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CHAPTER 1

The journalist

There is a well-worn idiom that “Science is a noble cause.” But are honor and virtue always exhibited by those that make a career out of scientific pursuits? Are there any highly successful research scientists who are also decent human beings?

These are the questions I am setting out to answer. But first, full disclosure. I have been dismissed from a laboratory led by a renowned scientist – one who led a highly competitive field of research. I did not experience a compassionate work environment. Everyone was on edge. Sometimes it was the fear of having to confess to a mistake. There was also the dread of being called out for designing a flawed experimental protocol.

I lost count of the number of times we were reminded of the importance of productivity; each lab member was expected to coauthor multiple papers each year, which must all be published in the most prestigious journals. There was no concern for the number of hours worked, or the personal cost. We were all bullied by a domineering personality. Decency did not enter into it.

I want you know that I am a victim. 

And so was my marriage. 

Scratch that. I am striving to be an honest narrator. My relationship with Simon would have stunk eventually. The scientific shit I encountered served only to foul the air more quickly. 

Here’s my backstory. Simon and I met in the fall of 2015, soon after we had started grad school. We were both studying for a Ph.D. in Biochemistry and Cell Biology. In those days, I enjoyed Simon being the one who drove our social life. It was all part of mindset. Living for the present. He was the quarterback for our group text chain. This was how he kept us all informed on the bustling music scene. This was why our drinking group always made its quorum. It never occurred to me that his endeavors to be the reveler-in-chief might have been one final student fling. A short-term indulgence nurtured by a lack of responsibility. Which included not being required to make rent or mortgage payments. His parents had purchased a Chapel Hill condo for him to use while he worked his way through grad school.
 

So, I continued to be thrilled by the company of someone who could wholeheartedly play the uninhibited party animal. Life was never mundane. That had been a large part of my attraction to him. The sex wasn’t half bad either. And in the afterglow, as we lay together, there were always compliments. About my hair (long and blonde), or my eyes (“sparkling brown”) or my smile (“so sexy; that’s how you stood out in a crowd”. Although that probably had more to do with my standing five feet eight tall). And then – I guess this happened far too quickly, now I think about it – he was the first to say: “I love you.” 

I clicked instantly with his Mom and Dad. This was not something I'd experienced, growing up. My Dad had died when I was five. There never seemed to be enough time for me to bond with my Mom while she worked two jobs. But we had made plenty of time to bang heads.

Simon had assured me that no-one in his family would be concerned that I was not Jewish. And this was completely true. I was welcomed by all with open arms. Simon had also explained to me that he was agnostic. But that wasn’t a problem with his family, he said, because Judaism isn’t simply sustained by religion. It’s about strong family connections, their community, and their culture. 

Eighteen months in, we were married. The condo’s property title was repurposed to become his parents’ wedding gift to the two of us.

It’s important to me that you appreciate how much I enjoyed studying for a Ph.D. I found it to be an easygoing and intellectually rewarding activity. And much like I was just working for myself. Nevertheless, I took my studies seriously. So did Simon. We both frequently worked beyond a core, nine-to-five schedule (although ‘core’, for us, was more like ten-to-six). At that time, we were humming the same tune: we thought we understood the nature of this profession, and its demands. We were able to give each other moral support, without even thinking about it.

Of course I did have an advisor. I appreciated that she often guided the overall direction of my work. She was hands-on with the technical training, but nevertheless I was encouraged to independently design and perform experiments, analyze the data and draw my own conclusions. I could always call on her for assistance, and I never felt pressured. She helped me to publish my work in mid-range journals. It was all fun, and low key. I was allowed to enjoy the pursuit of knowledge, at my own pace. 

All this now makes me to wonder - and this is so unfortunate - is this why my Ph.D. advisor was a scientific also-ran? When I worked for her, there was just one other person in the group, a lab-tech. (He played a lot of tennis, watched even more on TV, and was teetotal; obviously we didn’t have much in common, but we got on well enough). At that time her lab was funded through just one grant from a small charity. She was not earning the recognition that generates invitations to speak at conferences. She did not possess a competitive nature, she was honest, kind and unselfish, always advancing the needs of her staff above her own.

Simon and I graduated at around the same time. That’s when our lives changed. In October 2019, I moved to another, local university for a post-doctoral position in a biomedical research lab. Moving into this new environment, and working among a larger group of people, was all a culture shock.

