The last semester of my undergraduate education is officially underway. It’s only been three weeks and already it is incredibly busy, though that’s usually the case with spring semester–things tend to take off fast, but they don’t accelerate to the same velocity as the end of fall semester. So things are going fast, but I think that the acceleration process is stopping.
Boston has been getting pommeled by New England weather systems, though usually only on Tuesdays and/or Thursdays, so it makes things predictable. I have never appreciated snow tires more than I have this winter.
Yesterday I had one of those experiences that feels as if the earths gravity has doubled, if only for just a few moments. It started the week before Christmas, which was eventful. I had just finished finals, and I had been feeling burnt out for about a month and a half by that time. I was therefore more than ready for my month-long winter recess–I planning to probe the New England slopes, read books for fun (a novel concept!), and blaze through whole series of movies. However, I got a call from my principle investigator (“PI,” or, in other words, “my boss”) the first official non-weekend day of the break. My PI said that there was a fantastic new discovery made by one of our collaborating groups that has been working on their project for thirty years. They had a lot of data from DNA and from human brain tissue, and they wanted to collaborate with us and get some data from the eye. Considering the fact that that is exactly what my lab specializes in, they went to my PI, and he told me to be in the lab as soon as humanly possible.
I made it to the lab and learned more about this discovery (it really is quite incredible–for all you scientists, be expecting some cool literature out in the next couple of months) and learned that there was already someone doing immunohistochemistry (IHC) on one of the eyes. IHC is a technique that allows one to visualize the precise location of a given protein on a piece of thin-sliced tissue. My PI wanted me to do a western blot to corroborate the data we were seeing on the IHC. I understand that many people not well-acquainted with biological science may be unfamiliar with Western blotting, and so I will explain as best I can. Furthermore, this will give you an idea of what I did the entire summer of 2009. Western blotting is a technique that involves gel electrophoresis and probing using antibodies. Gel electrophoresis involves taking a slab of a gelatinous compound–for proteins we use polyacrylamide–and, together with an electrical field, using it to separate a mixture of proteins. The proteins are placed in small pockets at one end of the gel, and then the gel is placed in the electrical field. The field causes the proteins to be attracted to the opposite side of the gel, and they therefore start moving. The gel structure allows smaller proteins to move faster than larger ones because the smaller ones basically get less tangled as they move through the polymeric compound. Leaving the gel in the electrical field for a couple of hours results in the smallest proteins being near the bottom of the gel, while the largest ones are near the top (and may have only moved a small, small distance). Because a cell has a huge selection of proteins, the result is basically a protein “smear.” The proteins are then transferred, again with an electrical field, onto a membrane. Antibodies that are specifically designed to target specific proteins are then passed over the membrane, and stick to the protein of interest. When visualized, it becomes possible to see not only if the protein is present, but also what size and how much of it is there.
Anyways, that became my job. My PI could not emphasize how time-sensitive it was. However, in order to do this I needed eyes. Furthermore, because the research associate who manages our stock of eyes was visiting her family in Belgium, I was unable to really get started. I therefore had a nice, relaxing break.
These past few weeks, however, things have picked up again (i.e., people got back from vacation). I worked with this research associate and together we managed to pull together all the remaining supplies needed for these Western blots. It was yesterday that I pulled the eyes out of the freezer and began to work with them. Now, I have worked with dog eyes before. Last year I spent about a week dissecting 30 of them to be used in other experiments. It was a fantastic procedure, and I came to an entirely new understanding of the eye after seeing it taken apart. However, it was nothing compared to seeing a human eye–even one that is already dissected.
I suppose in a way it is similar to the feeling many gross anatomy students get as they work through their cadaver–even years spent dissecting and experimenting with mice embryos, frogs, grasshoppers, squids, fetal pigs, chicken wings, sheep kidneys, and cow hearts can’t truly compare to the experience of dissecting a human cadaver. I have never heard anyone speak lightly about it; not that it is a somber process, just one that inspires a great deal of awe. (If you would like more detail, Claire can tell you a lot more about her own experience.) Working with human tissue had a similar effect on me. The eyes I was working with had already been dissected and frozen, so I have only ever seen them as parts. However, as I sat there at my bench holding the lens and the retina (in vials) of a man who passed away last year, I was struck with amazement. That’s when the gravity seemed to increase. I was holding, in my hand, the biological miracle that allowed that man to perceive his world.
Eyes are, of course, something that we associate with identity; some have even gone as far to name them the window to the soul. This title is stunningly accurate. Looking into one’s eyes allows us make connections with them. When we wish to show another our interest in them, we direct our own eyes to theirs. The patterns on one’s irises are as unique as fingerprints. (Which is part of the reason I feel there is something not-quite-right about people who wear colored/tinted contact lenses.) When someone passes away, we close their eyes as a symbol of the fact that they are no longer there. So much of being human revolves around one’s eyes. Thus, being able to hold even the separated parts of a human eye was absolutely spectacular. As overly dramatized as it may sound, it was as if I were holding a part of that which made that man an individual. Though he has passed on, I was able to hold one of the remnants of his identity, and recognize in it a reflection of my own eyes and my own identity.
I then had to grind them up, but it was, and continues to be, a remarkable experience. Even from beyond the grave, the six people whose eyes I am working with are making a difference. So to them I salute and offer my sincere thanks.
