Barely promoted

Tooooooo cool!

Okay, so maybe prions aren't actually alive, per se, and maybe it's scary as hell that one could be created and gee, it better not get let out of the lab, eh?. But, wow.

Scientists are reporting that, for the first time, they have made an artificial prion, or misfolded protein, that can, by itself, produce a deadly infectious disease in mice and may help explain the roots of mad cow disease.

The findings, being reported on Friday in the journal Science, are strong evidence for the so-called "protein only hypothesis," the controversial idea that a protein, acting alone without the help of DNA or RNA, can cause certain kinds of infectious diseases.

Also, we get a stronger body slam from a doubter than usually makes it into print:

Dr. Laura Maneulidis, a neuropathologist at the Yale University Medical School, one of Dr. Prusiner's most vocal critics, said the prion strain that turned up in the experiment looks like a mouse prion frequently used in Dr. Prusiner's laboratory.

"Basically I think the data look like contamination," she said, possibly stemming from "inadequately washed instruments."

Ow!

How long, and why, exactly?

The ever-amazing Julie not only is tracking all us barren bloggers, but has started an amazing discussion on age and infertility and whether we blame ourselves, and, if so, for what. An awful lot of folks who mostly read and/or comment grabbed a chance to write about themselves. So many stories! From women who waited and it was okay, or maybe it wasn't. Who didn't wait, but ran into trouble anyway. Here's mine, from that point of view:

Beaker and I met at 22/24 (he told me he was sterile on our third date) and married at 24/26. For our social group that was young, very young. I wasn't looking for Mr. Right, but he showed up, and he was sick enough that, well, there wasn't any reason not to just get married. Neither of us could have imagined having children then, and ICSI (the only way for us to have Beaker's genetic children) was extremely new. We knew it was out there, and that knowledge was enough. Plus we were graduate students on stipends; we didn't have the money, or the time, to start trying.

Since then? Yes, career has mattered tremendously. I'm very lucky to be able to do what I do, but the competition is fierce and the ladder poorly timed for women. I did stay aware, all along, of what age I'd be when I went up for tenure. Despite the eight years in grad school, going straight to a tenure-track job got me (sort of) back on schedule.

Then some of my more together friends, who'd gotten married way after we did, found themselves with wonderful jobs and houses and the whole deal right after they turned 30. They're smart forward-thinking women. They knew the risks, so they up and bred. And I looked at my CV and my employer and Beaker's health and decided not to wait until tenure to start trying what we knew would be would be a difficult journey.

Our two IVF/ICSI cycles were when I was 32 1/2 and 33. My response to stims wasn't great. The third, if there is one, will be when I'm 34 1/2. (We took a year off while my tenure case was going through, and switching clinics is adding a few months.) Any donor sperm adventures will follow that. I'm about to get day 3 bloodwork done for the first time and I am so scared.

Do I blame myself? No. Ten years ago, ICSI was scarcely available and we couldn't afford it. Five years ago, we were utterly swamped by job searches and moving and starting over. Two years ago, we started trying (and I was way too smug about being in my early thirties; that was pure ignorance). I think having children is one of those things that's so big that there's never going to be a good time for it. But some times are worse than others, and we just weren't ready before.

In academia, it's clear that a fair fraction of couples are actually able to time pregnancies. There are a lot more babies born June through September, and in the first two years after tenure, than there should be. It's also clear that many people have had trouble, and often from the delays. In my small institution there are people who have adopted from several different countries, who have adopted foster children. There are too many twins. And whenever I've discussed treatment with other women in ergonomics (hey, you try giving a conference talk on major Follistim!), the sympathy has been overwhelming. If they haven't been there themselves, they know a lot of people in the field who have.

Noted: my entry on Elizabeth Edwards has gotten more Google hits than anything else topical I've written, all on some variation of "elizabeth edwards" and "ivf" or "donor eggs" or "fertility treatments" or "late pregnancy." People are sincerely curious about what happened (and, I'm sure, disappointed to find only my useless speculation).

