I am a predominantly right-handed person. Owing to various theories that left-handeds are more "creative", among other things, I have made some half-hearted attempts to be ambidextrous. As the short instances of truly horrible handwriting in my Social Studies textbook (boring, and therefore ideal for practice) can attest to, these attempts were largely met with failure.
On the morning of Friday, 23 April 2010, at 11:20 am as described on the incident report, I managed, through a combination of stupidity, carelessness and a V-Slicer, to lose a 5mm-thick chunk of my right thumb. The cleaness of the slice left no material to suture, and so the medical staff who attended to me were rather at a loss as to how to stem the profuse bleeding. A combination of applied pressure, elevation, and an ice pack slowed the blood loss, after which they wrapped the wound in absorbant padding and compressive bandages, a dressing which would hopefully last the long Anzac Day weekend until the medical centre would be open once more. I was released with a well-bandaged thumb, a sling to keep the wound elevated, and an injunction not to get the dressing wet under any circumstances.
The enormity of the situation was readily apparent to me. I had lost the use of my right thumb for an unspecified amount of time - the nature of the wound meant it would take some time to heal - and, by extension, any activities which required the use of a right hand and an opposable thumb. I couldn't write, I couldn't use a knife and a fork at once, getting money out of my wallet was going to be a challenge, cutting something with scissors was clumsy and dangerous. Furthermore, I would once again have to take a break from the lab until I had the use of my pipetting hand once again. It seemed that my PhD would, once again, see a delay.
Or would it?
Humans have an incredible ability to adapt to adversity. I had long held that disability was never an excuse for self-entitlement, there was always a way to survive without expecting too many allowances from others. This was the test.
I strode into the lab. With one hand I pulled on one sleeve, and grabbed the other end of it so it covered the front of my body, sling inclusive, leaving the right sleeve hanging free. I couldn't quite twist around to align the button at the back of the labcoat collar with its buttonhole, so a friend stepped in and did it up for me, and also knotted the ties around the waist. I got a box of gloves a size larger than what I was accustomed to using, and with a bit of twisting and pulling, managed to get it on.
"She's a one-armed scientist!" someone remarked in amusement.
It has begun.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Appreciation
You know what is the most rare and precious thing in the world? It's the smile from someone who hardly ever smiles. It's warm and happy and genuine, it's nothing like the polite upturn of the mouth used by everyone else for everything, and it's all the more beautiful because you might never see it again and you're left scrambling, wondering what you did that you might do again, just to see that smile one more time. It's something you want to hug away in your memory forever, because the feeling it inspires is like nothing on earth.
See, this is why the cold, antisocial types are so popular with the lady-folk. Being one of the lady-folk myself, I can sympathise.
I haven't mentioned it here previously, but for the past three weeks I've been sick - first with a terrible sore throat, and subsequently with a persistent cough which has not resolved as of yet. It is primarily the cough which has exiled me, from the lab where I do my research and thus, from all the friends close enough to meet in person. It has been a horrible experience.
I used to think I was antisocial, able to sustain myself on a minimal of human contact. But these weeks have shown otherwise. I need that social contact, not as a momentary pleasure but as a critical requirement for maintaining my mental equilibrium. I need to see people, talk to them, know that they miss me as much as I miss them. It's been a frightening, frightening revelation.
Those throwaway well-wishes, tacked onto the end of the few messages I received while trapped at home - "Hope you're feeling better" - they should not have been like a cooling drink after a long trek through a desert. I should not have been as thirsty as I was. There shouldn't have been a desert.
I am far more human that I thought I was, and it terrifies me.
See, this is why the cold, antisocial types are so popular with the lady-folk. Being one of the lady-folk myself, I can sympathise.
I haven't mentioned it here previously, but for the past three weeks I've been sick - first with a terrible sore throat, and subsequently with a persistent cough which has not resolved as of yet. It is primarily the cough which has exiled me, from the lab where I do my research and thus, from all the friends close enough to meet in person. It has been a horrible experience.
I used to think I was antisocial, able to sustain myself on a minimal of human contact. But these weeks have shown otherwise. I need that social contact, not as a momentary pleasure but as a critical requirement for maintaining my mental equilibrium. I need to see people, talk to them, know that they miss me as much as I miss them. It's been a frightening, frightening revelation.
Those throwaway well-wishes, tacked onto the end of the few messages I received while trapped at home - "Hope you're feeling better" - they should not have been like a cooling drink after a long trek through a desert. I should not have been as thirsty as I was. There shouldn't have been a desert.
I am far more human that I thought I was, and it terrifies me.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Monolith Action Figure
I'm just about 100% positive that this is an April Fool's joke. (The "Availability: Europa" was a bit of a giveaway.) But dammit, I want one!
The canned unicorn meat, on the other hand, is just gross.
