There is a strange about standing over the pH meter, watching the numbers rise — click, click, they sound. Or so I imagine. One drop too much of NaOH and there goes the beautiful click, click; it is a swoosh, an adrenaline rush.
Time to add HCl. Bring those numbers back down. But one too many drops — even half a drop — and there goes the delicate balance between hydrogen ions and hydroxide ions
There is precision to the work that I do for my independent study course. I am to spend whatever time I wish to in lab, to do my project at my own leisure. Sure, there are ‘deadlines’ I need to meet — have you purified yet? Did you run SEC? How about that protein gel? Do you have enough pellets in the -80C freezer ready to go on any given notice?
Yes. Yes. Yes. I think. No. I actually don’t have my act together. Or I didn’t. Because for the past 10 days or so, since the quarter started, I told myself that I need to focus on me, that I need to start reaching back to the old me — the one that loved to run and workout to stay sane, the girl that found joy in burying herself in her studies.
But that hasn’t worked. Back at the bench since my last class ended, following a day since my 7AM 4-hour emergency room shift, I find myself sitting at my lab desk, staying late into the night, doing one too many tasks. Run the agarose gel to see just exactly why your mutagenesis isn’t working. Incubate the EDTA with your resin in the cold room for 10 minutes before you elute. Collect your fractions from the SEC run and store them so you can run a gel on them later.
There is a list of tasks running through my head. It has been 15 hours since I was last sleeping. I tried to avoid coffee all day but half a cup down and I am going strong.
Fueled not by fear, but by passion. Back at the lab bench, it brings me back to the days when I had a seat on the bench. In the third base dugout, where despite convention of the home team getting the first base dugout, our team was, sun behind us and not in our eyes. Being back at the bench is just like being on the bench, up against the fence, cheering on the team. It is just like grabbing my battered Mizuno glove off the yellow bench, running out as I slip my sunglasses over my eyes, and looking back at the field to gather the sign and position myself, predicting where the ball will go. Because isn’t that what I am doing now? Making predictions and then running an experiment to see if what I think is reality? Because isn’t positioning yourself just slightly on the third base foul line indicating that an inside pitch is being called by the catcher and that the righty at bat will pull it down the line?
At the end of the day, I can tell myself I need this time for this and this time for that. But really, it doesn’t matter what my ”excuses” are, because this is where I feel at home. There is a feeling of serenity and calm that overcomes me as I methodically go through each step. I have my protocol memorized down to how many grams of each chemical I need. Step by step, walking a fine line.
Just like I knew the hitting signals and the fielding cues, I know my protocol. I know that an outside pitch requires me to go with it and poke it just over the first basemen’s head so I can beat the right fielder’s throw to the bag. Just like that. It is a science. Softball and research. Where I am me.