If I were our old Swedish car

(Although I've noted the parallels before, I'm nervous I'll jinx myself here: some of my predictions have come true, after all.)

So, we go up to the fancy specialist doctors. "Ma'am? We're sorry, but you're never going to have a child. You're just too old, and it's not possible."

"But, but, you're the best doctors for miles around."

"The problem is the new regulations, see. We're not allowed to help women who were born before 1980 get pregnant. You don't even have the right body parts for the new standards."

"What about adoption?"

"Weeee-eell, we can probably get you a two-year exemption to cover that possibility. But the state is gonna want a receipt demonstrating that you've had at least $12,000 worth of work on your reproductive organs."

"Do we really need to do that? I mean, you can't get me pregnant, you said."

"All true, and, lady, I think thse are dumb rules too. But we can't just give you a receipt. There was a big expose article just a few weeks ago, and this practice can't afford to get into trouble. Are there any repairs you've been putting off?"

"How about some liposuction? Or taking off the bumps on my head?"

"Nope, it's gotta be your reproductive system. We're an honest practice here."

"Maybe an investigative laparoscopy— plus a breast lift, just for kicks?"

"Sounds good. I know these rules are a big pain, ma'am, and thank you for working with us."

I call up Beaker on my cell phone, right from the office. He is mightily angry. I put the doctor on the phone with him; by the end of the call, they're both laughing and have agreed on the lap and the lift—heck, why not an enlargement, too? They can operate right away.

Several hours later, I wake up. Everything seems fine; if anything, I feel a bit more energetic. I make sure to get the receipt, which, oddly, seems to be for $23,000 dollars. But that's more than $12,000, so I guess it's okay.

"Is there any point to our continuing to try on our own?"

"Why not? Maybe we've cleared something out. Keep taking your vitamins. But, I hafta say, it's probably not gonna work."

As soon as I get home, Beaker admires the profile changes, but notices that they've taken both my ears off and replaced them, backwards. Plus my left eye is blinking rapidly, all the time. After he performs a bit of emergency surgery to clean up those little issues, we carefully file the precious receipt and start in on the paperwork.

ADDENDUM (to be filed under, you just never know for sure, god damn it): As I was typing, I got a phone call from A, who is deliriously miraculously pregnant—without further treatment. Through most of her first trimester, too. She wanted to be sure I heard it straight from her. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving couple, I have to say.

A revealing invitation

Recently I added an invisible Statcounter to my work homepage. The day I did so, I noticed oddly substantial traffic from several nearby schools, particularly Southwest Christian University— a small comprehensive, one with big education, business, and nursing programs and about 6000 students (mostly local, mostly pretty religious).

Then my phone rang. It was Professor Rattlebrained, whom I've met a few times. (The most extensive contact was when we were in the same car for a several-hour drive to a conference. He began with, "You teach at Granolan? Why, Southwest Christian, where I teach, is so similar!" and things went downhill from there. By the end of the drive I wanted to garrotte each and every one of his pet llamas, about whose pedigrees and habits I'd learned more than I'd ever known about, say, those of my college roommates.)

"I'm on the organizing committee for Ohindinois Ergo Day next fall, and we were wondering if you'd like to give a talk at the meeting. Hour-long. It's being held at Southwest Christian."

"Oh, thank you! I'm so surprised! And I have no idea what I'd talk about."

"The entire committee is very impressed by your accomplishments." (A-ha! Those extra hits.) "And we'd be so happy to have a woman speaking."

"Well, perhaps I could survey some recent work; there are exciting new theoretical analyses of the commercial dilution of Pilates. But I'll have to check my schedule for November."

"That sounds perfect. I'm sure you'll give a very interesting talk. Is there any chance you could let me know this week? I'm sorry the invitation is so late. I've been put in a bad position, well, the whole committee has, and I'm about to leave on vacation myself."

