It’s Time for a Break
03/06/10 14:57
While I’m in the background, answering Francesco’s questions, I figured I’d give you guys a couple of non-scientific posts, to give you a break. And, of course, to talk about one of my favorite subjects: me.
Let me give you some background—I was the next to the youngest out of seven children. A child of divorce. Well, actually, the child of quite a few divorces. My mother, God bless her soul, was born before her time. She was brought up during a time when women were not supposed to be smart. She didn’t go to college until she was in her forties, and then she majored in math. She actually worked for NASA in the control room, doing something having to do with math for a few years. She loved math. When most people were watching television, right before bed, my mother was sitting, propped up on pillows, in her bed, working math problems. She was quite strange in that way.
But, mostly, she married. And married, and married. And married. I think, at last count, she had married seven times. I think that the state of Texas only allows you to marry seven times. At any rate, her last marriage was performed in Louisiana.
She was always looking for love, my mother was. I don’t know if she ever found it, except maybe with my dad, who died when I was barely six years old. So, for the most part, I was a child of a single parent, with a parade of sometimes abusive stepfathers, coming and going.
I fell in love with reading at a young age. My mother had a set of encyclopedias that she kept on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, and as soon as I learned to read, I read those encyclopedias. My mother always had five or six books that she was reading, at one time. She’d go from one to another, until she finished them all. I cannot imagine a house without books.
I finished high school after almost dropping out when I decided to skip the whole first semester of my senior year, hanging out with a boyfriend who was already out of school. My mother badgered the school officials to let me finish my senior year, although I got all “F’s” for the first semester (you could only have so many unexcused absences in those days, and they failed you for the semester, no matter how good your grades were), and all “A’s” the second semester, finishing out with a “C” average, and graduating with my class.
I got a scholarship to go to college. I don’t know whether it was based on need or on aptitude, but I was corralled by my counselor to take some tests, along with an auditorium full of other students, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t win the damned thing.
I did not want to go to college. And, of course, the first semester of college, I just didn’t go. Instead, I met a guy, a few years older than me, and got married. My mother had taught me by her actions, if not by her words, that I needed a man, in order to be a person. Three years later, I had two children, less than a year apart, and five years later, I was a single parent.
When my kids were growing up, the laws were not so stringent on fathers who did not pay child support, and I was never paid a penny. Instead, I worked constantly, sometimes three jobs at a time, in order to take care of my children. I am sure that many of you, while reading my posts here, will see regret, guilt, and remorse, written all over them. And, yes, I feel all of those things, for my children’s, and especially Keith’s, childhood. It was very rough; we were constantly in survival mode.
When I was in my thirties, I decided to go back to school. I finished a four year degree in four years, at the very top of my class, and won another scholarship—to law school. By this time, I was sick, again, of school, and dropped out after my first year.
I got a job as a bill collector and made some pretty good money. For the first time in my life, I was able to support myself and my children by working just one job. But, by this time, Keith was getting sicker. And, so, of course, I began to study cystic fibrosis. It wasn’t something that I wanted to study. It was something that I had to study. You all know how that turned out. Keith died, and I’m still here, still studying cystic fibrosis.
After a few years in the collections industry, I got a call from a man for whom I had worked part time in sales. He had a new product, and he wanted me to help him sell it. It was a good product, in an industry that was desperate for it, and I learned everything that I could about selling it. After a few years, I became so successful, I forced the owner of the company to make me his partner. And, like many commercial enterprises, when you have a good product, and you do a good, honest job, you grow. And my company is growing very fast now. It’s good to see it. It’s good to look behind me and know that I did this.
I’m not sure when I crossed over the line and became a workaholic. If Keith were still alive, I’d seek out therapy. But, because he’s not, I need work too much, now, to try to do anything about my addiction to it.
Whether it’s work for money, or work for CF—it’s like my and my mother’s five and six books at a time. You get to a place in one, you start on another, and then you move on to another and another and another, and then back to the first one, or the second, or the fourth one, until you’ve read them all, and you start on a new batch of books. I don’t read many books anymore; I read about systems having to do with CF.
I’m not a genius. I’m not a scientist. I’m probably only moderately intelligent. And the only reason I’ve been able to reach the place I’ve reached before anyone else could get there, is because I never give up and I never stop, and every spare minute has to be filled with work.
Now, excuse me, I have to get back to work. A very nice gentleman sent me a book that is likely to teach me some things that I don’t know about the lactoperoxidase system (Remember that I did not understand the relationship between iodine and thiocyanate?), and I’m making notes on it. When I am done with it, I will explain it to you.
