Unexpected Surprises

The oh-so-coveted red hue vanished from under the bedlam of lights and lenses. With that, the last piece of the puzzle went astray.

“¡Ay, Martha, venga aquí!” I exclaimed as I motioned my research mentor to take a look at the slide under the university medical center’s state-of-the-art microscope. She let out a glum sigh.

That sigh concerned me. Ever since the lab’s principal investigator provided me the opportunity to carry out my pancreatic and prostate cancer project, gave such elaborate explanations for my questions, and paired me with Martha, I had never seen her distressed. Whenever I entered those heavy, green doors, I always saw a gray haired lady smiling back at me, greeting me with the words, “¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?” I would return those greetings with words about my mood and questions about the happenings of her week in the same romantic tongue. I loved that atmosphere-enjoying those Spanish conversations, telling each other stories about our lives, giving me the freedom to explore new ideas, trying to loosen up the pressure-filled environment. Even with all that was going on, I had a feeling that Martha wanted to keep it that way.

But I was still frustrated. I had followed the protocol exactly as the company had written- bake the slides, melt the glycerol, stir the milk, sit overnight- but after multiple attempts, there was nothing. The publications about prostate and pancreatic cancer in Nature Medicine paved a lucid path to the same result: a red tint should smear the thin layer of cancer cells. With a vast ocean of knowledge feeding the hungry stomachs in my brain and coveting a final product that was devoid of egregious mistakes, I scrambled quickly to my feet to try once more. But my clumsy hands refused to listen.

As I ventured into the treacherous jungle of the city to arrive at the comforts of the 11-story cancer research building nestled between 90th and 92th, my fingers were quivering like mad, my toes frozen with chills running up my spine, my stomach contents ready to fly off into space. I’ve never spilled water on the slides before. Now the experiment is ruined. The grant is going to be expiring soon, and the update and the paper are due in a couple of weeks. Precious time is a wasting, precious money going down the drain.

But with each footstep towards my destination, my anxious and aching body was settling down to a slow, graceful tempo of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. I’ve performed this exact experiment so many times that I could do it with a lift of my pinky. Yet, I still have no result. And just because I messed up the first step doesn’t mean I can’t tweak the rest of the protocol to see what happens. I just had so much fun fiddling around with the experiment. That excitement won’t ever slip away from me.

With a large crescent moon filling half of my dimpled face, I grabbed the steaming slides from the oven, drenched chemical after chemical over every slide, and had the joy of being a kid again. Then, I gently pushed a slippery slide under the microscope.


There it was. The lights and lenses radiated the sparkling glow of fire, a glow that had been elusive all along. As I screamed, “¡Martha, venga aquí!” for the last time, grateful for the opportunity, the relaxed atmosphere, and our unique bond, I was thrilled to see the beaming smile that had vanished for so long. Sometimes, I have learned, the beauty of life comes from the joy of unexpected surprises and not in the greed of robotic perfection.