"I'll write you later today."

"Oh good. I hope you'll be able to accept. I do look forward to meeting you."

So: let's tally up here. Professor Rattlebrained is not, shall we say, socially adept. But still: managing to communicate during a single brief phone call that I (a) am a fill-in for a late cancellation (b) have been chosen for my gender (c) am so forgettable that, well, he's forgotten meeting me. Wow.

But, I'll take the invited talk line for my CV, thanks.

Another opportunity for hypochondria

So I had another unpleasant night, much like this one. Except I started feeling hot, face and arms glowing, before I went to bed—but I was actually cold inside, to the point of shivering. Some digestive difficulty, too, before I went to bed. Had immense trouble falling asleep, due to reproductive aging worry.

Vivid unpleasant dreams, woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pain, face and arms still hot, but wasn't sweaty until I woke up for real. Temperature upon waking: 98.5. (I've never charted, so I don't know how this fits in—when I take my temperature later in the day, it's always 97 point something low). My face was still glowing in the morning, too, and for that matter, it is now.

So: is this food poisoning? The secret common element is the salmon I had for dinner on my bad night last month, parallel to the raw tuna on Saturday and mussels on Sunday this time... perhaps somewhat undercooked mussels. And we don't get a lot of seafood around here, overall.

Or is it something worse? Last time was mid-follicular; this time's mid-luteal. And I didn't get hot flashes on Lupron. But, does any of that matter?

I want to get yelled at by Tam's nurse:

Here is a direct quote from the nurse at my OB's office in regards to my LP..... "A lot of times when a couple is suffering from male infertility the woman tries to invent things that are wrong with her because she thinks that it will decrease the guilt her husband is feeling and also she thinks that if something is wrong with her too she can take away some of the blame.....Tammy, you're fine!!!!" as she looks deep onto my eyes and recites the last sentence very slowly.

Except I don't think Beaker feels especially guilty, so it's not that I'm trying to take the pressure off him. It's that I'm so afraid that nothing might ever ever work.

Test entry

I've been trying to install a Flash widget giving an updated tally of the electoral college count in one of the lists on the side, and it's not working there.

Will it work here in an entry? It seems to:

If anyone has suggestions for getting it to display on a TypeList, please share!

Weatherwood update

Nanna's birthday was last week. Annajane got a daypass to come visit. It sounded like it went very well. They both told everyone it was her 90th, even though it's actually her 89th.

On Friday, Annajane was released from the hospital and sent back to Daisyfield, the adult home she lived in for about a week in June.

I hadn't called anyone out there in a while. Like, for over two weeks (the updates on Annajane came from her social worker, who called me). This morning Ricky left a message: Nanna's doing badly, all her doctors are on vacation, and she may admitted to the hospital tomorrow.

I called back, got Marina. Nanna's been having chest pains, and her back pain has gotten much worse. She can't get herself into or out of bed, or onto or off of the toilet. Her cardiologist will be back in town tomorrow. She doesn't want to go to the hospital, but it's likely that that's what will end up happening.

Marina's daughters are visiting from Trinidad this month. She and Ricky have actually rented another apartment nearby for her daughers to stay in. Marina's been sleeping over there, but coming to make breakfast and dinner for Nanna every day. Last night when Nanna's chest pains got bad, Ricky called for Marina to come over.

I asked to speak to Nanna (times like this are why I staged a showdown over putting in the damn cordless phones). She sounded tired. Annoyed that I hadn't called on her birthday.

It feels deeply unfair to have both her heart and her bones give out a little more right now, so soon after we got her to the doctors. Especially the chest pains: she got quite a thorough cardiac workup, and they found nothing beyond the known atrial fibrillation issues. With that stroke is the main worry, not further heart problems.

I still don't want to live in California, but I will...

