Consider the noble astronaut.
In the NASA space program, astronauts are selected from the ranks of extremely capable, intelligent, and disciplined professionals. In the early days of space pioneering, the hiring pool was primarily military, primarily pilots, primarily the best of the best. John Glenn, for instance, a decorated Marine pilot, was the first American to orbit the Earth, and returned to space at age 77 on the space shuttle, Discovery. In between his bookend space voyages, he managed to fill his time as an Ohio senator from 1974 - 1999. Neil Armstrong, the first human to walk on the Moon, was a test pilot, who flew the X-15 rocket plane to the very edge of the atmosphere, at an amazing Mach 5.74 (3,989 MPH). The X-15 proved to be a farm league for aspiring spacefarers. These men were undeniably the best of the best. Of. The. Best.
Today, in an age of almost-routine space flights, and after thirty years of shuttle missions, the pedigree of astronauts has blossomed to include geologists, climatologists, meteorologists (pick your favorite Ologist), teachers, researchers, and, as mentioned, a retired astronaut-senator. The shift from get-it-done, proof-of-concept space flight to nuts-and-bolts space science demanded a wide variety of educational credentials, in addition to the ability to function in a dangerous environment, under stressful conditions, and the ability to improvise and make critical decisions. Make no mistake - contemporary astronauts are still highly-trained primates in a rocket, but now they need to do more than just push the right button, at the right time, and not freak out. They have extra-primate gifts, talents, and training that benefit the goals of NASA, and, ultimately, all of the other primates down here on this globe, plus the other animals and plants that share this cosmic oasis.
While there is considerable status in being an astronaut, everyone understands that the mission is the priority. Decisions about safety, weather, or equipment trump the personal aspirations of individuals in the program, and it's expected that if something goes awry, the launch may be delayed or scrubbed. For someone who has devoted a considerable amount of their life to the barest chance of space travel, I can only imagine that such an occurrence is a crushing disappointment. But the mission dwarfs the tiny (yet highly-qualified) monkeys that strap themselves into the seats of an immense and exquisitely exotic vehicle that roars skyward on a plume of fire, only to glide home when the work is done.
The Driver and I have heard that there is a storm coming. There is no doubt that it will pass very close to the our launch pad, but we continue preparing ourselves, hoping that our launch will not be aborted. We chat about the consequences of a delay in our launch window, hopeful that this is wasted conversation. The storm will certainly impact our command base, but it is unknown whether the mission will continue, or if it will necessarily be affected. We do not know.
We're buckled in, ready, skeptical, hopeful. The countdown continues.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Paramedichron #2
If your talk to a dietitian for any length of time about the American Diet, eventually the subject of nutrient density will come up. The idea is that certain foods are nutrient-poor and that certain other foods are packed with vitamins and minerals. Your goal, as a health-conscious American human, should be to maximize the nutrition of the foods you eat. Sounds obvious.
Unfortunately, many of the toothsome items that we expect to be part of our day-to-day diet are packed with nothing but calories. Evidently, you can apply the "yummy test" to any foodstuff, and if you really, really like it, it should probably be hidden on the top shelf, out of reach, out of view, or - better yet - left on the shelf at the grocery store.
Take, for instance, a cookie... A delightful little nugget, consisting of sugar, simple carbohydrates, and fat, it offers little in the way of nutrition - even if packed with oatmeal, raisins, and nuts. It's a calorie bomb, specifically designed to tickle discreet receptors in our mouth and brain that respond to easy energy, a remnant of our hunter-gatherer origins.
Once upon a time, buying groceries was extremely hard work. Someone, probably the womenfolk, would have to traipse across the savanna, poking at the landscape, scratching in the soil, rattling the bushes, to fill the larder. The menfolk, meanwhile, took part in ritual hunts that occasionally resulted in meat over a fire, but provided ample grist for tales of the One-That-Got-Away.
Survival was hard, but evolution was kind, in time, to the early peoples who developed a taste for the sparse sugar or fat-laden "cookies" of the day. Perhaps fruits, avocados, or rich fatty meats constituted the fortuitous treats to be had. Regardless, our bodies evolved a mechanism that rewards calorie-dense consumption with a tiny chemical neurologic prize. Eat something sweet or rich, and you feel inexplicably good, even happy
I bring all this dubious anthropology up because I am suddenly immersed in studying Anatomy and Physiology. The foundation of pending weeks of scholarship will be my understanding of basic biochemistry and microbiology. I studied geology and chemistry in college, but I only have a sixth-grade biology education, which I dredge up from decades-old synaptic memories. I am amazed that I remember anything, and, more amazing, is that what I remember is still relevant.
The text I am reading, highlighting, and transcribing as notes, is nutrient-dense. The information packed in its pages is the culmination of hundreds of years of scientific inquiry, and absolutely up-to-date. It is broccoli printed, bound, and delivered to my hands, and ultimately my brain. There is so much information on any given page that I frequently read it several times, before selecting the key facts that I will endeavor to commit to memory. I duplicate important diagrams and images, in the hope that recreating it will burn it into the fabric of my cerebellum.
