INNER SANCTUM
Stepping into the Unknown.
by Jan Whitson

I was doing it again. Gambling with my life. No, I wasn’t diving off cliffs in Acapulco or playing chicken at insanely high speeds on dangerous mountain roads. Those things are for wimps. I was applying for graduate school after fourteen years as a mom.

No risk of death in that, you say? Precisely my point. The greatest gamble is to risk changing your life, not to risk ending it. When you gamble with your life, you enter a new reality—and there is no going back to the person you used to be. We all have these moments. Falling in love, bearing children, moving across the country, even meeting a new friend are all potential life-changers.

I’d had more than my share of such events. Most recently, my husband and I had raised our severely handicapped daughter Joanna at home, rather than consign her to an institution as the doctors recommended. She was with us for seven short years, and though her death changed only our circumstances, loving her had changed our lives.

Perhaps the extreme highs and lows of raising Joanna had made me an adrenalin junkie, or perhaps I had learned life was too short and precious to be wasted. Whatever the reason, here I stood in the sunshine outside the science library at the University of California, afraid to walk through the door. I had never considered myself to be timid. I was 35 years old, mother of three, an experienced teacher, and terrified.

Sometimes our minds play funny tricks with our emotions, especially when the stakes are high. These were high stakes for me. I’d just interviewed with several faculty members in the Psychobiology Department at UC, Irvine. I was hoping to get into the doctoral program there. The interviews had gone pretty well, I thought. My impossible dream of becoming a scientist was beginning to look like it might become a reality.

It had been a fast but intense struggle to get to this point in the process. When I signed up for an evening class called Mid-Life Career Change at the local junior college, the plan had been to find a job that paid well, capitalized on my elementary-school teaching experience, and didn’t require any additional schooling. Surveying potential careers, I had considered science writing, technical manual preparation, medical sales and more—science teaching I had already done—but couldn’t seem to reach a decision. One night the instructor remarked off-handedly, “You know, everything you’re considering has to do with science. Why don’t you just become a scientist?”

“It’s too late for me to do that,” I replied.

“Why?” she said. “I have a friend who went into geology at 32.”

Thirty-two? I was only a few years older than that. I could feel the adrenalin surge hit my system. The idea scared me silly—the best goals always do. “Well, maybe I will,” I said. I drove home from class with excitement sparkling inside me. I rushed to my husband and spilled it all in a lovely, glittering mass at his feet. “I want to do it!”

Craig heard me out, listening carefully. “What about the schooling? Can we afford it? What’s the pay scale like?” he asked.

I reassured him that scientists earned a living wage and we talked for hours about the possibilities. I was vibrant with energy and excitement. Our discussion ended with the most loving, affirming thing anyone had ever said to me.

“See what it takes to get in. If we have to, we’ll sell the house.” What a man! The next steps were up to me.

I knew what kind of scientist I wanted to be—the kind who discovered what actually happened, biologically, in the brain when learning took place. But I didn’t know what branch of biology that was. Today, I would just search “biology of learning” on my computer, but this was happening in the pre-internet era. So I called the junior colleges in our area and asked to speak to “Someone in Biology.” Then I put my question to whomever came on the line. Of course, I was usually asked why I wanted the information. Once, after I’d explained my goal, the professor on the other end of the phone line asked a few questions, then said, “Do you realize that ninety-five percent of what I teach my freshman biology classes was not even KNOWN when you were in college?” No, I hadn’t been aware of that…it was one more hurdle to surmount. Fortunately most of the people I spoke to, while not encouraging, were less negative. I learned that for my specific field of interest I needed a school with a department of Psychobiology or Physiological Psychology. With that information I began another round of calling, asking where such schools might be found. Several times, I was told that one of the best programs in the country was just up the road in Irvine, CA at UCI. Naively, I decided that was where I’d go.

My inquiries at UCI revealed that I’d already missed the first deadline for the required Graduate Records Exam, but there was another in October I could take. This exam tested three areas of intellectual performance—Verbal, Quantitative, and Analytical. Also, there were subject tests specific to each field. For the UCI program, the Biology Subject Test was not required. That was a relief at first, but later I figured I’d better take it anyhow. I’d been told that a fourteen year old college transcript wasn’t going to impress anybody—no matter how good it was.

