Vital Signs

There are some serious benefits to chronic illnesses -- not the least of which is the biannual ritual commonly known as Verification of Life (VoL). This medical procedure bears striking resemblances to an autopsy, but with the opposite objective. In regards to VoL, I am twice-blessed: not only do I have the privilege of regularly undergoing the rite, I get spectators. (This is a value-added option that comes with obtaining medical care at an institution for higher learning.) For those of you unfamiliar with the process, I shall recount for you in vivid detail my experience earlier this week.

Scene 1: After stepping gracefully onto the scale nostalgically patterned after medieval instruments historically used to ascertain the relative value of dead game, I am escorted into a plush exam room. Sitting peacefully in a vinyl covered chair, I admire the impressionistic painting of a golf course. Although lacking in artistic merit, this painting inspires greater ease of mind than the portrait of a snarling tiger hanging prominently in one of the other exam rooms. (I am not making this up.) Grateful to be in the golf course room, I extend my arm cooperatively while the friendly assistant takes my blood pressure. You may have noticed that at this point, we have two pieces of evidence intimating life: 1) adequate mass to suggest that corporeal decay has not yet set in, and 2) pulse and blood pressure readings that fit within scientifically-established parameters for likely mortality. You might also consider the fact that I have responded coherently to a litany of questions posed by the friendly assistant. Such behavior could imply cognitive function, but this is, admittedly, merely circumstantial evidence.

Although insufficient for full verification of life, these measures are adequate grounds for declaring a hypothesis: patient could be alive. Validating this hypothesis, of course, requires confirming evidence and the scrutiny of seasoned medical professionals.

Scene II: Enter the highly-respected physician, Dr. G, and his followers. Dr. G exudes competence: nearing retirement age, this fine gentleman is scrupulously thorough and keenly knowledgeable. Not to be distracted from his mission, the good doctor briefly introduces his followers,

"This is Magnolia Jones, blossoming medical student, and Dr. Happy Resident, the future of this esteemed profession."

The two spectators smile and nod as though to say, "We found your medical history highly fascinating. In fact, we shall draw on it extensively in our upcoming assignments." A researcher-in-training myself, I attempt to find satisfaction in my unselfish contribution to the rigorous education of medical practitioners.

Now that we can dispense of formalities, Dr. G begins his extensive series of scientific tests. I am greatly relieved when I manage to track the subtle movement of his fingers with my eyes. (This simple task becomes more complicated with spectators as the pressure to perform is almost overwhelming.) The doctor looks at my hands and counts my fingers -- all ten are present and accounted for. With these tasks successfully accomplished, we move on to more complicated procedures. I am asked to swallow a sip of water to highlight the gentle curvature of my thyroid. I open my mouth and say "ah" with just the right pitch and resonance, although we all wish I had brushed my teeth before presenting myself. I can tell Dr. G is building a solid case for life, but it is still a bit too early to rush to any bold conclusions.

With anticipation mounting, Dr. G confirms my beating heart and functioning lungs. Next, he verifies the presence of all the vital organs: liver, stomach, and carburetor all appear operational. But one final test remains. Dr. G. pauses and turns to the spectators,

"Ideally, you ought to have clear view of the muscle contracting," he advises, his tone emphasizing the gravitas of the situation.

"Now just try to relax," he says to me.

The next thing I know, I feel the tap of the mallet on my knee as my leg flails wildly in the direction of the doctor. The spectators attempt to suppress their amusement.

I sit up and ask the burning question that is hovering ominously.

"Am I alive?"

The spectators and I wait with baited breath. Finally, the doctor nods reassuringly.

"Oh, yes," he announces, "Alive and kicking."

And with that momentous declaration, my biannual Verification of Life ritual comes to a close. A very happy ending indeed.

A Tribute to the Village

Original image: 'Children of Mareerey' http://www.flickr.com/photos/7415626@N04/1267694021 by: LM TP

Hillary Clinton reminded us that it takes a village to raise a child. Turns out, it also takes a village to write a dissertation. Along with showering me with all manner of chocolate options, good health, a computer that works, and a sunny place to work, God has blessed me with a mighty fine village. In fact, I'm surrounded on all sides by people cheering me on. There's a mandatory part of the dissertation-writing process that requires some serious grumbling and gnashing of teeth -- but really, it's not as bad as all that. Not when your writing group provides a steady stream of feedback and encouragement and significantly demystifies the whole process. Not when you have friends who are on the other side of the PhD mountain who really get it. Not when you have family and friends who actually think you are up to the task (whether or not your are) and believe your project will change the world (whether or not it really will). Not when you have an adviser who gives you total freedom and all manner of timely support. Not when all of these people have endless capacity for compassionate listening. Not when the Lord is clearly paving the way.

