Fun Fact: Hedgehogs cause Cyclops

We have a subfamily of pathways that is active during the fetal period called Sonic Hedgehog. If there are mutations in it, it can cause babies to be born as cyclopses. This is common in mt goats & sheep in the west because there is a plant Veratrum californicum/Corn Lily/Cow Cabbage that if eaten around the 14th day gestation and it causes the mutation in the Sonic Hedgehog pathway & the babies can be born as cyclops. And yes, it's named after the game, Sonic the Hedgehog.

Fun Fact: Sun Made Dimers

I'm learning all sorts of fun things so I thought I would start putting up fun facts. Here's the fun fact for today:

For every second of sun exposure 50-100 dimers are created in your exposed skin cells. These are caused by two base pairs or nucleotides (nobs that code for your proteins) on your DNA covalently bonding (sharing electrons) and causes a problem in DNA a big chunk has to be cut out by enzymes, unzipped from the double helix, removed, and then put back together and the DNA backbone taped up with the tape enzyme ligase.

So when those errors become more than can be fixed you can have skin cancer.

Stories Told: Lessons From a Storm Part 2

Stories were told. I suspect every disaster has its own folklore that races through the battered towns. Little children rescued from coolers citing women with wings as their saviors, adults flung hundreds of feet only to stand and help their neighbor, five people found in a basement in this town, three people rescued from a basement in another. Each day, without the help of a TV or radio we heard more stories of hope. Each day they brought a smile to our faces.

Humanity needs hope. Most of the time these stories whether partially true, true or truly figments of someone's imagination stoke the embers of hope. They are like a sugar pill, they make tomorrow more bearable and if they are true, all the better.

One story was different. Every disaster or human tragedy has this story. The characters and places are different the message is the same. It is a story of brightly colored, candy coated poison.

A man of faith had been away from his home and when he returned the valley around his home, a place of drug dealers, was decimated. Houses were piles of rubble. His home, his pets, his cars were untouched. My friend's face was enraptured. The tornado had spun out at the bottom of his hill and couldn't make it up.

I smiled and nodded. My stomach cramped and my heart bled, grated raw by the lack of compassion in the story for the families in the valley. Families who most certainly suffered and will continue to suffer for their loss of life and homes.

In a few of my photos there were shots, specific ones that were a rebuttal to this innocent story that poured toxic into my heart from that day forward. Photos of the box labelled "Missions" that was flung from the place on the granite counter top where items were put in to donate, the counter top pulverized. Photos of an inner wall that has, "Every good and perfect gift comes from above." The rest of the house crushed like an egg. Ironic.

I wanted to grab my friend and beg for him to see, there are no favorites. There isn't always reason, not always an answer to impose upon this chaos. Everyone suffers together. We crave black and white yet are gifted with a insipid gray haze. In that dreaded pallid haze, is a place of grace.  It is here that I found humanity grabbed hands, rough hewn and straight laced, broken and whole, deserving and undeserving and struggled to rise above the obliteration of their existence.

But in my abraded heart I still hemorrhage anguish for the callousness of the 'favored' who will never understand the gift of the haze.

We have Our Lives: Lessons From a Storm Part 1

This morning I woke up with black circles around my eyes, a smoker's voice and the energy quota of a snail. Most people felt they understood what was up. But one friend  cheerfully asked, "What's your problem?" I laughed a little and slowly walked away. How do I explain? Maybe I never can. Maybe you just have to be there. Maybe I'll try, as I explore what a few days in the aftermath of a storm taught me.

The reality is that most people thought that searching for bodies would suck me dry, leave me depressed or stressed. This was a nearly forgone conclusion with many. It didn't. While I'd obviously rather rescue a living human I feel honored to bring closure to a family who would otherwise wonder what became of their relative or perhaps stumble upon their husband, wife, or child's mangled or dismembered body. I have the protection of not knowing the person whose shell became a part of the twisted debris tossed aside by an insatiable storm, they do not.

Why do I spend the evenings alone by the lake to silently reflect?