Unfortunately, the exam was only 6 weeks away. With “ninety-five percent not even KNOWN” ringing in my ears, I bought a practice test from the local bookstore and took it. It seemed my discouraging informant had been correct. While I did fairly well on the Organismal Biology section and adequately in Ecology and Evolution, my score on the Cell Biology part was a pathetic three percent. Yes, that was what they taught in freshman biology those days, and I had no clue!

Back to my phone list I went, and choosing a nearby campus, called for directions to their bookstore. There I found a reasonably short cell biology textbook. I bought a used copy for thirty dollars and took it home with me. Now I had six weeks to get the material from the book into my head. I made a schedule and got to work. My children quickly became accustomed to seeing mom at the dining room table each night with a sign in front of her that said “Do Not Disturb”. Two of them could read it. The three-year-old thought it said, “Don’t talk to Mommy.”

With five chapters a week to cover, that book and my notes went everywhere with me—in the car to fill the minutes as I waited for the kids to come out of school, to the doctor’s office, on a church retreat, even to the grocery store. (Sometimes the lines are slow!) Six weeks passed way too fast, but I stuck to my schedule and finished the book.

Test day came. I had done all I could. I drove to the local state college campus and found the testing room. I was nervous. All the other test takers seemed smart, confident, and were years younger than I. Fortunately, the format of the standardized test was familiar. I settled in and got to work.

Three hours later the general test was over and the subject test began. Now I was up against the test-takers I considered to be my real competition. There were an awful lot of questions about things I didn’t know. But I comforted myself with the thought that at least I was sure I didn’t know, and skipped guiltlessly to the next section. I found that many question sets were based on hypothetical experiments—you were to base answers only on the data given. That was fine with me Most times, the data given was all I knew anyhow. I had no other knowledge to fall back on. When the test finally ended, I left feeling I’d done the best I could, but not at all certain it had been good enough.

In six weeks, I’d get the results, but I had no time to worry over them. There were application essays to write, and Plan B—an application to UC Riverside—to implement. There was the search for two letters of recommendation. My college Biology professor vaguely remembered me—after I wrote him a letter with my graduation picture from fourteen years ago enclosed—but he politely declined to write a letter for me. It had been too long. I finally settled on a letter from Joanna’s former therapist, and one—would it even count?—I wrote myself regarding my teaching experience. My former principal was deceased.

Then I made appointments at UCI with several of the Psychobiology faculty—those whose research most interested me. I asked each of them what it would take to get into the program.

Pauline Yahr was the professor in charge of recruitment. She told me I needed lab experience. Unfortunately, I had none.

When I spoke with Dr. John Marshall, he said, “You have to knock their socks off with something. Great lab experience, great recommendation, great transcript.” Not so great for me—I was zero for three—no lab experience, only one outside recommendation, and a fourteen year old transcript.

Carl Cotman gave me the most specific, helpful suggestion. “Take Biochemistry here,” he said. “It’s a tough class and if you do well, people will believe you can handle the graduate workload.” I left Dr. Cotman’s office and immediately went to the extension office to sign up for Biochemistry. It was then that I first saw the science library, tucked in the back of Steinhaus lecture hall.

Now I was returning to my car. I looked longingly at the small specialized book room. I couldn’t see the interior—it was dimly lit compared to the bright afternoon light outdoors, and only my own reflection met my searching gaze. The mysterious room seemed to sum up all I was dreaming of… to belong inside, with the students and professors working there, to be one of them… would I ever make it?

I couldn’t leave without going inside, yet I was certain everyone would know I didn’t belong. I imagined being challenged by the librarian. ”What do you want? Why are you here? What lab are you with?” I fully expected to be summarily thrown out. But I had to go in.

Heart pounding, trying to look casual, I pushed open the door, walked in and, looking neither right nor left, vanished into the periodical stacks. Hidden, I just stood there, staring at the magical words repeated on the spine after spine, and shelf after shelf of bound periodicals. Proceedings of the National Academy of Science. One minute passed, maybe two, as I stood there surrounded by the immensity of knowledge I had yet to taste. Then I couldn’t take the tension anymore. I zipped back out of the stacks and out the door, unchallenged—indeed, probably completely unnoticed—but exhilarated. I had been to the inner sanctum. And I would be back.