Mayday

Last day of April. MAYDAY! just about captures my mood, too.

While Kate and William were tying the knot, I was sitting in a doctor’s office getting sucker-punched.

Sucker punch: a blow made without warning, allowing no time for preparation or defense on the part of the recipient. It is usually delivered from close range or from behind.

It wasn’t the doctor who delivered the blow, but the blood pressure cuff attached to my left arm. Very close range, indeed.

Oh, that’s high, the nurse says, shaking her head.

That’s strange, I say. I can’t think of anything more to add.

The doctor comes in and asks me about my foot, which had been hurting since mid-October, when I had made a Cardinal Mistake: I changed brands of running shoes. That was why I was here. For my foot! He asks me to stand, relaxed. How can I stand, relaxed, when number one, I am in my underwear and number two, I have just learned that my blood pressure is abnormally high? I do my best. He looks at my feet and smiles.

Why are you smiling? I ask.

Your right foot is bending outwards. C’est remarquable.

I look down. Sure enough, I’m standing on the outside of my right foot, to avoid the pain in the heel. Glad he finds it amusing.

He doesn’t say anything about my blood pressure. I got the x-rays, got fitted for special insoles, signed up for six sessions of physical therapy. My foot is in good hands. My mental state, however, is not.

On the way home I stop by a pharmacy and test the blood pressure a second time. Same numbers.

I don’t understand, I say. I run 4-5 times a week. I’m not overweight.

Maybe you’re stressed? asks the pharmacist.  It can change depending on what you’ve eaten. Did you drink coffee recently?

Who, Me? Stressed? STRESSED? I only have about a million translations piled up that are all due in about five minutes! It’s spring break and I haven’t done yoga in two weeks! My teenage son has gone off to Geneva with a bunch of kids I don’t know! The weeds are taking over my garden at a record rate! Why would I be stressed?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Ommmmm.

At home, instead of writing the riveting blog post about ___  that I’d been planning, I spend the next four hours scouring the net for information on hypertension and entering a mild existential crisis. I call my mom for reassurance.

Dad had high blood pressure, and I do too. It’s genetic. But mine was never that high. That’s not good! You’d better see a doctor! I did. He looked at my foot. My anxiety goes up a notch.

I’ve lived my whole life under the assumption that I’m the walking embodiment of health. My mantra: everything in moderation. But I’ve been sucker punched! My body is something other than I thought it was. There’s stuff going on in there that I didn’t know about. Genetic stuff! I’ll get a handle on it, this is not that serious, but my bubble is burst in a big way. I’m not invincible. I’m not 25 anymore. We’re not in Kansas, Toto!

My advice for the royal couple? Live life to the limit. Piffle protocol. Be young and invincible. Be beautiful and strong. It goes by so fast, and you only get this one shot. Oh, and get a checkup once every couple of years. You might avoid getting sucker-punched in the orthopedist’s office.

Out for the Count

“To sleep, perchance to dream-
ay, there’s the rub.” – Hamlet, Act III

On April 13 at 2 am, an air traffic controller in Reno, Nevada fell asleep on the job. Repeated contact attempts failed. In late March, another air traffic controller at Reagan National airport in Washington DC had also admitted to sleeping for about 30 minutes while alone on the overnight shift. He, too, could not be roused by telephone. The FAA says this is the fourth time this has happened this year.

In a remarkable feat of serendipitous journalistic timing, the New York Times Magazine published an article April 17 entitled: “How Little Sleep Can You Get Away With?” This one should be in the air traffic controller school mandatory reading list.

I’ve always been fascinated by sleep. It’s like junk DNA. Nobody knows exactly why we need it. Without it, we’re in trouble. But how much is not enough? When scientists prevent lab rats from sleeping, the rats die. Depriving people of sleep by forcing them to remain standing for long periods of time is a well-known form of torture. Symptoms of chronic sleep deprivation include weight gain, clumsiness, hallucinations, depression, headaches, irritation and yawning. (No, really? Yawn.)

The longest scientifically verified period of time anyone has intentionally gone without sleep without using stimulants of any kind is 11 days. The record was set by a 17-year old San Diego boy named Randy. The researchers were amazed that after 11 days the kid was able to beat the Stanford scientist at a game of pinball. If pinball was then what online role-playing games are today, then of course the teenager could beat the adult while for all practical purposes asleep! That’s hardly an argument for “unimpaired cognitive function!” More revealing is the hallucination he had on day four that he was Paul Lowe winning the Rose Bowl.

The Guinness Book of World Records has stopped recording voluntary sleep deprivation, fearing that people will hurt themselves. Now that speaks volumes. You can fly in a motorcycle over cars, jump off of cliffs, carry a table with your teeth  (with a person sitting on it) or pull a 6,000-pound train with your beard, but don’t deprive yourself of sleep on purpose. You might harm yourself.

Forty supremely unlucky families in the world carry the gene for Fatal Familial Insomnia, an inherited prion disease that strikes its victims around the age of 50. These people literally die from lack of sleep. There is no cure or treatment. Now that’s a true nightmare.