I climbed over acres, if not miles of rubble, most of it was unrecognizable splinters. I'd see a doll, a pair of jeans, video tape, a photograph of children, a motorcycle chain and a jewelry box all a dull, gritty, angry brown. As I walked I realized each of the items represented someone's life, their money and their hopes. I came across a father, a mother, a grandmother as I walked, each one staring blank at the shards that had been their home. Each one forcefully met my eyes with theirs and with a feverish passion of thankfulness named the people in their family that were alive, their neighbors and friends. While they stumbled in light tennis shoes over boards bristling with nails, cement blocks on edge and the dusty splintered trees, they all had the same conclusion, "We have our lives."

We have our lives. The contents of their homes ripped open, gutted like the prey of an angry dog.

We have our lives. Their cars rolled and tossed by the careless hand of an enraged child.

We have our lives. Photographs of their children, healthy, happy and proud buried in the mud, slowly decomposing.

We have our lives. Vulnerable, stripped and bare.

We have our lives. Their hearts full of thankfulness.

We have our lives. Their hands full of supplies for their neighbors; the one who was deaf, the one who lost a loved one or the ones who sat in mute coma at the place where their front door should have been.

We have our lives.

And so tonight I stood beside the lake, throwing a pebble in and watching the ripples move away. The trees around me reached toward heaven in a majestic verdant hymn of grace. On my heart a heavy responsibility laid bare, throbbing, bleeding fire throughout my soul...

I have my life...

The Strength of What Remains

I was privileged to spend four amazing, heart breaking days with Union College - Lincoln, Nebraska International Rescue & Relief team in towns around Burlingham, AL, where an F5 tornado hit just a day before. What a privilege to see these towns at their most vulnerable moments; watching them rise as strong communities working together to survive.

Daily, we grossly underestimate the good of those around us.

More blogs to come... my brain is still sorting through the experience. 

Most of these photos are available on my Facebook page with explanations under them.

Shutter Island

It is never boring interviewing. There is always some bit of craziness to amuse the astute observer and often craziness that doesn't require any sort of astute'ness on the part of the observer.

The school is on an island in the middle of the old Navy base. Windows are broken out of large warehouses, that allow shafts of sun to penetrate the dust stirred up by the ghosts of sailors or more likely gang members planning wars. Shutter Island is the name given to it by the shuttle driver who takes us from the hotel.

The foyer of an old inn is the headquarters the school and is under construction so the place appears closed with various hand written yellow signs pointing out that these doors are not to be used. The shuttle driver gallantly finds the correct door for his cargo of women and we all enter a storage room with tables and chairs lining the walls. Welcome.

We are settled into the conference room, fluorescent lights flicker menacingly, we've entered the asylum. The Dean of Admissions skips into the conference room in his enthusiasm and proclaims with large smile slashed into a weathered face that they interview "right" as opposed to other schools. Fifteen minutes later we are still listening to how the other schools do it wrong and they do it right. And then the hot shock of pain that comes from a rampaging UTI hits me. I just finished my antibiotics yesterday and its back already. I rock slightly and nearly cry, I forget to keep listening how they do it right while others do it wrong.

When he quiets, with a composed rush I enter into the room with the secretaries and ask if anyone has Tylenol, explaining to a room of women that I've just come down with a UTI. With pity they all reach into purses and desk drawers. The one nearest me pulls out Tylenol 800, anti-inflammatory and some sort of muscle relaxant, her prescription. "I choose you." I chug the pill with a handful of water from the sink, begging the Tylenol gods to give me quick relief.

The Dean of the SOM comes in to tell us about the school and answer questions. He has trouble getting to the point and so I sit in agony while he spends 15 minutes telling us that they are proud that they are focused on getting their students good at the patient history and exam. Hands fold contentedly on a flabby belly, "I am proud that we are focused on the medical history and exam." I start my second water bottle. "I am proud that we are focused on the medical history and exam." I stop listening.

My biggest question is always about the curriculum, is it PBL or lecture based? Is it systems based or structured like undergraduate classes? He says, "it's hard to quantify but we are changing it every year... I am proud that we are focused on the medical history and exam."

Do they use student input in these curriculum changes? "We value student input..." the students and professors are close... they are focused on getting their students good at the patient history/exam. After ten more minutes of hearing about patient history and exam, he pauses for a breath and I try to condense 10 minutes into a sentence, "The student's input is informal based on close relationships with the professors?" No, he says emphatically, it is formal too... "Excellent," I wait to hear what formal procedures they have in place, he doesn't say another thing about it but talks about the patient history and exams. I feel sincerely amazed.

