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Description
My Story: Through the Microscope

A photographer holds his breath as he snaps a shot, and breathing is controlled in archery and shooting. In clinical microbiology, when you have the blood of a patient in one hand, and a syringe in another, double-gloving does little to alleviate the pressure. Your every movement and thought is on the task at hand, and when the syringe has been disposed of in the proper biohazard containers, you realise that you've been holding your breath all along.

There are times when I wonder why I bother going to the laboratory every day, with daily dangers lurking behind every sample and sharp objects. These are days when I watch my colleagues start bleeding at the gums due to who-knows-what exposure; days when someone tells you that their cancer is in remission but she wouldn't be coming back to continue the research that probably gave it to her; and days when another colleague has an incident involving test tubes full of patient blood, a cut on the skin, a trip to the ER, and a test for HIV.

And then there were days when carelessness caused me to be exposed to chemicals that flooded my trachea with phlegm, and put me in bed for three days. Breathing was difficult, and the lack of oxygen meant that every movement had to count.

There was also the horror of watching the spot of blood pool beneath the glove, after my hand was caught under the very heavy lid of a centrifuge. Frantic thoughts of "Did the glove break? What was done in that centrifuge, can it infect me? Where in the lab is a clean sink that I can go to clean up this wound?" mingled with concerns for my experiment (samples are hard to come by and I was working on that for several days), and the pain of a nail split halfway through on my thumb.

At the age of 24, I purchased a personal insurance policy so that if anything happened, my parents wouldn't have to fork out the cash to bury me. Life was dicey, and I couldn't figure out what I was doing, putting it on the line that way. I didn't want to go the way of my grandfather, a chemist whose lungs turned to sacs of water because of some chemical he inhaled on the job. It just didn't seem worthwhile.

And then one day, as I was making notes of some samples I was processing, I noticed that one patient had to undergo cerebrospinal fluid extraction over a period of several months. This likely meant that an infection was present, and the doctors or the diagnostic laboratory couldn't figure out what was wrong with this patient. It wasn't something they'd take on lightly, because the procedure isn't exactly a walk in the park. What messed me up then and now, was that the patient was only 6 months old at the time it all began... I had never cried about anything regarding work before then. Suddenly, hiding behind a labcoat and lurking in the warm confines of a laboratory isn't enough protection from the pain of a world made scary by unknowns, a world cruel by its very nature.

I took up microbiology because I wanted to make a difference, to help people and to learn more about this fascinating microscopic world. Reality has tempered my enthusiasm into resignation, but despite that, my original idealism survived. And it grew. I still want to find cures for what ails us all, to prevent diseases, to do things like alleviate the sufferings of those with HIV/AIDS. In my own small way, I intend to keep the promise I made to myself, my study, and humanity.

For those who are angry at the scientist, researchers and public health professionals for 'not doing anything', spare a kind thought for them, they know what it's like to hold their breath, putting their lives on hold, while the world rushes by.

I'm still holding mine, waiting for the other shoe to drop, watching for latent infections that would rear its ugly head one day. But when tomorrow comes, I will still walk into the laboratory and suit up in my labcoat and gloves. I need to do my job. Then, and only then, can I breathe easy.

About the poem
Stuck in Amber was drawn from my own experiences and thoughts about HIV/AIDS.

The first stanza is about the horror brought on by a laboratory accident. Suddenly, you realise how thin your skin is, and how the gloves won't help you and how you seem suddenly frozen in time.

The second stanza is about a flashback to a benefit concert meant to raise funds for people living with HIV/AIDS. The verse All's not as it seems is referring to the volunteers and performers at the benefit, who, despite their outward cheerfulness and party attitude, are totally aware of the seriousness of the situation. It also refers to the fact that the lead 'showgirl' is in daylight, a rather staid young accountant-type named Eric.

The third stanza is self-explanatory.

The fourth stanza goes back to the time-stop situation, but is referred to as being stuck in amber. Getting sick (or being suspected of infection) is rather like being yanked out of the real world; you fall into the cracks and merely exist. And you wonder when you can start actually living again. And oddly enough, the time-stop becomes somewhat comforting (a nest), despite its staticness, because the future seems like a scarier place to be in.

The fifth stanza makes reference to the fact that HIV is a virus, not just by name, but by action. Viruses are machine-like, their every action 'calculated' to provide the most efficient method of replication. Some paths would fail, and those would be replaced by better methods or machines. As a microbiologist, I am often stumped by comments of people saying that diseases are punishment for vices or unfaithful ways and that those infected are damned and should be shunned by all of society. Perhaps that was acceptable before we discovered the 'Germ Theory of Diseases', but in this day and age... Frankly, I'm stunned to speechlessness whenever I hear idiot talk about establishing islands where those infected could be banished. And then I get started on an unprintable round of ranting.

The sixth and final stanza had a few dual meanings. Amber to red refers to the traffic light system meaning "STOP!"; the fact that our vigilance has dropped the past few years, causing the situation to hit alarming red alert levels; and connecting the idea of being stuck in amber, to that of the issue of HIV/AIDS (red ribbon). Our fate refers our destiny, the old promise of a cure.

Prime Numbers
In this poem, I have hidden prime numbers.

The first 3 lines have 1 syllable each.
THe next 5 lines have 3 syllables each.
The next 7 lines have 5 syllables each.
And then 11 lines with 7 syllables each.

I'm not quite sure how that happened, but it did.