Blessings to the villagers, each and every one.


(Disclaimer: I fear this will only be a temporary cessation of grumbling, but let us cherish the moment nonetheless.)

Deserted Island or How to Goose a Plunger

For the record, today was one of those days when I did not utter one word to another human being (except for a 5 minute phone conversation). And I never left my apartment except to go to the laundry room downstairs and the mailbox just outside. Furthermore, I had hot & sour cabbage soup with tofu for lunch. For dinner I opened four cans: beets, green beans, corn, and pears. Solitary confinement? Heaven? A day-in-the-life of a PhD student? You be the judge. Rest assured, however -- I did think plenty of deep thoughts.

While I can happily tolerate a smattering of these deserted island days, I don't particularly like a slew of them. After a while, my deep thoughts tend to border on pathological. I start to subsist on junk food. And I'm prone to spending WAY too much time online just to feel connected to the outside world.

Today's solitude was easily outdone, however, by my holiday weekend in Ohio where I enjoyed a non-stop party with my amazing aunt and a bunch of cousins. Mike and Melanie (never mind that she is on the verge of having baby #3) made the trek from D.C. with their two adorable boys. The local Taylors also joined the fun. One thing about this side of the family: they are exceptionally good at eating and talking, only occasionally coming up for air when absolutely necessary. It was a glorious respite from dissertating.

My stay was extended a day by some minor car troubles. (If you consider a completely dead battery minor trouble.) My aunt, the retired German professor, who is a renaissance woman, single-handedly recharged my battery. Instead of acting grateful for the rejuvenation, however, my little Subaru started flashing the parking lights and making an obnoxious clicking sound. And it refused to stop. An auto parts store suggested that we "disconnect the positive" for a few minutes to see if the car would reset itself. "It's really simple," they reassured us. (What? Were we not the perfect picture of auto mechanical prowess?!)

Once home, we performed this delicate operation.

Step 1: open hood
Step 2: identify battery
Step 3: wonder which part is the positive thing to be disconnected
Step 4: envision ourselves as the nuns in the Sound of Music who tampered with the soldiers' cars the night the von Trapp family escaped Austria; feel tempted to burst into song
Step 5: refrain from bursting into song for fear of blowing ourselves up
Step 6: professor aunt remembers that red means positive
Step 7: survey tool options; reject hammer, choose various wrench-like objects
Step 8: unscrew a dinglehopper, remove something else, wait ten minutes
Step 9: screw purported positive thing back onto battery with my bare hands
Step 10: car won't start
Step 11: tighten screw with wrench-like tool
Step 12: car starts!
Step 13: clicking noise resumes along with flashing lights
Step 14: completion of said delicate operation is tainted by the sting of defeat

When my cousin Hank came over, he informed us that we had, in actuality, not disconnected the battery at all. Whatever. In any case, my cousin the Superhero, performed a series of diagnostic tests and determined that the problem was connected with "remote sensors." We eventually found a Subaru repair guy who was actually working the Saturday after Thanksgiving. This helpful chap revealed the secret to calming my out of control remote sensors. "Just goose the plunger right next to the brown wire," he said. (The brown wire happened to be located in some obscure location under the dash.) Hank heroically found the switch which did indeed stop the frenetic clicking and flashing of lights. In the process, he also magically fixed the door of my hatchback that I hadn't been able to open for weeks.

Hank subscribes to the "you can toss a man a fish, but it's better to teach him to catch one himself" philosophy. Suspecting that I could find myself in a similar situation at some future point, Hank grabbed my finger and showed me the mysterious plunger switch. "Now goose it!" he commanded. Goose it? Huh? I tried to imagine what a goose would do with the silly switch. My dumbfounded look must have resembled that of a person who is prone to unsuspectingly leaving car lights on for prolonged periods. "Just push the button - HARD!" he barked. And goose it, I did!

Should my doctoral aspirations fall apart, I'm pretty sure I'm now qualified for a level one auto mechanic's license. A very comforting thought indeed.