We wander around campus for the tour with a first year student who at 6'7" ducks instinctively at every doorway, even while walking backward and talking. "And here is the exam room...*bob* the lab *bob* the cadavers *bob*. No I wasn't a basketball player *bob*." The hazards of being tall.

The campus is old but has character. I like it. I like old buildings that peel paint into ratty hairdos and sneeze the dust of history.

It's a group interview, three interviewers, five students. It's my first of this most dreaded form of interview. They ask me difficult questions like, "What, besides what you have in your application, brought you here today." I smile calmly, while rushing about in my head like a rat being chased around a bucket with a stick, looking for something interesting to say. I coolly mention, "My application is incredibly thorough." This makes my cohorts laugh for some reason, it wasn't a joke or sarcasm it was just the truth. Then I ask for some time attempt to pull an adult rabbit out of my tiny suit pocket. I find, to my astonishment, I don't have a rabbit in my pocket to produce with trumpets and dancing girls so I recap what my application has already said. They are testing my ability to handle stress. I'm starved, limp from a muscle relaxant and my abdomen still feels on fire; it wasn't slick.

We get lunch and it gets interesting. It starts over a sandwich, tuna or turkey. The slightly pudgy male student insists on my choosing first. I try to let him know it doesn't matter and he states, "I'm afraid you will beat me up if you want the one I choose; you could, you know." I look confused at him and the table spontaneously erupts into everyone talking at once.

"We don't have a chance."
"She's been everywhere in the world."
"She could beat me up."
"I was waiting for her watch alarm to sound, for her to nod at us, pull on a jet pack and crash out a window on some important mission."
"What hasn't she done?"
"If she didn't get into other schools its because she intimidates the interviewers, they felt ignorant and inexperienced!"
and the ultimate,
"she is really intimidating," and "she's incredibly intense." 

I look at the whole table my mouth hanging stupidly open not quite sure how to take what I'm hearing, do they feel they are complimenting me or insulting me. I haven't said anything to the people about my life but somehow the little I've said in the interview, and I REALLY toned it down to keep from being intimidating, and what the interviewers have said has spread like the E bola virus around the room.

I finally shut my mouth and took it with a smile but I realize what the trouble might have been in my other interviews. I don't mean to be intimidating and intense but obviously I can be without trying. I focus on the person talking, razor sharp, perhaps much like a cat looking at its next meal.

I'm confident in my abilities, my support group and my work ethic otherwise I wouldn't have bet my future on a 3% chance. I laugh and joke with the kids around me trying to get everyone to relax and enjoy themselves but taken with the other I now suspect I've come across as cocky. Cocky?!?!

And so I wonder if I had appeared less confident, worn a more feminine shirt, if I had trotted out my frightened side, if I appeared helpless maybe I would have more acceptances and less wait lists. Would it be different if I were male where it seems cocky confidence is encouraged? I don't know, I'll never know, but I wonder. Then again, I am always genuine in the interview and if they don't like it I shouldn't be there... so... Admittedly I've done well, considerably better than average, considerably better than I dared to even hope, ever. To my detriment I want perfection, my own perfection.

In Closing

While I sat in the Urgent Care room, its chilly pleather aqua blue and mauve chair squeaking beneath my restless twisting and turning, they told me it was the last time. I was given the script for antibiotics that would drain my credit card and destroy my guts. It's been two weeks I've been sick, maybe three, it's hard to remember now.

We'll culture your sample, we're shocked its never been cultured before, with your history.

I don't go to doctors.

Your sample was incredibly dilute.

I drank 96 oz of water since 7am to keep the pain down.

Infections can be resistant to all but the most exotic antibiotic.

Great

They listened to heart and lungs. Peered into ears, eyes, nose and tonsils. Tapped an aching back. The doc was excellent, thorough.

It's the last time. Another, in a month or less, you'll need to go to a Urologist.

I don't go to doctors.

You've likely already damaged your bladder and possibly kidneys.

My face in my hands I stare at blue smears on a composite tile floor, all a fluorescent white, burning my eyes...

...I'm cold.

(another sketch for a short story)