24th August 10
As I pull him out of his cage, I can’t help but feel tremendously guilty. He doesn’t try to bite me. He doesn’t try to wriggle out of my hand. Instead, he places his tiny paws on top of my finger and looks up at me with his big, black eyes as if to say “where are we going today? What adventures do you have in store for me?”
Unfortunately for you, little mouse, you’re headed for the isoflurane box.
The isoflurane knocks him out within a minute or two. It’s a gaseous general anesthetic that is often used with people, but it’s cheap and easy to use, so it works great for veterinary purposes (such as making Mr. Mouse go to Sleepytown). When he keels over and smushes his face against the side of the tank, it’s time to give him a nice, big dose of ketamine. This will ensure that over the course of the procedure, Mr. Mouse feels absolutely no pain. It also has the benefit of getting rid of any nasty twitch reflexes he might have, so the operation goes more smoothly.
After injecting him, I put the mouse back in the tank while the ketamine does its work. When his breathing is sufficiently deep and his pinch reflexes are gone, it’s time to begin the procedure.
The fume hood roars to life as I raise the sash. I fill up the containers with paraformaldehyde, phosphate buffer, and 10% sucrose and clear the lines of any air bubbles. I gently lift our friend Mr. Mouse out of the isoflurane tank and carry him to the dissection board. One by one, I pin his paws to the cork surface he now rests on, belly up. His once hopeful eyes, full of potential, are now glazed over and empty.
I lift the skin immediately below his sternum with a pair of forceps and make the first incision. I cut laterally below his ribcage and lift, exposing his diaphragm. I cut through, into the thoracic cavity, taking care not to puncture his heart or lungs. With a large, heavy clamp, I retract the ribcage and expose the heart.
It’s roughly the size of an M&M and is a healthy, deep, dark red color, pumping life-sustaining blood and oxygen throughout his body. I carefully remove the pericardium, hold it in place with my forceps, and inject heparin into the lower left ventricle. The heparin starts to course through his arteries, ensuring that no blood clots will form in the coming steps.
Next, with a small pair of scissors, I cut a small incision through the muscle wall and into the left ventricle. Once the hole is big enough, I insert a large gauge needle and clamp it in place. I take the scissors once more and make an incision in the right atrium. There is a brief spurt of dark red blood. With all preparations made, I open the first line, and phosphate buffer starts to flow into the mouse’s heart.
Blood starts to pour out of the right atrium and onto the dissection board. The heart, still pumping assists in pushing more and more blood out as the phosphate buffer replaces it. Soon, the dark red blood turns into a thin, bright red watery solution, and within a few minutes all of the blood is gone. Only clear phosphate buffer flows out of the atrium. The heart and lungs have turned a sickly pale color. The liver and gut have turned a drab brown. The heart has stopped pumping, and breathing has entirely. The mouse is dead at this point, but the procedure is not yet done.
Next, I open up the second line, allowing toxic paraformaldehyde to flow into the heart. Driven by the pull of gravity, it pushes out all of the phosphate buffer and fills the body. For half an hour, it will sit here, preserving the body and fixing it in the state it was in just before it died. When this is done, I open the third and final line, allowing 10% sucrose to push out the paraformaldehyde and fill the body, serving as a cryoprotective agent. This will eventually be ramped up to 30% sucrose, allowing the mouse’s body to be frozen without damaging the tissue.
The procedure finished, I remove the body parts I need, place them in the freezer, and discard the remains. I wash down the dissection board, clean the instruments, and change my gloves. As I place another mouse in the isoflurane tank and begin to refill the chemicals and clear the lines, I can’t help but wonder what their last thoughts are as they get pinned down under the surgical lights by a masked man holding a large pair of scissors.
15th July 10
My lab agenda for the day:
-Make a 2mM magnesium chloride solution
-Stain some sections for beta-galactosidase
-Section more tissue samples
-CUT A BABY MOUSE INTO PIECES WITH A RAZOR BLADE OH GOD SO MUCH BLOOD THIS IS TERRIBLE
7th July 10
This is what courage looks like.
Not a warrior in glimmering silver armor.
