CHAPTER 1
The journalist
I think it’s high time we lay to rest the threadbare maxim that Science is a noble pursuit. That phrase suggests honesty and virtue shape the carabiners used by scientists who ascend to the pinnacle of a research field. But should we actually look up to them as role models? Are they glorious examples of success gained by fostering altruistic teams of harmonious cooperation? Are these high-flying individuals, like, nice people?
Does it surprise you that I ask these questions? Do you assume that the productivity of research labs must rely on joy and contentment among its staff? If so, I’m going to pop that bubble.
As you’ll see, I’ve done a lot of research into lab culture, and there’s more to come: I’ve planned interviews with other scientists. So hopefully, you will understand that it’s not just all about my own, terrible experience: the nine months of postdoc misery that ended in my being fired. I also hope no-one assumes I was shown the door for good reason, that I must have deserved to be dismissed. No, there is much more to it than that.
It is not my aim to burn down the entire system, like a present-day Carrie, wreaking a trail of vengeance on the guilty and innocent alike. What would be the point in that? I just want you to realize that those on the front line of scientific research – those who generate the data – they deserve better. So, please believe my claim to be one of the victims. And so was my marriage.
Scratch that last statement. I must strive to be an honest narrator. Our relationship would have floundered eventually. The scientific shit I encountered served only to foul the air more quickly. So, let me back up. I will try to help you understand my perspective.
I started grad school in the fall of 2015, working in a department of biochemistry and cell biology. There was only one other guy in my lab, a technician. We didn’t have much in common, but we got on well enough. We each did our own thing.
I enjoyed my Ph.D. project: purification, characterization and the cloning of an enzyme from yeast. Perhaps my experiments were a little repetitious, but they were easy to learn and perform, and gratification was instant. I felt rewarded by working long hours. I valued how my supervisor guided the overall direction of my work. She was always available to give me some assistance, and I never felt pressured. She was hands-on with training, but nevertheless I was encouraged to independently design and perform experiments, analyze the data and draw my own conclusions. She helped me to publish my results in mid-range journals.
But now, I can see my naivete burning at the stake. My project wasn’t challenging because it wasn’t particularly important. Easy science does not grab much attention. And that kind and unselfish behavior of my supervisor? Her collegial nature? It destined her to the supporting role of a scientific also-ran. Her lab was funded through just one grant from a small charity. I don’t recall that she was ever invited to speak at a conference.
Sorry. I know that cynicism will not earn sympathy. The main point I want to get across is that grad school was fun. I should only blame myself for not adequately considering what might come afterwards. I just figured I would portal from a Ph.D. to a postdoc and continue to enjoy life. I was running my future on default settings. Like my relationship with Simon.
He was a fellow student whom I met a month or so into my studies. He became the quarterback for our group text chain. This was why our drinking group always made its quorum, and how we were all kept informed on the bustling music scene. Maybe this indulgence of living in the present was nurtured by the absence of a regular life’s responsibilities. Like, I did not have to pay rent after moving into Simon’s Chapel Hill condo. His parents had purchased it for him to use while he completed his college studies.
Simon wholeheartedly played the uninhibited party animal. 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.” But at the time, I was entranced into thinking I’d found the one, so I never questioned whether I’d found the one forever.
I clicked instantly with his parents. This was not something I'd experienced, growing up. My dad died when I was five. There never seemed to be enough opportunity for me to bond with my mom, while she worked two jobs. But we made plenty of time to bang heads.
Before I was introduced to his extended Jewish family, Simon told me that he was agnostic. He explained that Judaism isn’t simply sustained by religion. It’s about strong family connections, community, and culture. He promised that I would be welcomed. And I was, with open arms. Eighteen months in, we were married. The condo’s property title was repurposed to become his parents’ wedding gift to the two of us.
Graduation from college into full-time employment shakes up the ground rules of life; the consequences are seismic. New routines, more rigid schedules, changes in social interactions. The transition remodeled us, but for me it was less an upgrade and more a damaging culture shock. Like a change of showrunner between seasons that ruined a streaming TV series: the plot-lines and character arcs skidded off-piste. The magic faded.
I was awarded my Ph.D. degree two months before Simon. In October 2019, I transferred from my state school to a nearby private university, for a postdoc position in biomedical research. Right from the start, I struggled with the completely different environment. It was a much larger group, under a demanding leadership. I was woefully unprepared for the intensity of the work. Everyone was 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 us 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.
My daily experience was one of turf wars. I seemed to be constantly elbowing out the other lab workers from encroaching on my work space. They took to “borrowing” some of my reagents. Typically, those that took me the most time to prepare. I countered by labeling them in code. Okay, I know what you are thinking: isn’t that against health and safety rules? Well, yes. But I did not throw the first stone. I was not the one repeatedly disregarding the rules for respect and common decency. I just thought it fair to make the others in the lab prepare their own reagents, rather than steal mine. And I never anonymized anything hazardous.
Any half-decent supervisor would have put some guardrails in place. But no, his ethos was Darwinism. The fittest will pull through.
There wasn’t a formal booking system for communal lab equipment, so I would get ahead of the curve by attaching large notes to the centrifuge, or the shaking incubator, or whatever. Alongside my drawing of an angry face emoji, I would write: I will use this at [insert time and date]. Mostly, it worked.
My fiery disposition also 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. I wasn’t nurturing a friendship circle, for sure.
Shouting at people, making enemies, it’s akin to swimming against a rip tide. It saps your energy. I would have been dragged down sooner, if I hadn’t made a friend. This was a fortuitous outcome of exploiting 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 sneak a half-hour break 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 made my latte the way I liked it: 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 science teacher. He had recently completed his training, and was hoping to obtain a position for the following August. Much harsher tones might be required, to keep those 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. The virus carpet-bombed my afternoon latte, my eye candy, and my therapist – just when I needed him the most, because the lab situation worsened. 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 into the other shift’s workspace. But of course, so could they. I had to clean up the mess that was invariably left in my area, before I could begin each workday.