I also like Goog- I mean, Topeka's new Translate for Animals application. I think it would be very useful. Finally, I can find out what it means when a cat says, "Meow".
Also, xkcd is awesome, but we always knew that.
TEXTp is rather nauseating - don't watch for too long!
Wikipedia is brilliant - it all sounds subtly wrong, somehow, but everything there is literally, factually correct!
All in all, I have to say April the First is one of my favourite times of the year. Sure, anyone with half a brain would be on the lookout for suspicious activity and most of the pranks are dead obvious, but it's fun and gives everyone a chance to show off their lighter side.
And the best part? The day isn't over yet.
(More shenanigans listed here!)
The canned unicorn meat, on the other hand, is just gross.
I also like Goog- I mean, Topeka's new Translate for Animals application. I think it would be very useful. Finally, I can find out what it means when a cat says, "Meow".
Also, xkcd is awesome, but we always knew that.
TEXTp is rather nauseating - don't watch for too long!
Wikipedia is brilliant - it all sounds subtly wrong, somehow, but everything there is literally, factually correct!
All in all, I have to say April the First is one of my favourite times of the year. Sure, anyone with half a brain would be on the lookout for suspicious activity and most of the pranks are dead obvious, but it's fun and gives everyone a chance to show off their lighter side.
And the best part? The day isn't over yet.
(More shenanigans listed here!)
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Teddy Bears
The heck is this thing? I'll give a dollar* to anyone who can explain it.
*Offer may not be sincere.
*Offer may not be sincere.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Talkative
I think I talk too much. No. I know I talk too much.
In the time I have for quiet reflection, I know this, quite forcefully. It's all I can do do remember past gaffes, with SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP in a constant loop dubbed over the dialogue. But in the real world, acting on real things? That knowledge has little effect. Must I rehearse everything I say, so as to edit it of stupidity?
It's like part of me is intelligent, but unfortunately has been placed in control of a brick. A stupid brick.
This was brought on by, uh...
I don't know what brought this on.
I'm going to go play Command & Conquer. INSTEAD OF WORKING!
In the time I have for quiet reflection, I know this, quite forcefully. It's all I can do do remember past gaffes, with SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP in a constant loop dubbed over the dialogue. But in the real world, acting on real things? That knowledge has little effect. Must I rehearse everything I say, so as to edit it of stupidity?
It's like part of me is intelligent, but unfortunately has been placed in control of a brick. A stupid brick.
This was brought on by, uh...
I don't know what brought this on.
I'm going to go play Command & Conquer. INSTEAD OF WORKING!
Monday, 15 March 2010
On Chronic Workaholism
Happy Pi Day, Ides of March, etc. I did actually bake a pumpkin pie - recipe and photographs pending my getting it right.
A couple of hours ago, my housemate stopped on the staircase and asked me if I ever do anything but work. It's a reasonable question. I haven't been attending the cake suppers, free dinners, Quidditch matches (let's just say Muggle Quidditch involves running around with a broom between one's legs trying to catch a guy dressed in yellow, and leave it at that), gardening activities, or indeed any other social event held for residents of late. I've stayed holed up in my room, leaving only for the occasional meal (as far as my housemates know, at any rate), working away on the computer.
Obviously I haven't been working as non-stop as my housemates think (there's a lot more one can do on a computer than work, especially if connected to the Internet - look at what I'm doing now). But they are right, in the sense that I've been withdrawing socially in order to focus on my work. And they are largely right, in that I've been working as continuously and for as long hours as I've been able.
Workaholism is a curious thing. In my case at least, it's not an attraction to the work. To my mind, once work becomes fun, it is no longer classified as work - at best you're getting paid to play. Work, by definition, is unnattractive, by virtue of its tediousness or necessity. I think what workaholism is, is the compelling need to achieve something, which can only be attained, or is perceived to be only attainable, by working.
For example, one might become a workaholic out of a desire to earn a lot of money for a specific goal, such as buying a new car. One may be forced into workaholism in order to complete a large project on deadline. One may wish to provide for one's family, and thus grind well past overtime into the night, every day of the week. There are lots of rewards through work, so while work remains disliked, there is a motivation to do it.
In my case, however, the motive is a curious one. I, of course, wish to get the work done, out of responsibility for my project and knowing that I only have a limited, limited time to complete everything. But that is only the reason to do work. The slide into workaholism comes because I know if I stop, such is my inherent laziness that I would not be able to start again, for hours or even days. Therefore I push hard, never daring to stop until my fingers ache from gripping the mouse and a dull pressure forms behind my eyes. It's an addiction - not to the work, but to not stopping.
Naturally, it is not the healthiest way to proceed, but the sole psychological alternative in my case appears to be leaving everything to the last minute, in which sheer panic fuels an acute form of workaholism. Personally I prefer the go-go-never-stop version of things. At least the stress level is constant, and a lot more gets done.