Not a hulk of a man filling everyone who stands in his path with lead.
Not a soldier bombing a village in a foreign land thousands of miles away.
This man challenged death’s gaze armed with only a sign.
1st July 10
I had only been in the lab for two hours, and already I found myself leaning into a fume hood with a decapitated mouse head and a pair of bloody scissors in my hand.
For those of you who have never had the pleasure, I shall describe the process of cutting the brain out of a mouse’s skull in the form of a first-person narration:
“Wait… where did that guy go? Wasn’t he supposed to show me how to do this? Aww man…
Okay, okay. I can do this. It’s just a dead mouse head. Here, I’ll just take the scissors and cut along the top of the skull.
Okay, that was significantly more crunchy than I was expecting a skull sitting in formaldehyde for a year to be. And more splattery. I hope none of it got on me… Good thing I’m doing this in the fume hood.
Now to pry off the top of the skull… Why is there already blood on the forceps?
Oh god so much blood so much blood why is there still blood in this head ew ew ew ew ew.
Okay… Top of the skull is off. Now to just lift it out, and…
Nope. Stuck. It’s still connected to something. Maybe if I can just slide the forceps around the side, that will loosen it up.
Oh god it’s ear just fell off. And the damn brain is still stuck in there. Screw it, I’m just going to pull it out with my fingers.
HOW IS THERE STILL BLOOD IN HERE?
Come on… just a little more… Uh oh, something just ripped. Is that bad? Should something have ripped? Oh look, the brain just fell out onto that stack of paper towels. Awesome!”
27th June 10
1. Open up Google.
2. Type “2204355” into the search box.
3. Hit “I’m feeling lucky”
22nd June 10
We all love bananas. Don’t say you don’t like them, because you do. Nobody dislikes bananas. They’re fantastic!
Mother Nature, however, has decided to play a cruel joke on us. In giving us a delicious, convenient source of potassium, she has also given us a convenient, delicious source of DEADLY RADIOACTIVE POTASSIUM ISOTOPES.
Potassium comes in three flavors in nature: potassium-39 (which makes up about 93% of naturally occurring potassium), potassium-41 (roughly 7%), and potassium-40 (which makes up about .012% of naturally occurring potassium). Potassium-40 is capable of three types of radiation: beta decay (release of an electron), positron emission (release of a positron), and electron capture (self-explanatory). A potassium-40 isotope will give out .52MeV (million electron volts) of energy via beta decay.
If we assume that the average, medium-sized banana contains around 422mg of potassium (USDA), then we can expect .05064mg of that to be potassium-40 (.012%). As the specific activity of potassium-40 is 0.0000071Ci/g (ANL), we should expect to see roughly 359.5pCi of radiation per medium-sized banana.
Scientists have since decided to use this as a unit of measure to display how lethal a potential radiation leak can be. The Banana Equivalent Dose (BED) is defined by a 150g banana, which will give out roughly 520pCi, or, more importantly for us, .00986mrems (the biological absorbed dose) of radiation. Therefore, a radiation leak of 10pCi can be said to be about .02 banana equivalent doses- that is to say, negligible.
Based on the BED, if one were to eat one banana every day for a year, he would absorb .0036rems of radiation. Radiation sickness starts in earnest at around 200rems. This means, to see significant, potentially lethal effects from radiation by banana, one would need to eat 55,556 bananas in a very short span of time. One would die of potassium toxicity long before a lethal dose of radiation is reached. Also indigestion.
20th June 10
I woke up early one summer morning to find my mom frantically pacing back and forth across the living room.
The ambulance gently rolled to a stop in front of our house. The sirens weren’t on. It was still early. There were no cars on the road to get in the way. A police officer was already upstairs with my dad. I helped the paramedics bring the stretcher up the front stairs. Our neighbor came running over to help carry it to the second floor and lend whatever assistance he could.
My father was awake, but not very responsive. His eyes were cloudy and seemed to be looking at something miles away. His body had slowly worn away over the past year. It looked like all of his muscles had atrophied. He weighed less than me. His hair was thinning. His skin was yellow. He moved slowly, as if it took tremendous effort to even lift his hand and grab onto the side of the stretcher.