I was woefully unprepared for the intensity of the work schedule. We were expected to set up experiments by 8 am. An hour or so later our supervisor would assess his assembly line for data production. He would interrogate each of his lab workers in turn: "explain yesterday’s results". "How do you interpret the data?" "What is today’s goal?" It stressed me out. On a good day, he would award me a taut smile. Mostly I earned scowls. I assumed he was not getting enough at home.

I was provided with a smaller workspace than I was used to, sandwiched between two, more senior postdocs. I was in a constant battle to preserve my bench territory, and to maintain hold on the reagents that I had spent precious time preparing. So, I hit on the idea of mislabeling my reagent jars to make the contents less attractive for pilfering.

It was a challenge to beat the competition to communal lab equipment. At first, I introduced a booking pad, but no-one used it. So instead, I simply made a habit of attaching a large typed note to the equipment: “I will be using this at [insert time and date].” I also have a temper, so the others quickly learned not to cross me on that one. 

My fiery disposition quickly saved me from being on the losing side whenever there was Sharpie pillage. This an essential lab tool, yet for some inexplicable reason they are always in short supply. When yours goes missing, you can’t label assay tubes and storage vials. In other words, you can’t perform lab work. Consequently, if you see one lying around, you grab it. One day, as I was leaving the lab, I hid my Sharpie by taping it to the underside of the kneehole below my workbench. But the others still found it. Next day, I went postal. It never happened again. But I wasn’t nurturing a friendship circle, for sure. 

I did make one good friend. This came about because I took advantage of my supervisor's absence from the lab most afternoons. He would retire to his office to write research papers and grant applications. That was when, two or three times a week, I tried to schedule a half-hour break. I used to sneak out, in order to visit the adjacent Chemistry building. Its first floor lobby reminded me of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum. My recollection is that the museum has more Boeing biplanes suspended from the ceiling, but both entrances share huge glass curtain walls, and an abundance of natural light. My soul always thanked me.

But the larger attraction in the lobby was the coffee and sandwich counter. Here I would find Pete, who served my favorite kind of latte: extra hot.

With his light brown man bun, meticulous boxed beard, oversized glasses, and a wardrobe of plaid shirts, Pete portrayed the quintessential hipster barista. We had time to talk during the quiet period, after the lunchtime rush and before the coffee stand closed at 2:30. This was a welcome opportunity to unload my lab problems to a kind and patient listener. 

Not that I made it all about me. I would also listen as Pete explained his own path. Willingly, because he spoke with an alluring low pitch, in soft tones. Listening to him brought liquid chocolate to mind. His wish was to be a middle school music teacher. He had recently completed his training, and was hoping to obtain a position for the following August. I was troubled to think that he might be forced to abandon his hypnotic voice. Much harsher tones might be required, to keep the kids in line. 

Even mundane conversations could evolve into a topic that increased his appeal. Like one day I asked how he relaxed after work, and I learned he drummed for a local band. I complained about an iPhone update draining my battery, and subsequently discovered he was an IT wiz. On another occasion he told me he worked out at a gym. Mind you, I could have guessed that one. He was definitely the guy to call into your office for computer maintenance. Sufficiently nerdy, and a great body. 

Then Covid erupted. One of the pandemic’s immediate victims was my coffee stand. The virus carpet-bombed my afternoon latte, my eye candy, and my therapist. 

Covid also worsened the lab situation. Social distancing limited the number of staff that could be in the lab at a given time; two groups of alternating shift workers were created. All that can be said on the plus side was that I could now spread out into the other shift’s workspace. But of course, so could they. I had to clean up the mess they invariably left in my area, before I could begin each workday.

I have recently read that the pandemic was fertile ground for paranoia. Now I am looking back, is it possible I sensed malice where none existed? At the time, I was sure my supervisor showed favoritism towards those team-members that produced data in support of his latest hypothesis. Contrary results, that my experiments had the unfortunate tendency to produce, would be picked apart at lab meetings (which at that time were conducted through Zoom. Ugh!). So, no. I can be sure this antagonism was definitely not something I had imagined. Nor was the spite with which inconsistencies in my data were exposed, and my experimental plans were rubbished. I was fired after only nine months. On my last day, I was notified that nothing I had worked on would ever be published. 

I would not have wanted to find an alternate academic position, even if that possibility had been open to me. Those doors were slammed shut. I did not have my name associated with any academic papers. I could never have secured a supportive reference letter from my employer. 

I realize I am not the only one to be harmed by this incredibly stressful occupation. On-line I have found plenty of other examples. The saddest: In 2014 four UC Berkeley scientists committed suicide, reportedly because they were so overwhelmed by the mental trauma induced by this profession. Obviously, something has gone wrong. 

