Funding 101

Once again, it's the time of year when scientists around the country scramble to assemble their half-baked ideas into a coherent document, to which we refer as a grant application, that explains why their ideas are important, how they intend to pursue them, what they think it will cost, and what the outcome will mean for millions of people worldwide. In reality, this time of year occurs three times per year and it not only becomes the focus of the individual's every waking thought, but it also can turn said individual into a sleep-deprived, irrational zombie with a wild-yet defeated- look in the eyes. While this process is repeated ad nauseum for most scientists, it is incomprehensible to the lay person. And rightly so. When one ventures into the realm of academia, one must suspend disbelief as he/she enters into bizarro-land. But let me try to describe it to you and get you all schooled up in the wacky ways of American academic science.

First off, not all research institutions (universities, medical schools, hospitals, etc.) require that an individual supply 100% of his/her salary. It just so happens that my particular institution does. This is called soft money. If they offered me any unconditional love, it would be referred to as hard money. But nada. So I am left to sing for my supper and apply to federal institutions or private foundations in order to keep the lights on. Most of our money for salary and research expenses comes from the NIH. This is the National Institutes of Health which is part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. The NIH is made up of 27 institutes and centers, the mission of which is to pursue “fundamental knowledge about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that knowledge to extend healthy life and reduce the burdens of illness and disability”. Pretty noble, eh? Their other less widely-known mission is to “ensure that all who apply are reduced to quivering puddles of self-doubt lest they think their umpteen years of education and training qualify them to do anything of importance other than ticket taking at Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”. Within the NIH, the particular agency to which I apply for a good kick in the teeth is the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA). Their mission is to lead the nation “in addressing the most fundamental and essential questions about drug abuse –from detecting and responding to emerging drug abuse trends and understanding how drugs work in the brain and body to developing and testing new treatment and prevention approaches”. So there.

Now I’m not necessarily being fair, because in all honesty, NIDA has been pretty supportive of all my training to date. My jaded attitude comes more from the process of submission itself because of how protracted-even excruciating- it can be. Also I’m tired of being considered a peon. The process though, is what really beats a person down. Say a grant application is due October 1st. One would probably start thinking about it in a casual manner by the end of the summer, but it’s not until about two weeks prior to the due date when the principal investigator is transformed into a frantic whirring dervish. The application gets put together hastily, it’s submitted, and the waiting begins…Then in March it is peer-reviewed. At this point the grant receives a score between 100 and 500, with 100 being the most meritorious. Then the waiting continues…Please do not think that just because a grant receives a good-or even a great-score it will get funded. You would be quite silly to think that. But the grants that are scored favorably (a score less than 200 but in this day and age more like between 100 and 150 depending on the particular mechanism) get to advance to the next round of waiting. This continues throughout the summer during which the investigator and everyone associated with the application is on pins and needles, sending frantic emails to their contact person in the funding agency, trying to predict which way the wind will blow, waiting either to uncork some champagne or off themselves in some dramatic fashion that surely will make everyone sorry . Finally, for those who are fortunate enough to receive the golden ticket, there is a flurry of paperwork in late July while NIH gets ready to start sending actual money to the research institution. Now, with the notice of grant award in hand, it is time for the investigator to celebrate. Unfortunately, at this point everyone is so over it and drained by the 12-month emotional roller coaster that they simply go home, put on pajamas, and eat everything in sight before going to sleep for 15 hours. Never mind that now the proposed experiments actually need to get underway…

In contrast, for those whose scores were less than satisfactory, provided they received a score at all, it’s back to the drawing board so this cycle can begin again as soon as possible. And those, my friends, are the cliffs notes to federal funding for research.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

When the bough breaks…err…when I’m feeling sad. I just remember my favorite things and then I don’t feel like I have to punch someone in the mother F-ing face. Although in reality, if I feel like punching someone in the face, remembering my favorite things is hardly compelling enough to talk me off of that ledge. But anyway, here they are:

Accomplishment. I am an accomplishment junkie. I am positive that my reward circuitry is flooded with dopamine when I cross something off my “to do” list;
Boozing in the afternoon when I should be doing something more productive like accomplishing things;
Celebreality, chihuahuas, and Coach;
Delicious meals that also happen to be healthy and heart smart and all that other hoo-ha;
Exercise. I need those endorphins. Plus it’s pretty empowering to know that I can drop and give you 20 without exerting myself. I am woman!
Funding decisions in the affirmative;
Goatees. The meaner looking the man, the better;
Husband, not to be confused with husbandry, because that shit stinks;
Ice cube-size diamonds;
Jewels, if they are ice cube-size diamonds;
Karats, if we are referring to ice cube-size diamonds;
Lunch comprised of champagne, cheese, chocolate, oysters, and pate;
Mocking small penises with girlfriends;
Never having to mind boundaries with those girlfriends;
Organizing events-whether at work or in my personal life. Julie McCoy has nothing on me;
Pumpkin pie and the entire harvest season minus the stress that accompanies the holidays;
Quickies;
Running. Not from the police or someone yielding an axe, just for exercise and stress relief. And because I can;
Stoli, sushi, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order;
Thumbing my nose at anyone who has underestimated me, when I inevitably succeed, overcome, triumph, conquer, etc. Ok, in reality thumbing my nose doesn’t give me half the satisfaction as flipping a double bird, but it’s an expression, people;
Urban living. I realize 8 miles from downtown is most likely suburban, but throw me a bone here. This city girl maintains her vehement opposition to mini-vans and “mom jeans” at all costs;
Vacations to Europe or anywhere that does not require me to exercise or do laundry. If I can get away without shaving my legs all the better, but it’s not a must;
Westmalle, a Belgian beer that surely is ambrosia;
XXX. These were place holders after my initials as a screen name on Match, and now we are a success story;
You’re not going to believe me when I say that for Valentine’s Day I love, love, love receiving a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Not good chocolates, which is probably obvious since no self-respecting chocolatier is going to package up their yummy goodness in such a hideous manner, but the kind that may or may not have an offensive filling. You just don’t know until you bite into it and subsequently have to spit it out or eat around it. If the box has a plastic flower or plastic lace, or pretty much plastic anything, even better. Velvet is also a nice touch;
Zany-ness. Just plain silliness and tomfoolery. Love it.