I am chewing, chewing, chewing, digesting the information with my note-taking hand, but the information is so mind-boggling, so arresting in its awesomeness, that I can't help but feel a tiny little tickle in my cortex, an electrochemical reward for understanding even a thin slice of our biological mechanics. If I were a religious person, I would classify the feeling I get as reverent. As it is, the more I understand about the minutia of cellular biochemistry, the more dumbfounded I am.
Life is amazing; learning is hard.
Unfortunately, many of the toothsome items that we expect to be part of our day-to-day diet are packed with nothing but calories. Evidently, you can apply the "yummy test" to any foodstuff, and if you really, really like it, it should probably be hidden on the top shelf, out of reach, out of view, or - better yet - left on the shelf at the grocery store.
Take, for instance, a cookie... A delightful little nugget, consisting of sugar, simple carbohydrates, and fat, it offers little in the way of nutrition - even if packed with oatmeal, raisins, and nuts. It's a calorie bomb, specifically designed to tickle discreet receptors in our mouth and brain that respond to easy energy, a remnant of our hunter-gatherer origins.
Once upon a time, buying groceries was extremely hard work. Someone, probably the womenfolk, would have to traipse across the savanna, poking at the landscape, scratching in the soil, rattling the bushes, to fill the larder. The menfolk, meanwhile, took part in ritual hunts that occasionally resulted in meat over a fire, but provided ample grist for tales of the One-That-Got-Away.
Survival was hard, but evolution was kind, in time, to the early peoples who developed a taste for the sparse sugar or fat-laden "cookies" of the day. Perhaps fruits, avocados, or rich fatty meats constituted the fortuitous treats to be had. Regardless, our bodies evolved a mechanism that rewards calorie-dense consumption with a tiny chemical neurologic prize. Eat something sweet or rich, and you feel inexplicably good, even happy
I bring all this dubious anthropology up because I am suddenly immersed in studying Anatomy and Physiology. The foundation of pending weeks of scholarship will be my understanding of basic biochemistry and microbiology. I studied geology and chemistry in college, but I only have a sixth-grade biology education, which I dredge up from decades-old synaptic memories. I am amazed that I remember anything, and, more amazing, is that what I remember is still relevant.
The text I am reading, highlighting, and transcribing as notes, is nutrient-dense. The information packed in its pages is the culmination of hundreds of years of scientific inquiry, and absolutely up-to-date. It is broccoli printed, bound, and delivered to my hands, and ultimately my brain. There is so much information on any given page that I frequently read it several times, before selecting the key facts that I will endeavor to commit to memory. I duplicate important diagrams and images, in the hope that recreating it will burn it into the fabric of my cerebellum.
I am chewing, chewing, chewing, digesting the information with my note-taking hand, but the information is so mind-boggling, so arresting in its awesomeness, that I can't help but feel a tiny little tickle in my cortex, an electrochemical reward for understanding even a thin slice of our biological mechanics. If I were a religious person, I would classify the feeling I get as reverent. As it is, the more I understand about the minutia of cellular biochemistry, the more dumbfounded I am.
Life is amazing; learning is hard.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Paramedichron: #1
The Anatomy and Physiology course starts on July 26th. We have text books in hand, if not an actual syllabus. We have met with the Honorable Doc, and he has drawn his private conclusions from the meeting - filed away, no doubt, only to be produced during our Most Heinous Moments Ever. We know (approximately) Where to be, When to be there, and little more. At least for Day One.
During the course of the pre-amble to this adventure, The Driver and I have been told many things, most of which have evaporated in a swirling cloud of vapor when exposed to department chiefs, critical examination, or the light of day. As we approach the zero-hour of immersion in the first chapter of this endeavor, the tales that we have heard have crystallized into wishful thinking, best intentions, and tooth fairies. These misunderstandings fall at our feet, singing like tiny shards of broken pane.
The Driver and I discuss such matters; we share a jaundiced disappointment in the Bureaucracy, and a small disgust at the petty skirmishes that stand between us and our year of scholarship. We look at each other, exchange silent nods, and turn our tired bodies back-to-back.
Our swords may be corroded, long un-used, dragging in their sheathes, but we simultaneously draw them forth. Even so, they flash wickedly in the glare of this mid-July afternoon, his low, mine high. At some unspoken cue, they align, extended and opposite to one another. A biting reckoning awaits.
We are ready. We are in hostile territory. We are EFD.
During the course of the pre-amble to this adventure, The Driver and I have been told many things, most of which have evaporated in a swirling cloud of vapor when exposed to department chiefs, critical examination, or the light of day. As we approach the zero-hour of immersion in the first chapter of this endeavor, the tales that we have heard have crystallized into wishful thinking, best intentions, and tooth fairies. These misunderstandings fall at our feet, singing like tiny shards of broken pane.
The Driver and I discuss such matters; we share a jaundiced disappointment in the Bureaucracy, and a small disgust at the petty skirmishes that stand between us and our year of scholarship. We look at each other, exchange silent nods, and turn our tired bodies back-to-back.
Our swords may be corroded, long un-used, dragging in their sheathes, but we simultaneously draw them forth. Even so, they flash wickedly in the glare of this mid-July afternoon, his low, mine high. At some unspoken cue, they align, extended and opposite to one another. A biting reckoning awaits.
We are ready. We are in hostile territory. We are EFD.
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