Microtomes and Madness

Well, I'm into my second week of my new life as a biologist. So far I have dissected a couple of pigeon eyes, embedded them in paraffin and attempted to section them on a microtome. The first two parts of the process I think I have under control, but the microtome is doing my head in. Who would have thought handling a 10μm thin slice of wax could be so difficult? Just looking at the damn thing makes it either curl up and collapse or crumble into a thousand pieces. I guess I shouldn't beat myself up too much, I am new to this gig, but I get so frustrated with myself when I am faced with my own ineptitude. I expect to be good at something instantly and when I'm not I go through the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief:
Denial (there must be something wrong with the machine),
Anger (you idiot! Get it right!),
Bargaining (OK, if you get this right you can have cake for afternoon tea)
Depression (I am so useless, I can't do anything!)
Acceptance (I'm not infallible, I need help)
Eventually I got one of my supervisors to have a go and she couldn't get it to work either, it was a bad prep – so not my fault.
Otherwise I have been pre-occupied with the Uni's Body Donation Program, i.e. compiling paperwork and forms for people who wish to leave their bodies to science. A weird concept, ultimately valuable, but weird. I wonder if I'm the right person for the job. I certainly wouldn't donate my body, or that of my child, for a bunch of med students to chop up; but then I wouldn't hesitate to donate organs. I understand the importance of such donations – med students and surgical trainees need to learn – but it just doesn't sit right with me. I can't understand or explain it - it is illogical. A dead body is just a hunk of flesh isn't it? But if my beautiful little girl died there is no way on Earth I would allow a bunch of spotty, over privileged, pretentious twerps to slice her up. This is one of those instances where my ethics and my ideals are totally over-ridden by my heart. Perhaps even in death the parental protective instinct is just too strong.
But, apart from ethical dilemmas, work itself goes well. I am happy.

This morning I had to drive the girl to school; the husband (who usually takes her) had an early meeting. I didn't arrive on campus until 9:10am – all of the parking near my building was taken. I drove from car park to car park for over 20 minutes before I found a spot. The car park I found was staff parking, but it also had a large sign saying "changed parking conditions". I pondered on the meaning of this cryptic sign. Was the "changed conditions" the mud that has resulted from that day's downpour? Or was it something less obvious? I figured if I got a parking ticket I could contest it on the grounds of their vagueness. I parked, stepped out of the car into the rain and trudged off in what I thought was the direction of my building. I walked for about 15 minutes before I ended up back at the same car park. At the moment I realised where I was I also realised, or perhaps allowed myself to admit, that Blandberra IS in the Twilight Zone. You try to go in a straight line, but end up going in circles. Nothing makes sense. At 9:50am I made it into my lab, soaking wet, frustrated and confused as to why my umbrella was no longer in my car and convinced that the city I live in does not conform to the laws of physics. A Dark City indeed.
The husband and I experienced similar dis-orientation whilst in Italy last year on our honeymoon. After a few days in fabulous Venice we became convinced that during the night all of the buildings shuffled themselves around. No matter how carefully we plotted our course, what landmarks we noted (turn left at the beggar with the funny hat) we were never able to retrace our steps to find that cute shop/bar/pizza place we had spotted the previous day. That, of course, is the only time ANYONE will ever compare the mysterious and stunningly beautiful city of Venice to the life-sucking, vacuous city of Blandberra.
So I sit here, glass of wine at my side, typing my little self-indulgent blog, while the husband cleans the kitchen, and I think that being a working mother isn't that bad when you have the support of your husband and your job doesn't suck.
I may have, at the risk of typing too soon, the best of both worlds.