Time and time again

I have mentioned previously my relatively new preoccupation with the passage of time. I notice it all the time. See, I can't even stop myself from using that word-Time.

This past week the malevolent passage of time crept into my consciousness again, as my nephew turned 10 years old. It's weird to look at a child and see how tall and precocious he has become, when you remember holding him as an infant. Thankfully, he's still really cute and I am not just saying that because he could pass for my child. I mean, not only does he resemble me physically, but he is fantastically smart, and he is just as much of a ham. I am glad my sister enjoys him as much as she does since she squandered her opportunity to enjoy me fully due to our 8.5-year age difference. Well, in all fairness, she was locked in her room most of the time when we were growing up because she was always grounded. But I digress. Anyway, I was trying to wrap my mind around the fact that a decade had passed since his birth, when another family member pulled me into my nephew's room to look at a collage he had put on the wall. It is a collection of photos of his father, who had passed away unexpectedly at the end of June.

It took my breath away as I was plunged into an emotional soup within a second. First, I felt a pang of regret because he and my sister had divorced a couple years ago and I knew this just broke him apart-it really aged him and made him so sad. Naturally, as with most divorces, I didn't stay in close contact with him. However, when I did see him, nothing had changed and our interaction was always enjoyable. Second, my heart went out to this little kid who painstakingly assembled all these photos of his dad. That alone is a tear jerker, but it is accentuated by the fact that a father has never been more enamored by a son, than this man was. You would have thought the sun rose and set on this kid. I mean, just pie-eyed devotion and adoration. Third, I was struck by how quickly 6 months had passed since he died. I had never experienced a death like that before. Typically, the people in my life who have died have been either so peripheral I barely knew them, or they were 1000 years old, rendering their deaths sad but not tragic. What I am trying to say is that I don't think I am able to comprehend that he is no longer living, he has not been living over the past 6 months, and I will never see or hear him again.

One of the pictures in this heartbreaking melange of memorabilia really made me smile. It was one I recognized immediately because I remember it being developed. Even at the time I thought it was a great picture and that it really captured an innocence he possessed. It was a headshot, but I know from memory that he was sitting on the back steps of my parents' house at a cookout. It was my 21st birthday party, and he was wearing just his bathing suit with his trademark thick gold chain that had a big eagle charm on it (this sounds horrible but on him it worked-trust me), and he was looking away from the camera. Most other memories I have of him are filled with big cheesy grins and energy that practically jumps out of a photo, but in this one he is quiet and observant. I don't know if that was just such a rare event that it struck me, but looking at this particular picture has always filled me with the same kind of melancholy I suspect parents feel when they watch peacefulness wash over their child in sleep after he/she has created mayhem all day.

The other image that always comes to my mind when I think of him, and I really mean always, is one of him in my lab on the day I defended my dissertation. My whole family took the day off from work, put on their Sunday best, and attended this auspicious and momentous occasion. I was especially pleased my brother-in-law came because it meant a lot to me that he was willing to take an entire day off so that for 45 minutes he could sit in an uncomfortable chair and listen to what must have sounded like gibberish. After the presentation I was subjected to a private examination with my committee, during which my family was left to be entertained by my friends and colleagues. This was a fantastic opportunity for them to witness some of the everyday workings of the laboratory and apparently, to get involved. I am not sure exactly how the situation played itself out since I was undergoing a revival of the Spanish inquisition (this is a gross over-exaggeration but I am sure for a nanosecond you were impressed that I could withstand the rigors of such academic torture), but I have a photo of my brother-in-law wearing what we called "the big glove", triumphantly holding up a rat. He also wore the big smile and exuded the enthusiam I mentioned before. This man had a zest for life like no one I have ever known. I gave him a lot of credit for letting himself be led around the lab and for being a willing participant. Now granted, that rat had already been euthanized (as part of important research endeavors, not for sport), but still. For the un-initiated the whole scenario can be quite intimidating. Not for this guy, though. He just loved life and experiencing things, and approached everything and everybody with absolute fascination. He lived his life in a very large, loud- and close-talking kind of way. It was infectious and everyone who met him, got a kick out of him. He was always the life of the party. I could go on and on about him, but suffice it to say, I have a lot of admiration for the way he approached life. I hope to emulate it, minus the big gold chain of course.

Yesterday, February 1st, was his birthday. The day after his son's birthday. This contributed to my poignant reminder of Time and I wanted to commemorate the day with some kind of tribute. Happy Birthday, Stormin' Norman!