I also had to cope with the other shit that hit the fan. During the months when my postdoc work  had floundered, a dazzling light of fortune had shone upon Simon. He landed a position as a Senior Scientist in a local research center operated by GigantoPharm. This monolith is among the top five US-based pharmaceutical companies, accruing fifty billion dollars of revenue annually.  So they can offer extremely generous salaries. 

As Simon settled into this new job, I learned he was an accomplished actor with the versatility to play very different characters. He became fully immersed in his new role by which he could climb the corporate ladder. As part of this new campaign, Simon scrubbed his social media presence. He told me there had been too many posts of us behaving inappropriately (a new phrase for Simon). This didn't gel with corporate philosophy, he claimed. He absolutely did not want his new employer to come across that information. He tried to assure me this was not a means to escape our grad-school circle of friends, but that was what happened. Although Covid played a big role too. All of our bars and music venues were closed for months. 

Later, when some the restaurants reopened, Simon decided our social life should now revolve around dinners with high flying work colleagues. He invited a few married couples into our Covid bubble. I like to think I gave this my best shot. I really tried. 

But on only our second night out, I took a dislike to a couple that were overly fond of trash-talking the Biden campaign; this was during the runup to the election. Simon took little interest in politics. In fact, I don’t think he’d ever voted. I see him now as someone who would cop out when confronted with an existential question. Does God exist? Who should be our 46th President? Simon’s answer to both: How can we know? 

That was not me. I intended to vote Democrat. I provided my viewpoint to that Trump couple in, I guess you might say, a forthright manner. This precipitated an early and disagreeable end to the evening. No desserts that night! And during the drive home Simon had another go at me for ruining his evening. 

I also didn’t enjoy the company of other couples that included a stay-at-home Mom. It had never before occurred to me that potty training, car-pooling, and tee-ball could be construed as topics of general interest. I also learned that creating an over-achiever requires endless bellyaching. And there are targets aplenty. The kid’s teacher. The soccer coach. The babysitter. The other kid’s parents.

But the conclusion about the value of parenting was always the same, “It’s so rewarding.” Maybe work on the sales pitch?

“As you’ll see when you start a family.” 

So, no pressure? I never let on to Simon’s work colleagues that he and I had never seriously discussed bringing children into our lives. We had briefly touched on the issue in the months after our wedding, but only inconsequentially. Like it was no more important a topic than mulling over the purchase of an electric kettle. (Which we didn't. We are not British, and we never drank tea). 

In any case, I had not been losing sleep wondering how Simon might turn out as a parent. I was more concerned that he had stopped being a good husband. There was no improvement on that score when I told him I didn't like his new friends. And I wouldn't be spending any more time with them.

Simon’s upwardly mobile plans for our future did not include keeping our condo. He wanted to cash in its equity for a larger property in a more desirable neighborhood. We should be driving cars that drew envious glances, and taking exotic vacations. These aspirations had all been predicated on his premise that both of us should be enjoying significant incomes. 

But, I think, there was more to it than dollar signs. In Simon’s world, image had become all important. Perhaps he believed that a wife who had found success in her own career would enhance his own social identity? Look how well I have chosen. 

Instead, for Simon, it was a real downer being encumbered with an unemployed wife.

I did want a job. I told him that. Preferably an occupation in which I could be self-employed. Something that could recapture the contentment I experienced when I had studied for my Ph.D. Irrespective of the financial reward, or rather, the lack of it. This was why I fell back on an interest in journalism. As an undergraduate, I had pursued a minor in this subject. I set out to make it as a freelance science writer. Simon’s contribution to my retraining efforts was to struggle with the concept. I remember that after I first told him, I was rewarded with a “Really?” delivered with hands on hips. 

In the fall of 2020, I enrolled in a graduate, science focused writing class. It was all remote learning, naturally. And there were aspects of the coursework that were repetitive of my earlier training, but I did gain some useful contacts from within the publishing industry. This was a great help. I felt good about the new direction I was taking.

Another decision I made, to complete the break from my academic life, was an identity change. I adopted a writer’s pen name: Lydia Goode. I also took a page from Simon's book, by deleting all of my personal social media accounts. I changed my appearance too. I let my hair return to its natural brunette color, instead of routinely dying it to the golden blonde that I had once preferred. Off went the shoulder-length tresses. I told my hairdresser to replace them with a tousled pixie-cut. I was a little nervous going into this revamp, I must admit. But now I am happy that this new style complements my full cheeks and rounded jawline. As another bonus, I was no longer paying for hair coloring.