My mom went to the emergency room with him. I stayed behind to carry out the unpleasant task of telling my brothers (who are very heavy sleepers) that our dad was being taken away in an ambulance.
We waited for the entire day without hearing a word about what was happening. I tried hard to stay rational, but it was hard not to let my imagination run wild. It was most likely a complication from the paracentesis he had the day before, I told myself. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about. The doctors would be able to take care of everything, and at the worst, they would keep him overnight to make sure he was okay.
The hours continued to tick away, and still, we knew nothing of what was happening. Being the incapable cooks that we were, we ordered a pizza and continued to wait.
Finally, a car pulled into the driveway. My mom stepped out, but immediately, I saw something was wrong. My dad wasn’t with her. Her brother was.
My heart was pounding as they walked in the door. My uncle sat down as my brothers came into the living room, and my mom immediately began adjusting pillows on the couch. I think she was trying to hide that she was crying. It took an enormous effort not to start, myself.
It was a beautiful August evening. The sun poured its rays through the windows. The sky glowed a vibrant red, and off on the horizon, the beautiful purple of twilight approached.
All I could see, though, was darkness.
Dad wasn’t coming home.
18th June 10
There’s something to be said for taking time to sit on the grass and enjoy a beautiful day.
I spent the last two months frantically going from class to class, doing assignment after assignment. I spent days in the library in front of a computer screen, or in the lab with a pipette in my hand. My thoughts raced from “have I adequately described the function of this phosphodiesterase inhibitor?” to “where am I going tonight?” to “this chemical is very bright. I wonder how likely it is to kill me?” Never once, though, did I take a moment to stop and think about one very, very important thing:
It’s a beautiful day outside today.
So, rather than frantically making plans with friends, trying to fulfill some foolish notion that I must be socializing at all hours of the day for life to be meaningful, I did the exact opposite.
I sat under a tree for two hours and watched airplanes fly overhead.
My friend decided to stop by and sit with me for a little while. The silence made her uncomfortable. She said I was boring and left. I was sad, not because I was insulted or because I was alone again, but because she did not see the tremendous value in sitting on the grass and taking stock of herself, as I was doing.
I think I quite enjoy being boring.
17th June 10
A little context is necessary here: I am a massive hypochondriac with anxiety problems. I take Ativan and Paxil like it’s my job. After many panic attacks resulting in frantic trips to the doctor, I decided to keep a list of all of the diseases I’m convinced I have but probably don’t.
First on our list is Marfan Syndrome.
Marfan is an autosomal dominant trait. Essentially, this means that if one of your parents has the disease, you have a 50% chance of having it, too. If both of your parents have it, then you’re shit out of luck, and so are all of your subsequent offspring. There is, of course, the small chance that you will develop this disorder via spontaneous genetic mutation, but this is a very uncommon occurrence.
The mutation in question effects a protein called fibrillin-1. This is a protein that is responsible for building up the elastic connective in your body. A mutation in the gene coding for this protein will cause all of this connective tissue to lose its elasticity. This can have a wide array of consequences:
People with Marfan Syndrome are often very tall and skinny. Their arms and legs will often be disproportionately long for their bodies, and their fingers will be long and spidery. There may also be problems with the curvature of the spine, such as scoliosis or kyphosis. Severe curvature of the spine can even go as far as pressing up against one’s lungs, making breathing difficult. Compounding problems even further, some patients with Marfan can present with pectus excavatum- a sunken chest. The sternum can be sunken so deep that it pushes against the lungs from the front and moves the heart to one side of the body, in addition to the unfortunate side effect of making your chest look like it has a black hole in it and is slowly forming a singularity between your lungs. Further problems include nearsightedness, double-jointedness, oddly flexible limbs, and looking like Lurch.
