playground that is Baldwin’s Mills: always together, having endless adventures, and surrounded by beauty. We took it for granted back then, but now I am so grateful for those days. They instilled in me a sense of wonder and optimism that the subsequent years have been unable to eradicate.

Even so, going back can be hard. Everything is still beautiful, the water is still clean, and the air still rejuvenates. But one thing has changed: we children have gotten old! Now, instead of playing “kick the can” we make small talk, discussing the weather, our careers, or our latest workout regimen (at least until someone breaks out the beer horn). When I’m there, I feel the sadness inherent in the passage of time. It’s like an undercurrent of emotion that flows through the landscape, and you can taste it in the raspberries and blackberries that grow beside the mountain trails.

This past weekend I attended my cousin Oliver’s wedding in Baldwin’s Mills. My father Nelson, brother Jonathan, stepmother Madonna, and stepsister Meagan were all present. Meagan and I spent the morning before the ceremony hiking the mountain, and then we stripped down to our underwear to swim in the lake. Afterwards, we returned to Dad and Madonna’s cabin to share an avocado.

Then it was time for the wedding. I wore a purple dress; one of my aunts told me that I looked like a hollyhock (a compliment, I believe). The readings at the ceremony were from a Neil Gaiman book and the Velveteen Rabbit, neither of which I could hear from my spot at the back of the crowd near the gurgling creek. The hall was incredibly hot and crowded, so people gathered in small pockets outside, smoking cigarettes and watching the distant flashes of lightning. Near the end of the evening the groom was almost too drunk to stand up, but his new wife steadied him on the dance floor, and they gently swayed to their own rhythm. It seemed a good metaphor for a successful marriage.

At one point Meagan and I went for a walk to escape the crowded hall.

“Seeing people you know so well but haven’t seen in a decade is stressful,” she said.

“I didn’t even recognize Jim,” I replied. “When he came up to me and asked whether I was ‘attached,’ I was a bit flabbergasted.”

Meagan laughed. “Jim is hilarious. Always on the lookout for a wife for his youngest son.”

We continued walking amicably along the main road, and we came across an ancient barn with an equally ancient silo. The silo was only about 10 feet high, which seemed unusually short. Meagan was impressed. “This silo is fantastic,” she said. “It made this walk. There’s no need to go any farther.”

 

Back at the wedding, one of my cousins was rescuing half-full wine bottles, and had stashed them on a bench near where we were sitting on the deck. Her father, David, my uncle, wandered out, inspected the bottles, and started emptying them over the deck railing. My cousin was furious. She yelped, “Dad, what the hell are you doing with our wine?!”  He gave us a sheepish look. “Oh, just cleaning up,” he replied, and wandered off guiltily.

Later he came back with a beer. Meagan looked at him, grinned, and said, “Hey David. Would you like me to dump your beer on the ground?” That got a big laugh, and in retaliation David gave Meagan a big kiss on the cheek.

At 9:30pm it felt like midnight. The sky opened, and we drove back to the cottage in a torrential downpour. I felt a little strange … partly nostalgic, a little sad, but also happy.  Two memories from the wedding were floating around my mind. In one, my cousin Jori threw her arm over my shoulder and told me that she was buying a house in Baldwin’s Mills, and that I could visit anytime. In the second, one of my uncles asked me, “When are you coming home?” At the time I responded, “I’m not even sure where home is anymore.”

But the best moment of this trip happened just as I was about to leave. Meagan gave me a hug and said, “Goodbye, sis.” At that moment, in the lost land of Baldwin’s Mills, I felt like I belonged.  

Toronto Layover

I’m sitting in Toronto City Airport listening to Eddie Vedder’s song “Society” on youtube. It’s a song that was featured in the movie, “Into the Wild.”  These are a few of the lyrics:

It’s a mystery to me | We have a greed with which we have agreed | You think you have to want more than you need | Until you have it all you won’t be free.

I’m not a Pearl Jam fan at all, but I’m listening to this song because the person who sat next to me on the airplane recommended it.  I rarely speak to the people I’m forced to be in close contact with over the course of a flight, but I noticed that my seatmate was reading a book called, “Buddhism with an Attitude.” This seemed a bit of an oxymoron, so I asked him if he liked the book.

We then proceeded to discuss meditation, which is something I’ve started practicing this past spring in an attempt to deal with the death throes of a PhD. Finishing my thesis and deciding what to do next with my life has been emotionally overwhelming, and practicing meditation with a friendly group of people has been an immense relief. I crave a calm mind, and I attempt to build a skillful mind, but most of the time what I have is a mind of madness.

I’ve discovered that I’m not alone in feeling like this. Lately I’ve been much more open about my anxiety – I’ve spoken about it to my fiancé, my friends, my mom, my boss, my coworkers, and now to a stranger on the airplane. What’s kind of amazing is how supportive people are, and I think it’s because so many people can relate to overwhelming anxiety. One of my coworkers, who always seemed a very relaxed and pulled together person, confessed to having frequent panic attacks and to carrying clonazepam on her at all times, just in case.

The story of my Porter airplane seatmate is that, once upon a time, he was living happily ever after – he was his company’s CEO and a professor at the University of Wyoming. But out of the blue he started having panic attacks, was repeatedly hospitalized, and was put on all sorts of medication. At one point he was on seven different types! We gleefully went over the names of different anxiety medications, comparing notes. “Did you try Wellbutrin? Clonazepam? What about Citalopram or Lexapro?” I asked. He laughed, “I’ve been on them all.” 

His tale is ultimately one of success, as he now no longer takes any medication and can manage his anxiety with meditation and exercise. “I’ve awakened,” he said. “Once I was unconscious, living in a dream, but now I’m conscious.” In a lot of ways he reminds me of my fiancé’s oldest friend, who lives in Northern California and never seems to let anything bother him. I wish I could be like that – a totally chilled out dudette. Although, I can’t help wondering, “Who is actually deluded here: the happy or the anxious people?”

I guess I’ll never know the answer to that question, and maybe the answer doesn’t matter. What seems most evident is the immense power my mind has over me. I invent almost all my suffering, and I often believe the insane, catastrophic, and utterly unrealistic things my mind tells me. It makes no sense! My life is really awesome! Give me a break, mind. Sheesh.

My airplane seatmate left me with this phrase, ‘My mind is mine but it is not me.’  “Meditate on that,” he said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. In response, I had two simultaneous thoughts: “That is stupid” and “That is awesome.” I wonder who said which, me or my mind?

And now, after satisfying my curiosity about Eddie Vedder’s “Society,” I will turn off this somewhat cloying music. It’s time for some green tea and Joni Mitchell. I have a long layover, after all.