Gene activity in depressed people, or how to pith a frog

Photo: Owens-Corning fibreglass plant.

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It's like skating in the dark. You can see the lights of freighters reflected on the ice, dark Great Lakes waters turned solid. Why am I visiting this memory?

I'm trying to remember a moment when my mind felt free. When I was little, Lake Erie would freeze in a solid, smooth sheet, and you could skate forever, building up speed, letting yourself go. I never had to learn how to stop, how to strike the skate blade sideways.

This morning I tried to record instructions for something I used to do. I tried to remember how to use a typesetting machine. It was a writing exercise to taste an old experience, but it pulled away from me like those mythical grapes hanging over the water. Who was it who sat eternally in that pool? Now memory pulls away from me just that way.

I tried to picture the old typesetting machine in the back room at Titan Publishing. I spent hours sitting there, keys clattering. No, now even that sound recedes. This morning I remembered the editor's name: Karen. But I couldn't remember the assistant editor, though she was my friend.

I even remembered her husband's: Scott. And? It wouldn't come to me. Not until hours later, finally: Jayne.

Lately I've been playing this game, challenging myself to remember things, exercising my brain. I've attached a list ot links on my journal page: news and inofrmation sites I read regularly. When I find an article that interests me, I paste a link onto my desktop. That way I can read it again tomorrow, and the next day, until it sinks in. Some things sink deeper than others. Sometimes I'm lying at the bottom of the lake.

Scientists have discovered differences in gene activity in people who suffer from major depression. These studies concentrate on a group of proteins called the fibroblast growth factor system. They're involved in the growth, development and maintenance of nerve cells. People who suffer from major depression show lower levels of these proteins in their tissues. It also seems that patients who have been taking Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors have closer to the natural levels. We didn't even know until now why SSRIs worked. We still don't know, but we have a clue.

Okay, here's the word. I'm experiencing depression. The past three weeks at least. The weekends have been better, yes, whenever I have something to do. Yes. I shouldn't be afraid of saying that. There, I've said it.

It feels like my fibroblast growth factor system isn't doing enough maintenance. My memories are falling apart, peeling away like paint from an abandonned living room. Let's see what's underneath.

That's why I tried the writing exercise this morning: to recall skills I used to have. One after another, I remembered doing them, but couldn't remember how.

How to use a typesetter. How to sweep sample an orchard for insect pests.

How to pith a frog. I couldn't remember. So I looked it up, just thought it might be useful for the future. Grasping the frog firmly with one hand, insert the sharp end of a probe into the skin at the base of its neck. Push it into the skull and twist it around to destroy the brain. This frog is now single pithed, and you can use it for various experiments. If you want to destroy its reflexes, you have to double pith it.

I can't go on, but there you see? I remember something I read this morning.

And then I sent myself outside for a walk. I wanted to feel the gentleness of wind and sun on my face, but no sun broke through today. The sky was overcast.

So skating came from nowhere, something I used to do. I could skate fast. I never liked playing hockey with the other boys. I just wanted to go. Now I wish I could skate forever through the night, never letting anything get in my way.

But somehow this image doesn't fit together: the lights of freighters on a frozen lake. I don't think this memory is real.