The most important consequences, however, lie in the cardiovascular system. Maintaining the elasticity of your heart and vasculature is extraordinarily important. One of the more benign heart problems is mitral valve prolapse (also known as heart murmur). This is when the mitral valve (a flap of skin between your left atrium and left ventricle) becomes rigid and doesn’t close properly. Without a proper seal from this valve, some blood can leak back into your left atrium instead of being pumped out to the aorta. This isn’t usually a life ending condition, and is by no means indicative of Marfan. In non-Marfan cases, it’s usually nothing to worry about. In Marfan, however, the condition can get progressively worse. As the valve becomes more and more rigid, more blood can leak back into the atrium. Your heart will need to pump harder and harder to compensate for the reduced volume of blood leaving through your aorta, and this can eventually leave to your heart saying “fuck you, I quit.“
More severe is the threat of an aortic dissection. The aorta is a heavy, thick-walled blood vessel that leads directly from your left ventricle to the every fucking part of your body. A lot of pressure builds up in here as blood rushes through it, so naturally, it needs to be very elastic. Unfortunately, Marfan patients are lacking in the elasticity department. As blood is pumped through a rigid aorta, it stretches out and can’t return to it’s previous state. As it gets stretched out more and more, the inner walls start to become brittle and break down. This can lead to a small tear on the inside wall. Blood will seep out between the inner and outer walls, constricting the aorta and choking of the blood supply. Worse still, this can cause the entire aorta to rupture, spilling massive amounts of blood into your thoracic cavity. This is nearly universally fatal.
I first heard of this disease in my regulatory cell biology class. My teacher had mentioned in passing the basic phenotype for this disease: tall, skinny, and with long fingers and arms.
-I’m 6’0”
-I weigh 140lbs
-I have pianist fingers
I went home, immediately had a massive panic attack, passed out, and woke up on my floor, my roommate staring at me wondering why I had apparently just died. As I cried burning hot tears filled with the essence of humiliation, I decided to call my dear mother and tell her we were all going to die because we had a familial genetic mutation that was going to make all of our hearts explode. Being the saint that she is, mother dearest directed me to do some more research before jumping to any conclusions. I found a few neat little tricks to assuage my fears (NOTE: Don’t use these as diagnostic tools. Talk to an actual doctor if you think you may have Marfan Syndrome):
1. The positive wrist test:
Wrap your thump and pinky finger around your wrist. An overlap here is a minor criterion for Marfan.
2. The positive palm test:
Tuck your thumb under your fingers and wrap them around. If your thumb can extend past the end of your palm, this can be used as a minor criterion for Marfan.
3. The “some other test that I don’t know the name of and might not be real” test:
Try to touch your elbows behind you. If you can do this, this can be used as a minor criterion for Marfan (I think).
Of course, the best way to be diagnosed is to go to a geneticist or cardiologist with experience diagnosing Marfan. Or you can do what I did and take an Ativan and go to bed.
16th June 10
I can’t wear Drakkar Noir.
It was the last Father’s Day we would spend with him. We didn’t quite want to acknowledge it, but we all knew deep down that he wouldn’t live to see the next one. People don’t tend to survive past six months with liver cancer, and he was already pushing nine. Besides, it was becoming increasingly more evident that his body was simply giving out.
We gave him a bottle of Drakkar Noir. On a typical day, he would simply use Aqua Velva aftershave. But this was different. I think he was tired of smelling from the chemo. The Aqua Velva wasn’t covering that sinister smell. I think my dad wanted to smell nice for his last Father’s Day.
My dad was a big man. He wasn’t fat (though he did have an inexplicable love for Busch beer, and it showed in his belly), but he was built. He was the kind of person you would never want to pick a fight with upon first glance. Though he stood a full inch shorter than me, I couldn’t help but feel like he towered over me every time I spoke to him. But that was only on the outside. On the inside, he was a wonderful human being. When he walked into a room, he commanded the respect of everyone present. He was known around our entire community as a stand-up gentleman who would always do what was right. He would go to the ends of the earth for our family. As far as I was concerned, my dad was a superhero. He was a giant. He was invincible.
Unfortunately, reality is seldom as grand as fantasy.
One day, many, many years ago, my dad was given a blood transfusion. Back then, things like Hepatitis C were not screened for in blood donations. My dad had the unfortunate luck of being transfused with blood that carried the Hepatitis C virus.
For over twenty years, the virus lay silent. But one day, after a routine hernia surgery, it woke up.
My poor father never stood a chance.