Back to the New York Times article, which is why I started this post in the first place. The air traffic controller was just a coincidence. It’s about research done by David Dinges, a Penn professor who “has the distinction of depriving more people of sleep than perhaps anyone in the world.” He went to town on this one, depriving dozens of people of sleep over a two-week period, and then carefully monitoring their cognitive performance with a series of annoying tests. One group got four hours, a second group six, and the control group got 8 hours of blissful sleep every night. No coffee or Red Bull was allowed during the study.

Result: Everyone except those in the 8-hour group suffered attention lapses and cognitive declines. I have always thought that six hours a night is “reasonable.” Turns out I was drunk.

“All told, by the end of two weeks, the six-hour sleepers were as impaired as those who, in another Dinges study, had been sleep-deprived for 24 hours straight — the cognitive equivalent of being legally drunk.”

Even worse, us six-hour-sleepers are harboring the illusion that we’re doing just fine. No problem! I’m on top of it! Never felt better!

“Still, while it’s tempting to believe we can train ourselves to be among the five-hour group — we can’t, Dinges says — or that we are naturally those five-hour sleepers, consider a key finding from Van Dongen and Dinges’s study: after just a few days, the four- and six-hour group reported that, yes, they were slightly sleepy. But they insisted they had adjusted to their new state. Even 14 days into the study, they said sleepiness was not affecting them. In fact, their performance had tanked.”

That could explain some of my writer’s block episodes. Especially those in which I fell asleep on the keyboard. I just needed more sleep! My cognitive capacities were on the skids from an accumulated sleep deficit.

There are some people who can get by on fewer than eight hours a night (they estimate this at about 5% of the population, and this group does not include you but does include the EPFL President) and a few who need more like 9 or 10. You Know Who You Are. And then there are the vampires, who don’t sleep at all. The good ones stay up all night practicing the piano to impress their hot high school sweethearts. The bad ones scour suburban neighborhoods for stray cats and teenagers who’ve broken their curfews. But that’s beyond the scope of this blog.

Americans supposedly get an average of 6.9 hours a night. We’re thus racking up a collective sleep debt of 375 hours every year! Multiply that by the population, and price it at about $8 an hour, and that’s worth $100 billion in lost sleep. Surely this is a national security issue. No wonder our teenagers can’t compete with the Chinese or the Swedes. They’re sleep deprived! Their teachers are sleep deprived! Can someone please form a panel of so-called experts on this and televise it?

There is clearly some crucial cerebral housekeeping going on while we’re out for the count. (That, in itself, is a fascinating subject, worthy of a post.) Ignore it at your peril. The facts are in, people. Do with them what you will.

I think I’ll have a little siesta.

Titanic Tower of Flower

An article in the local paper caught my eye today:

Bale se precipite pour voir fleurir le pénis du titan.

I’ve translated the first sentence:
Some think size isn’t important. That’s because they’ve never seen a Titan’s Penis.”

Well, I haven’t either! Have you? I quickly read on. Turns out they’re talking about a plant native to the Sumatran rainforest with the intriguing scientific name Amorphophallus titanium — from the ancient Greek amorphos, “without form, misshapen” + phallos, “phallus”, and titan, “giant.” In other words, huge misshapen penis. (Not titanium misshapen penis, which I admit is also quite intriguing.) It produces the largest unbranched inflorescence in the world. An inflorescence is a cluster of flowers on a stem — a flowering unit. (Which reminds me of my teenage years, when we referred to our progenitors as “parental units”). Continue reading

Jelly Bean Iconography

I’m not a Royal Wedding fan. In fact, my opinion of the British monarchy ranks right up there with trout fishing and ballroom dancing. I know there are people who love this stuff; it just doesn’t do a thing for me. But when I read this item buried in the “Royal Wedding” section of the Daily Telegraph, I just couldn’t resist:

A jelly bean resembling Kate Middleton’s face is set to fetch £500 at auction.

Imagine the surprise felt by the 25-year-old British trainee accountant when he opened up his 700g jar of jelly beans (oh happy day!) to see the face of Kate Middleton staring up at him on a yellow and red jelly bean! Continue reading

Write On


My typical morning starts with a cup of coffee and a Gmail chat with Dave, who is still up in California, burning his late-night brain oil. This morning, he cut right to the chase:

Dave: Hey Mary!  When are you going to post another blog post so I won’t be the top any more?

This is how you can tell that my brother is not a real writer. Real writers live for exposure. If he were a real writer, he’d keep quiet and hope I’d never find the time to blog again, and his post would remain on Gydle’s homepage for eternity.

The point was hammered home this Saturday at a writing workshop I attended. I rarely go to workshops, because I’d rather just sit at home and write than go and be reminded by a professional that I have no idea what I’m doing and get first-hand evidence that there are tons of people out there who write infinitely better than I do. Every time I go to a workshop I leave with a wicked case of writer’s block. (It’s a lot like my reaction to department stores. I get paralyzed by all the possibilities and invariably walk out empty-handed.) But my friend Liz convinced me to go to this one because it was going to be given by Geeta Kothari, a writer and teacher extraordinaire.  It was great and I came away inspired. Blocked, but inspired.

