Maybe Curing Cancer

Cancer research using mice. I checked the box for “Approve Funding,” and I greenlit funding for a bio PhD candidate’s dissertation project in which he intends to give mice tumors.

As part of my academic community service, I evaluate grants for the Graduate and Professional School Association once a semester. I find it interesting. Today I read a lot about topographical research in Tanzania, for example.

How could I refuse this student who has such good intentions? That’s not my place. There is no segment on the rubric for “Ethically Ambiguous for the Reviewer.” It was an excellent application. My hamster Jefferson died of a brain tumor when I was 11. He jittered himself to death. He could not operate his jaw enough to eat. He curled into shavings and prayed for an end to the pain. Jefferson has white hair and a pointed nose.

My aunt died of cancer two years ago. And she too was white with sharp features when I last saw her. No one—no creature-- deserves these things.

I approved the funding.

Two years ago I also had dinner with my old buddy Jimbo. He’s a smarty and always has been. We chomped on mushroom pizza and he explained how his office analyzes code to find patterns that will break cancer, but what he really does all day is stare at screens and numbers. Meanwhile, I made like ten cents an hour helping college kids write thesis statements. Jimbo said, “At least I can say what I do for a living is cure cancer.” But that’s actually not true. It’s not true because what if they never find the pattern? It’s actually pretty likely they don’t. I passed those kids on their sophomore writing portfolios. They learned how to use commas. This I know.

Underground improv stage. Chicago 2012.

I talked to Jimbo this morning on GChat while I was in Office Hours. It’s an even shoddier desk in the basement of a crummy building. And the boiler blasts every ten minutes. And he’s been maybe curing cancer for four years.