Description
My Story: Through the Microscope

A photographer holds his breath as he snaps a shot, and breathing is controlled in archery and shooting. In clinical microbiology, when you have the blood of a patient in one hand, and a syringe in another, double-gloving does little to alleviate the pressure. Your every movement and thought is on the task at hand, and when the syringe has been disposed of in the proper biohazard containers, you realise that you've been holding your breath all along.

There are times when I wonder why I bother going to the laboratory every day, with daily dangers lurking behind every sample and sharp objects. These are days when I watch my colleagues start bleeding at the gums due to who-knows-what exposure; days when someone tells you that their cancer is in remission but she wouldn't be coming back to continue the research that probably gave it to her; and days when another colleague has an incident involving test tubes full of patient blood, a cut on the skin, a trip to the ER, and a test for HIV.

And then there were days when carelessness caused me to be exposed to chemicals that flooded my trachea with phlegm, and put me in bed for three days. Breathing was difficult, and the lack of oxygen meant that every movement had to count.

There was also the horror of watching the spot of blood pool beneath the glove, after my hand was caught under the very heavy lid of a centrifuge. Frantic thoughts of "Did the glove break? What was done in that centrifuge, can it infect me? Where in the lab is a clean sink that I can go to clean up this wound?" mingled with concerns for my experiment (samples are hard to come by and I was working on that for several days), and the pain of a nail split halfway through on my thumb.

At the age of 24, I purchased a personal insurance policy so that if anything happened, my parents wouldn't have to fork out the cash to bury me. Life was dicey, and I couldn't figure out what I was doing, putting it on the line that way. I didn't want to go the way of my grandfather, a chemist whose lungs turned to sacs of water because of some chemical he inhaled on the job. It just didn't seem worthwhile.

And then one day, as I was making notes of some samples I was processing, I noticed that one patient had to undergo cerebrospinal fluid extraction over a period of several months. This likely meant that an infection was present, and the doctors or the diagnostic laboratory couldn't figure out what was wrong with this patient. It wasn't something they'd take on lightly, because the procedure isn't exactly a walk in the park. What messed me up then and now, was that the patient was only 6 months old at the time it all began... I had never cried about anything regarding work before then. Suddenly, hiding behind a labcoat and lurking in the warm confines of a laboratory isn't enough protection from the pain of a world made scary by unknowns, a world cruel by its very nature.

I took up microbiology because I wanted to make a difference, to help people and to learn more about this fascinating microscopic world. Reality has tempered my enthusiasm into resignation, but despite that, my original idealism survived. And it grew. I still want to find cures for what ails us all, to prevent diseases, to do things like alleviate the sufferings of those with HIV/AIDS. In my own small way, I intend to keep the promise I made to myself, my study, and humanity.

For those who are angry at the scientist, researchers and public health professionals for 'not doing anything', spare a kind thought for them, they know what it's like to hold their breath, putting their lives on hold, while the world rushes by.

I'm still holding mine, waiting for the other shoe to drop, watching for latent infections that would rear its ugly head one day. But when tomorrow comes, I will still walk into the laboratory and suit up in my labcoat and gloves. I need to do my job. Then, and only then, can I breathe easy.

About the poem
Stuck in Amber was drawn from my own experiences and thoughts about HIV/AIDS.

The first stanza is about the horror brought on by a laboratory accident. Suddenly, you realise how thin your skin is, and how the gloves won't help you and how you seem suddenly frozen in time.

The second stanza is about a flashback to a benefit concert meant to raise funds for people living with HIV/AIDS. The verse All's not as it seems is referring to the volunteers and performers at the benefit, who, despite their outward cheerfulness and party attitude, are totally aware of the seriousness of the situation. It also refers to the fact that the lead 'showgirl' is in daylight, a rather staid young accountant-type named Eric.

The third stanza is self-explanatory.

The fourth stanza goes back to the time-stop situation, but is referred to as being stuck in amber. Getting sick (or being suspected of infection) is rather like being yanked out of the real world; you fall into the cracks and merely exist. And you wonder when you can start actually living again. And oddly enough, the time-stop becomes somewhat comforting (a nest), despite its staticness, because the future seems like a scarier place to be in.

The fifth stanza makes reference to the fact that HIV is a virus, not just by name, but by action. Viruses are machine-like, their every action 'calculated' to provide the most efficient method of replication. Some paths would fail, and those would be replaced by better methods or machines. As a microbiologist, I am often stumped by comments of people saying that diseases are punishment for vices or unfaithful ways and that those infected are damned and should be shunned by all of society. Perhaps that was acceptable before we discovered the 'Germ Theory of Diseases', but in this day and age... Frankly, I'm stunned to speechlessness whenever I hear idiot talk about establishing islands where those infected could be banished. And then I get started on an unprintable round of ranting.

The sixth and final stanza had a few dual meanings. Amber to red refers to the traffic light system meaning "STOP!"; the fact that our vigilance has dropped the past few years, causing the situation to hit alarming red alert levels; and connecting the idea of being stuck in amber, to that of the issue of HIV/AIDS (red ribbon). Our fate refers our destiny, the old promise of a cure.

Prime Numbers
In this poem, I have hidden prime numbers.

The first 3 lines have 1 syllable each.
THe next 5 lines have 3 syllables each.
The next 7 lines have 5 syllables each.
And then 11 lines with 7 syllables each.

I'm not quite sure how that happened, but it did.