The following spring, I received my first paycheck. Small change to begin with, but earnings nonetheless. Simon was dismissive. “This freelance thing isn’t working.”

My first instinct was to fire back angrily. I did warn you that I have a temper. 

But, much to my later regret, that’s not how I responded. I had foolishly considered the possibility I could deflect with some flippancy. 

“Simon, did you know freelance is a synonym for success?” 

(Pause for dramatic purposes as Simon’s jaw drops into WTF mode).

“Sir Walter Scott introduced the term in Ivanhoe. He wrote about medieval warriors who offered their services to the highest bidder. This is also going to be my winning strategy. Taking only the best bids.”

I won't forget the shock of being on the receiving end of Simon’s snort of derision. Considering the intensity of his rasping mockery, it’s a wonder he didn’t expel snot onto his shirt. What was going on here? 

The answer to that question? Arguments about money. That was a new one for us. We had each been successfully pooling a portion of our separate incomes into a domestic expenses fund, but we still retained our own bank accounts. That had worked well until it didn’t. Because I couldn’t. 

This was why Simon was now willing to go on the offensive: “Why can’t you get a proper job?”

I was no longer keeping my thoughts to myself, nor did I feel bound by the constraints of eloquence. “Fuck you, Simon!”

And so it went. The more we fought, the more strongly I committed to my writing. Kind of an immovable object versus unstoppable force. 

I was now beyond pining to recapture our grad school vibe, when any disputes we did have were inconsequential, like: which band should we see tonight? I knew those days would never return. That bond between us had been forged from an imperfect alloy. 

There was one telling occasion when we talked relatively calmly, we cried, we apologized, and we still claimed to love each other. He pledged to be more patient about my lack of income, and I undertook to at least explore other employment opportunities. Then we indulged in a brief fuck. Of a kind that prompts a demand: I want my money back. 

I would never say making love. That phrase belongs to the lyrics of a young teenager’s playlist. However, I won’t deny the significance of sex within an appropriate emotional context. The genuine affection, a closeness. That wasn’t us, not anymore. We’d simply participated in a perfunctory and unsatisfactory exchange of bodily fluid. Small wonder that neither of us felt incentivized to keep our promises. 

Although for a while afterwards, we did at least tiptoe around an uneasy truce, which was rewarding even if it had only arisen out of a sense of embarrassment. It also seemed to me that Simon was going out of his way to avoid conflict by spending even more time at work. I agreed with his assertion that this was a helpful distraction for him. In any case, it certainly brought me some relief. I welcomed the extra hours of silence, the increased freedom to work on my writing projects, and the opportunity to retire to bed early, where I would pretend to be asleep when he came home. 

It is the nature of ceasefires that they be temporary. Our unofficial truce began to break down with the approach of November 2021. Hanukkah would begin at the end of that month. Simon’s family had decided to risk hosting a get-together for those that had been vaccinated. This was to be their first family-gathering since the start of the pandemic. I was not worried about catching Covid. But I had become concerned that this event would finally expose the fragile nature of our relationship to his family. His Mom and Dad had always been so generous, so welcoming. I didn't want to bring despair into their lives. I loved them. Simon must have been concerned too, but he wouldn't discuss it. Maybe his apprehension is why he took the opportunity to provoke our final argument. 

It happened on the first Friday of that November. That was the day I was notified by email that I had earned a  lucrative writing commission. Well, I thought it was lucrative. At least in relation to my modest earnings up until that point. I was so excited. I even stayed up until Simon came home. 

His response was crushing. “Is that all?” 

I was devastated. Just three words. Yet they overflowed with spite. I had foolishly dared to dream that I could solve our problems.

I cringe now, as I recall that I had offered him a get out of jail card. “Simon, this is what I am, now. I’m a writer. It’s working for me and it’s paying me. This is what you need to accept - assuming you still have any hope of rescuing our relationship. If you don’t, if you can’t, then it’s time for me to walk out.” 

He had retaliated with a dismissive shrug. “Go ahead. Leave. I don’t give a shit.” 

Then he revealed just how desperate he had become to own this trainwreck. In a tone that dripped with ridicule, he bragged that he had not been devoting his evening hours to GigantoPharm. I learned that he had identified a more receptive vagina. His glorious moment of: so there!

