The Life of a PhD Student

Whilst studying for my Bachelor’s and Master’s degree, I had a vision that I would do a PhD. This dream saw me swanning around in a white lab coat, performing faultless experiments and producing groundbreaking data with a P value of <0.001. My publications would be globally recognised, and my career would be accelerated into the gateway of medical research. I would be lauded for my contribution to research and my expertise envied in the field. The reality is very different!

I am working in cell culture, it is summer, and there is no air-conditioning. My hair is stuck to my forehead, body odour is permeating the lab. Hands under the hood, I manage to maintain a sterile environment. Then, THAT itch appears, a monstrously big itch that will NOT go away. I concentrate, willing the itch to go, but one itch multiplies into a nest of itchy ants. I stop and attempt to remove my gloves, NO, they are firmly in place, like a second skin bound by the moisture from my hands; finally, they are torn off, the itch is relieved, and I am re-gloved and back to the cells. They need to be fed, their nutritional requirements coming before mine — I am feeding cells before I have even had a sniff of breakfast or lunch. How does that work? Dreaming about that coffee and muffin, momentarily distracted, I have the sudden wrenching realisation that I have just sucked up all my cells and they are now in the waste. My little plate of cells, that I have grown and nurtured are now floating in Virkon, dead. It is a Sunday, I came in specially to feed them, the bus journey took over an hour, and I did all of this to just kill them in the moment of a lapse in concentration. All hopes of telling my supervisor I finally have data have vanished into the abyss with my cells.

I am happy, this is going really well. I concentrate on the recipe for my mix, slow and methodical. I hear a voice behind me, "Do you know if we have any falcon tubes left?" I think to myself, "I don’t know, do we have any falcon tubes left? How about you open the cupboard with your hands and take a look with your actual eyes!" My response is, "I am not sure, maybe check the store cupboard." Returning to my work, I realise that I can’t remember if I put the enzyme in the reaction; I think so, but I am not sure. Can I check that I pipetted 0.5ul into the mix? NO, I stop, throw the reaction mix away and start all over again, I dare any person to approach and ask a mindless question, go on I dare you!

Where did my life go, where did the lines on my face come from? The copious amounts of coffee consumed, why not set me up on an IV drip? Email anxiety creeps in, I promised my supervisor some results last week. Where has the time gone and when will those results magically appear? I regret the excited hallelujah moment when I told my supervisor I had super-significant results. Unfortunately, the second and third repeats do not play ball. Statistically, the results are about as earth-shattering as the knowledge an orange is orange.

Constant reminders that data is required and a paper must be published, in a high-impact journal, ring in my ears. How do I produce this data? Perhaps I should wave a magic wand and say abracadabra. I am sure that will work and all those pieces of tissue and all those cells will magically transform themselves into a beautiful publication, guaranteeing me a post-doc position, after these three years from hell.

Post-thesis write up, as I peruse the vacancies online, I wonder what I have been doing with my life for the last umpteen years, why I didn’t pursue my childhood dream of being a teacher. There are jobs for teachers, in fact, lots of jobs for teachers and there are jobs for clinical researchers, data analysts, and market researchers but no research positions in my area of expertise. I start to accept that my dream of being lauded in my area of expertise is dwindling and in actual fact, the reality is a possible short-term contract with the usual promise: "If we can get more funding…," as that big fat grant sits tantalisingly out of reach.

The reality of being a PhD student is that my beautiful white lab coat is more a shade of grey, with the odd patch of colour from goodness knows what or where. Big blobs of red and black stain the top pocket from leaked pens and if I rummage I may find the odd pipette tip and used glove. In truth, the journey has peaks and troughs: the peaks are like a thousand Christmas mornings as a child, rolled into one. Those hallelujah moments are just simply the best. The troughs, well, they have become best friends with wine, lots and lots of wine.