Sure, its traumatic, but some scientists/MDs could have used a lesson like this when they were younger.
I’ve never been very good at math or science. I enjoyed the stories embedded in history and literature but lost interest when it came to periodic functions and the table of elements. So in sixth grade, when each member of my class was responsible for creating an experiment to show at the school’s science fair in late April, I felt about as excited as I’d feel today if I were told I had to attend a live reenactment of the entire first season of Grey’s Anatomy. My dad, on the other hand, was thrilled. He had spent the past twenty-five years performing medical and scientific research.
“Now you can get a glimpse into what my life is like every god- damned day,” he told me the night I received my assignment. “I’m going to be on your ass every step of the way. You will have the greatest science experiment that school has ever seen, or you will fucking die trying.”
“Will you do it with me?” I pleaded.
“What? No, I already do it all the goddamned day on my own. That’s what I just told you.”
He took a seat on our living room couch and motioned for me to take a seat next to him.
“Now, experiments start with a question. What do you want to know?”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “I think the dog is cool,” I said, motioning toward Brownie, our five-year-old chocolate Lab mix.
“What? What the hell does that mean? That’s not a fucking question.”