To make sure he was not in any doubt about the strength of my feeling on this revelation, I hurled a dinner plate across the length of the kitchen, with his neck as my intended target. Unfortunately – or so it had seemed at that time – my lack of experience with ultimate frisbee saved him from any danger of decapitation. Instead, my misfired ceramic missile inflicted serious collateral damage upon an innocent, wall-mounted mirror. The irony of this incident only struck me some days later: my short Jewish marriage had been bookended by shattering glass. 

There is no excuse for Simon taking advice from his dick when making workplace decisions, but it does take two to tango. His slutty supervisor should have digested the company’s well-advised policy on office hook-ups within the chain of command. Her behavior had placed her into my crosshairs, and with my recent failure to make one head roll still in mind, I had not been inclined to pass up a second opportunity.

To this end, my divorce attorney had offered to bring in a local Private Investigator. She seemed confident that, if there were additional, prejudicial information about the affair, he would uncover it. But I explained I could not afford that kind of service. Then she pointed out that North Carolina is one of only seven US States in which one can make a civil claim against a third party who has sex with a plaintiff’s spouse. The offense is known as a criminal conversation. But I did not like that idea either. I did not want to go to court to hear details of their furtive rendezvous, which probably did not involve much actual dialogue. Except, I suppose, an occasional, “I’m coming.”

My attorney realized she needed to offer some reassurance. I think she must also have pictured her 30% flying out of the window. She pointed out there was an approach whereby we could reach a satisfactory resolution without going to court. We would just threaten to do so. Also in our favor were the betting odds on Simon and his boss having swapped incriminating phone calls and text messages. Evidence of these exchanges could be obtained from the telecom companies, through submission of a subpoena request to the court. It would all be our bluff, the attorney explained, but the conversationalist had more to lose from public exposure than I did. In addition to the acute embarrassment of being outed, GigantoPharm would almost certainly fire her.

This approach worked. As well as being relieved of a court appearance, I had the pleasure of receiving a generous restitution. Of course, I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Which means I can't write anything that could identify Simon's boss. So I might as well make clear that Simon is a pseudonym. Another of the white lies that pervade my current life. 

As part of the separate divorce settlement, my ex was obliged to buy out my share of our condo. Which was significant, because the value of the property had doubled from its original purchase price, due largely to the Covid-inspired inflationary spiral. I don't know if his parents helped him out with the payment. I still have pangs of guilt when I think about that. I hadn't wanted to add financial pain to the emotional anguish we had inflicted upon them. 

Our separation was finalized in the summer of 2023. That’s when I completed my exit from the curses of the triangles. One that speaks to geometry (the shape formed by connecting three universities that enclose Research Triangle Park’s biotechnology hub) and the other being a metaphor (a marriage plagued by a third party).

I moved to the town of York, in South Carolina. I’ve lived here for nearly six months. I like that it’s a small community. It seems there are plenty of welcoming bars and community events, plus a music scene. I hope to explore these options. Maybe when I feel like dating again.

I am enjoying my new career. I have published articles in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and Scientific American, as well as the News sections of top academic journals such as Science and Nature. 

I have broadened my brand by setting up itstoiletscience.com. That choice for my URL was inspired by the first article I wrote and uploaded: my reflections on an academic study into the under-reported danger of toilet plume bioaerosol exposure in public restrooms. However, I am trying to create a much wider range of biomedical content. These are my efforts to promote general interest in published scientific studies. And attract advertising revenue. 

If you do visit my website, please bear in mind that the headshot I have posted is not a likeness. A computer created it, because I need to maintain anonymity. Especially for my new project. I'm going to conduct an investigation. I have been deliberating this concept for a while, but this month GigantoPharm fired the starting gun. Now I have only a year to wrap this up. I must complete it by January 2025. 

The person of interest will be Professor “Chuck” T. Standish. You might ask: why Standish? Well, he was a famous cancer biologist. I view him as an ideal candidate to answer the question that I opened with: are there any highly successful research scientists who are also decent human beings? 

It will be helpful to me that many of his ex-colleagues are based in America, and so are accessible for interviews. I have already set up several meetings. My cover story will be that I am preparing his biography. I will tell them I am interested to know how other scientists view him. What sort of person will they describe? 

I am guessing everyone will assume I'm preparing  a tribute (Ha! Ha!). Maybe if I don’t push too hard, I can tease out some professional jealousy. Maybe learn snippets that are less than complimentary? Perhaps some pointers for how he might have gamed the system?  

There is another, really important reason Standish is my subject. If he were still alive, maybe his colleagues would not want to bite the hand that fed them? Instead, I am now guessing that tongues will be prompted to wag, particularly in view of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his death. He was murdered.

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