Recently, I read that the pandemic was fertile ground for paranoia. But that wasn’t the case for me. I just knew that 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!). Inconsistencies in my data were exposed, and my experimental plans were rubbished. The day that I was fired, I was told that nothing I had worked on would ever be published. It goes without saying a reference letter from my employer was out of the question. Whatever. I am done with academia.
I don’t even believe my boss represents an isolated example. Far from it. I have learned of labs that are even worse, where research staff were placed in competition with each other, working separately but on the same project. Are you shocked? Calling that a hostile work environment doesn’t do it justice, does it? Maybe now you will appreciate there is good reason for me to air out all of this dirty laundry. Although I can’t name names. Not yet, anyway.
During my months of desperation as a postdoc, a dazzling light of fortune had shone upon Simon. He filled a Senior Scientist vacancy at a local research arm of GigantoPharm. This monolith is among the top five US-based pharmaceutical companies, accruing fifty billion dollars of revenue annually. They offer extremely generous salaries.
I quickly learned that Simon is 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 him). This didn't gel with corporate philosophy, he claimed. He absolutely did not want his new employer to come across that information. He reassured me this was not a means to escape our grad-school circle of friends, and maybe I was a sucker to believe him, but to be fair on myself, there was another perpetrator to blame. The pandemic shuttered all of our bars and music venues for months.
Simon decided our new social life should revolve around dinners with important work colleagues. He invited a few married couples and their kids into our Covid bubble. I like to think I gave this my best shot. I really tried. But I grew irritated with the opinionated moms. It had never before occurred to me that potty training, car-pooling, and tee-ball could be construed as topics of general interest. Nor could I grasp why they lavished praise upon their offspring for merely abiding by expected social norms. Good job, for sharing your Duplos. Good job, for eating your vegetables. I half-expected to hear: way to go . . . walking upright without dragging your knuckles on the floor! Great Jooob!
I did not enjoy learning 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. As you’ll see when you start a family.” I never let on to Simon’s work colleagues that he and I had never discussed bringing children into our lives.
Finally, some restaurants reopened. On one of these nights 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.
Simon’s plans for our future did not include keeping our condo. He wanted to cash in its equity for a larger property in a desirable neighborhood. Other goals were to drive cars that drew envious glances, and take exotic vacations. These aspirations had all been predicated on his premise that both of us should be enjoying significant incomes. 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, it was a real downer being encumbered with an unemployed wife.
He hadn’t reacted badly when I had euphemistically described losing my job as a consequence of being judged surplus to requirements. I guess that outcome is unsurprising, in his cutthroat corporate world. What irritated him was my response. It didn’t involve shotgunning resumes. I did tell him I wanted a job. But it had to be something that could recapture the contentment I experienced in grad school. 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. I felt good about finally moving forward, knowing that my scientific knowledge wouldn't be wasted. Simon’s contribution to my retraining efforts was to reward me with a “Really?” delivered with hands on hips.
In October 2020, I enrolled in a graduate, science focused writing class. It was all remote learning, naturally. 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.
To complete the break from my academic life, I adopted a new identity. My writer’s pen name is 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. I forced myself to sit on this information until Simon had poured his first cab of the evening. Another in-my-face callout to his upward mobility! In grad school he chugged PBRs.
“This freelance thing. . .” Simon had learned how to project invective with a range of emotions. A disdainful chuckle was followed by icy contempt. “. . . it isn’t working for me.”
It was all about the bottom line. We had separate bank accounts, which we tapped for a domestic expenses fund. That only worked well until it didn’t. Because I couldn’t.
I foolishly put my trust in lowering the stakes through flippancy. “But you do like winning strategies, right? In Ivanhoe, Sir Walter Scott introduced freelance as a synonym for success. He wrote about medieval warriors who offered their services to the highest bidder. Same for me. I will be in a position to take only the best payouts.”
I won't forget the shock of being on the receiving end of his snort of derision. “Why can’t you just get a proper job like any normal person?”
Considering the intensity of his rasping mockery, it’s a wonder he didn’t expel snot onto his shirt. No longer would I keep my thoughts locked up, 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 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. But I should not make excuses for him.
It happened on the first Friday of that November, the day I 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 depth of my outrage, 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 suggested hiring a 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 that Simon and his boss had swapped compromising 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 criminal 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 our 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.
After failing as a postdoc, I am very much enjoying a successful alternative 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 intend to post a much wider range of biomedical content. These are my efforts to capture some of the general interest in understanding the value of published scientific studies. And to increase advertising revenue.
If you visit my website, please bear in mind that the headshot I have posted is not a likeness. AI created it, because I need to maintain anonymity. Especially for that new project I mentioned earlier. My investigation. The hook will be Professor “Chuck” T. Standish. You might ask why. Well, he was a famous cancer biologist. And I view his lab as source material for answering the question that I opened with: are there any highly successful research scientists who are also decent people?
It helps me that those who best knew Standish are based in America, and therefore accessible for interviews. 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? How important were his lab's discoveries? And what about those who made a success out of working in his lab, have they adopted his management style, now they lead their own research groups? These are the types of questions that will lead everyone to assume I'm preparing a tribute to his lab (Ha! Ha!).
Maybe if I don’t push too hard, I can tease out some professional jealousy, some less than complimentary asides? Perhaps some pointers for how his team might have gamed the system?
There is another, really important reason that I selected Standish. 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.
I am wondering: who did it? And why?