We did some exercises and read some bits of short stories, concentrating on writing about objects instead of writing about what our characters are thinking or feeling. Objects have a wonderful way of introducing you to their owners. Which of these sentences is more interesting?

“Mary owned a Lamborghini, and secretly loved the way it made people’s heads turn as she drove past them wearing her Dior sunglasses.”

“Mary sat behind the wheel of her fire-engine red Lamborghini, Dior Sunglasses perched on her nose, staring straight ahead, an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth.” 

I’m already sick of Mary in the first sentence and I made her up myself.

When Geeta asked for volunteers to read aloud the results of an exercise she’d assigned, hands popped up all over the room. Brilliant things came out of their mouths. For the last exercise of the day we had to write a 26-sentence story, in which each sentence began with a sequential letter of the alphabet. One sentence had to be 100 words long, and one a fragment. We had 26 minutes. For example:

As she was taking the cake out of the oven, the phone rang. “Bill, can you get that!” yelled Geeta. “Coming,” he yelled back. “Damnation!” she said, looking at the cake. Every square inch of it was burned, and an acrid stench was permeating the kitchen. “For you!” yelled Bill from the living room. “Geeta!” “Hang on!” she said, opening a window. “I’m coming!”

Here’s another one:

As soon as his back was turned, she took out the envelope. Biting hard on the plastic cover, she broke the seal and shook the little green pill into her hand. “Come on, come on,” she said impatiently to herself, willing her hands to move more quickly. Drinks were on the way; it was now or never. Every time she thought of last night, her heart clenched in her chest. For once she would be the one who called the shots. Given their past history, no one would ever suspect her of anything. He’d always bragged about what a perfect couple they were, hadn’t he? Intimate, happy, eyes for no one but each other? Just as those thoughts raced through her head, he turned and reached for her hand.  “Kill me,” he said, smiling, “ cuz I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Laughter rang out around the table. “Maybe I will,” she said, smiling innocently.

You should try it. It’s really fun.

At the workshop, I wrote a piece about a runner named Molly with a heel problem (painfully autobiographical). Big action took place when she bent down to double-knot her shoelaces. I managed to come up with sentences starting with Q, X and Z and felt hugely proud of myself. My longest sentence was a whopping 120 words, involving a lot of stretching exercises and thoughts about permanent foot injury. I noticed that the engineer to my right hadn’t been able to finish. I was tempted to raise my hand when Geeta asked for volunteers, but didn’t. Disaster averted — listening to what the others had invented in only 26 minutes, I started to feel like a mangy Shetland pony in a stable full of sleek Arabians. These were real writers — they clamored to share their 26-minute chefs d’oeuvre, their voices full of pride as they bore witness to the flexibility of their brains and the rapidity of their penmanship. And their stuff was really good! What was I doing here? Sure enough, paralysis set in, and I had writer’s block from Saturday evening all the way up to this very minute, when Dave’s plea to get him off the homepage gave me the nudge I needed.

Thanks, Dave, for being a cryptographer and not a writer! Usually my prose paralysis lasts for weeks; this block was busted in record time!  Now that the dam has been broken, the ideas are starting to flow again, and the words will follow.

Watermarks

Guest post by Gydle’s resident geek, my brother Dave.

I’m not all that thrilled that my first post here is a techie one. I was kind of hoping I could write about flowers or something. But Mary was so impressed by my decoding skills that she prevailed upon me to write this. So blame her. Here is a picture of flowers anyway. Continue reading

Odds and Ends

Just a quickie update on THREE things today:

FIRST, as I anticipated, my brother Dave cracked the Venter code. Actually, within minutes of reading my post, at 12:34 am his time, he was trying to explain it to me in a gmail chat. Continue reading

Designer DNA Dinged

Who says scientists and writers can’t play God? My sister recently alerted me to a story in which science and literature intersect in a very bizarre way. It’s weird enough that I thought I’d pass it on.

A little less than a year ago, maverick geneticist (and yacht owner) Craig Venter rocked the world (again) by announcing that he had created synthetic life. His team had developed a bacterial-like genome from DNA made in the laboratory. Continue reading

Weed Manifesto

No, not that kind of weed. Sorry, people. This is a gardening post.

Spring has come three weeks early to Switzerland. It’s 24 degrees (that’s 75 to you Americans), everything is bursting into bloom, the birds are singing their heads off at 4 am. The sound of the lawn mower can be heard throughout the land. Unless it’s lunch time or after six pm. Or Sunday. This is Switzerland, after all. There are rules to follow. Continue reading

Deepwater Horizon Doo-Doo

I can’t find my notes! Panic! Not long before I left for the US, I interviewed a scientist who is studying chemical dispersion from the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Boats from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute making daring underwater measurements, vast plumes of noxious chemicals threatening sea life for miles around, international scientific intrigue, sex, drugs, rock and roll… well, maybe not all that. But it was really interesting.

I should have written up the article right after the interview. I intended to. It’s all the European Commission’s fault. I got bogged down in completing the final report for an EU project I participated in last year. Continue reading