Make that a LOT more. The look on my co-supervisor's face when I presented a 27 x 70-cell data table summarising the analysis of 66 proteins, completed in a mere two weeks, was absolutely priceless. Also priceless: his astonished exclamation that he didn't think there were that many proteins.
Of course, my main supervisor didn't so much as blink. Curse him and his poker face.
A couple of hours ago, my housemate stopped on the staircase and asked me if I ever do anything but work. It's a reasonable question. I haven't been attending the cake suppers, free dinners, Quidditch matches (let's just say Muggle Quidditch involves running around with a broom between one's legs trying to catch a guy dressed in yellow, and leave it at that), gardening activities, or indeed any other social event held for residents of late. I've stayed holed up in my room, leaving only for the occasional meal (as far as my housemates know, at any rate), working away on the computer.
Obviously I haven't been working as non-stop as my housemates think (there's a lot more one can do on a computer than work, especially if connected to the Internet - look at what I'm doing now). But they are right, in the sense that I've been withdrawing socially in order to focus on my work. And they are largely right, in that I've been working as continuously and for as long hours as I've been able.
Workaholism is a curious thing. In my case at least, it's not an attraction to the work. To my mind, once work becomes fun, it is no longer classified as work - at best you're getting paid to play. Work, by definition, is unnattractive, by virtue of its tediousness or necessity. I think what workaholism is, is the compelling need to achieve something, which can only be attained, or is perceived to be only attainable, by working.
For example, one might become a workaholic out of a desire to earn a lot of money for a specific goal, such as buying a new car. One may be forced into workaholism in order to complete a large project on deadline. One may wish to provide for one's family, and thus grind well past overtime into the night, every day of the week. There are lots of rewards through work, so while work remains disliked, there is a motivation to do it.
In my case, however, the motive is a curious one. I, of course, wish to get the work done, out of responsibility for my project and knowing that I only have a limited, limited time to complete everything. But that is only the reason to do work. The slide into workaholism comes because I know if I stop, such is my inherent laziness that I would not be able to start again, for hours or even days. Therefore I push hard, never daring to stop until my fingers ache from gripping the mouse and a dull pressure forms behind my eyes. It's an addiction - not to the work, but to not stopping.
Naturally, it is not the healthiest way to proceed, but the sole psychological alternative in my case appears to be leaving everything to the last minute, in which sheer panic fuels an acute form of workaholism. Personally I prefer the go-go-never-stop version of things. At least the stress level is constant, and a lot more gets done.
Make that a LOT more. The look on my co-supervisor's face when I presented a 27 x 70-cell data table summarising the analysis of 66 proteins, completed in a mere two weeks, was absolutely priceless. Also priceless: his astonished exclamation that he didn't think there were that many proteins.
Of course, my main supervisor didn't so much as blink. Curse him and his poker face.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Hailing Taxis
"What's worse than raining cats and dogs?"
In a complete reversal of last year's weather, it's been raining over here. Profusely, in fact. A mere two days ago, we had an attack of hailstones, some as big as a golfball. The beautiful arching roof of the Southern Cross Station is in need of repairs as a result of the aforementioned.
I cannot say I regret it. Storms have something wild and attractive about them, even when it's cold and windy and there's no umbrella. The heat gives one no option but to shrivel up against oneself, drained of vitality, desperate for any sort of cooling relief. Rain gives one strength, pushing one to wrap up warmer and waterproof. Given blistering hot sun and a heavy monsoon storm, I know what I would prefer.
Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for the property damage which has occurred. Melbourne is built to deal with dry weather - heavy rain is almost unheard of. But such a sudden change in weather patterns in itself is a cause for concern.
We with our recycling bins and our Bokashi buckets and our forced vegetarian diets and our carbon offsets and our concern, think we're doing something. But it's minor - so pitifully minor. The real changes needed are things people are too frightened to do.
Meanwhile the rain pours every day.
In a complete reversal of last year's weather, it's been raining over here. Profusely, in fact. A mere two days ago, we had an attack of hailstones, some as big as a golfball. The beautiful arching roof of the Southern Cross Station is in need of repairs as a result of the aforementioned.
I cannot say I regret it. Storms have something wild and attractive about them, even when it's cold and windy and there's no umbrella. The heat gives one no option but to shrivel up against oneself, drained of vitality, desperate for any sort of cooling relief. Rain gives one strength, pushing one to wrap up warmer and waterproof. Given blistering hot sun and a heavy monsoon storm, I know what I would prefer.
Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for the property damage which has occurred. Melbourne is built to deal with dry weather - heavy rain is almost unheard of. But such a sudden change in weather patterns in itself is a cause for concern.
We with our recycling bins and our Bokashi buckets and our forced vegetarian diets and our carbon offsets and our concern, think we're doing something. But it's minor - so pitifully minor. The real changes needed are things people are too frightened to do.
Meanwhile the rain pours every day.
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