Let me give you some background—I was the next to the youngest out of seven children. A child of divorce. Well, actually, the child of quite a few divorces. My mother, God bless her soul, was born before her time. She was brought up during a time when women were not supposed to be smart. She didn’t go to college until she was in her forties, and then she majored in math. She actually worked for NASA in the control room, doing something having to do with math for a few years. She loved math. When most people were watching television, right before bed, my mother was sitting, propped up on pillows, in her bed, working math problems. She was quite strange in that way.
But, mostly, she married. And married, and married. And married. I think, at last count, she had married seven times. I think that the state of Texas only allows you to marry seven times. At any rate, her last marriage was performed in Louisiana.
She was always looking for love, my mother was. I don’t know if she ever found it, except maybe with my dad, who died when I was barely six years old. So, for the most part, I was a child of a single parent, with a parade of sometimes abusive stepfathers, coming and going.
I fell in love with reading at a young age. My mother had a set of encyclopedias that she kept on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, and as soon as I learned to read, I read those encyclopedias. My mother always had five or six books that she was reading, at one time. She’d go from one to another, until she finished them all. I cannot imagine a house without books.
I finished high school after almost dropping out when I decided to skip the whole first semester of my senior year, hanging out with a boyfriend who was already out of school. My mother badgered the school officials to let me finish my senior year, although I got all “F’s” for the first semester (you could only have so many unexcused absences in those days, and they failed you for the semester, no matter how good your grades were), and all “A’s” the second semester, finishing out with a “C” average, and graduating with my class.
I got a scholarship to go to college. I don’t know whether it was based on need or on aptitude, but I was corralled by my counselor to take some tests, along with an auditorium full of other students, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t win the damned thing.
I did not want to go to college. And, of course, the first semester of college, I just didn’t go. Instead, I met a guy, a few years older than me, and got married. My mother had taught me by her actions, if not by her words, that I needed a man, in order to be a person. Three years later, I had two children, less than a year apart, and five years later, I was a single parent.
When my kids were growing up, the laws were not so stringent on fathers who did not pay child support, and I was never paid a penny. Instead, I worked constantly, sometimes three jobs at a time, in order to take care of my children. I am sure that many of you, while reading my posts here, will see regret, guilt, and remorse, written all over them. And, yes, I feel all of those things, for my children’s, and especially Keith’s, childhood. It was very rough; we were constantly in survival mode.
When I was in my thirties, I decided to go back to school. I finished a four year degree in four years, at the very top of my class, and won another scholarship—to law school. By this time, I was sick, again, of school, and dropped out after my first year.
I got a job as a bill collector and made some pretty good money. For the first time in my life, I was able to support myself and my children by working just one job. But, by this time, Keith was getting sicker. And, so, of course, I began to study cystic fibrosis. It wasn’t something that I wanted to study. It was something that I had to study. You all know how that turned out. Keith died, and I’m still here, still studying cystic fibrosis.
After a few years in the collections industry, I got a call from a man for whom I had worked part time in sales. He had a new product, and he wanted me to help him sell it. It was a good product, in an industry that was desperate for it, and I learned everything that I could about selling it. After a few years, I became so successful, I forced the owner of the company to make me his partner. And, like many commercial enterprises, when you have a good product, and you do a good, honest job, you grow. And my company is growing very fast now. It’s good to see it. It’s good to look behind me and know that I did this.
I’m not sure when I crossed over the line and became a workaholic. If Keith were still alive, I’d seek out therapy. But, because he’s not, I need work too much, now, to try to do anything about my addiction to it.
Whether it’s work for money, or work for CF—it’s like my and my mother’s five and six books at a time. You get to a place in one, you start on another, and then you move on to another and another and another, and then back to the first one, or the second, or the fourth one, until you’ve read them all, and you start on a new batch of books. I don’t read many books anymore; I read about systems having to do with CF.
I’m not a genius. I’m not a scientist. I’m probably only moderately intelligent. And the only reason I’ve been able to reach the place I’ve reached before anyone else could get there, is because I never give up and I never stop, and every spare minute has to be filled with work.
Now, excuse me, I have to get back to work. A very nice gentleman sent me a book that is likely to teach me some things that I don’t know about the lactoperoxidase system (Remember that I did not understand the relationship between iodine and thiocyanate?), and I’m making notes on it. When I am done with it, I will explain it to you.