... for four months next spring, at least. And in (academic) style: we have, with the help of competent administrators and simple good luck, found a devastatingly pleasant sabbatical sublet up in the hills. The rent will eat my entire stipend, I'll have to take a bus to work and eat homemade lentil soup for lunch... but oh, the view.

I've just reread Changing Places (it seemed like it was time). Let me quote David Lodge (or, more precisely, one of his bitterer characters) on the view:

You've got to have a view if you live in Plotinus. That's the first thing people ask when you buy a house. Has it got a view? The same view, of course. There's only one view. Every time you go out to dinner or to a party, it's a different house, different drapes on the windows, but the same fucking view. I could scream sometimes.

But, for four months, to be followed by six years back in the flatlands? I'll take the view.

A toe back in the cold cold water

Today I sent off the records of our two past cycles to Cornell. I hate even handling the pieces of paper—they're documents of failure. So, it feels like a bit of an accomplishment to have found the folder, fed the contents through the copier, checked that each sheet made it through, and stuffed it all in an envelope.

I have not absolutely decided whether to go there for day 3 bloodwork (of which I am more-than-rationally terrified), or to just ask my old clinic to stab me again. The latter seems awkward in so many ways: I am, after all, choosing not to go to them for treatment at this point. So, am I betraying them? criticizing them? not giving them gobs of money? displaying my stupidity in not following their advice not to cycle agan?

Like the phlebotomist would care. But the receptionist and the nurses might.

On the other hand, it's awkward to schedule travel when, well, the crucial date can't be known in advance. And a plane ticket might be as much as, like, one day's worth of Follistim. We'll see.

I still don't want to live in California, scene 2

A party celebrating the merger of two hapless, helpless startups. No one outside the companies can tell what either of them does; each employee asked gives a different description, although the words "convergence," "glue," "architecture," "off-the-shelf," and "provisioning" recur.

By (thank God, not in) the hot tub: the wild-haired president of Startup A discusses the glory days of The Zetetic with a programmer from Startup B.

By the hors-d'ouevres: the tan, buxom spokeswoman for Startup B complains about having put on "full make-up!" for a "really boring!" political fundraiser (thank God, Democratic) the night before.

By the fish pond: a couple of vice-presidents from Startup A wonder why there's an electric fence around the pond. A two-year-old points and says, "Fish! Fish! FISH!" A VP runs to make sure the fence is off.

On the deck: the wife of the CEO of Startup B (she's a former investment banker^* now on a full-time spiritual journey, mostly through the Himalayas) is goaded by the friend who brought me into reading my "numbers," about which she seems to care quite sincerely. I haven't had my one glass of wine and am unable to control my intellectual horror enough to respond coherently, let alone politely, so I just nod as she spiels. She gets to a "4" in my reading: that means I'm someone who cares for other people, maybe a parent or a sibling, that I'm always the one who's there when people who are sick or in trouble. I'm honestly struck dumb.

In the house: thick white carpets, high-end harvest gold appliances, bad art.

On the buffet table: good chicken, salad, and grilled vegetables, enough for 40 people, at least. Lovely little potatoes, but in purely ornamental quantities. The vinaigrette is, oddly, as thick as mayonnaise. I dig as many mushrooms out of the gravy boat as I can.

Under the gazebo: the spokewoman is delighted to hear I'll be in California next spring. Her two recommendations for finding housing are made with equal fervor: Craig's List, and the avoidance of making final arrangements while Mercury is retrograde.

On the tray carried by the CEO of Startup B: decaf and miniature desserts. (I recommend the pineapple tartlets.)

Back by the fishpond: the two-year old returns with a flashlight. "Fish!" A worldy nine-year-old talks non-stop, as if to herself, noting that the fish are scared by the flashlights, that the turtle never comes out at night, that the snail's eggs are really disgusting. The carp mostly hide. A snail falls into the water.

^*Yes, I do realize that a childless woman in her late 30's who's recently quit a high-pressure job might, well...