Finding Beauty in Blood and Basic Science

By Madeline Niederkorn , PhD, Research Scientist, Department of Hematology at St. Jude Children's Research Hospital

When I was in grade school, I didn’t really understand that being a scientist was for anyone except old, probably mustached men and monks who had dank basements and lots of free time. I certainly didn’t know about hematology.

Flash forward a few years and I learned cell biology in depth. It was easily the most colorful of the sciences. I made 3D cells, colored and labeled organelles (mitochondria, always a deep indigo), and memorized enzymes and their molecular functions. The mammalian cells were clearly machines, and they were pretty.

I distinctly remember that my teacher dedicated lectures to cancer, explaining it as the uncontrolled growth of the cells we spent all this time familiarizing ourselves with. Until then, I couldn’t really grasp why loved ones were getting sick and dying. Having those answers to “Why?” is what makes life less scary. I was so curious. There were dots to connect.

For my undergraduate degree, I studied biology and philosophy. My time was filled with questions, answers, and the imaginative what-ifs that life throws at all of us. Running on unbridled enthusiasm and naivety, I had emailed several professors to ask if I could come to their labs and actually do research: a bridle for my enthusiasm that might pay my rent. I did get one equally enthusiastic response from someone who was studying cancers of the bone marrow and immune cells. Blood! Surprisingly, my soon-to-be PhD mentor was not a monk in a basement. He had an amazing team and he let me come to his lab — with windows!?

I learned to love how the entire hematopoietic system seems to just breathe, taking in info from our peripheral blood in all of our tissues and sending out its secrets in response. We learn so much from just listening to these whispers — microscopic occlusions in mere drops of blood.?

My clinical colleagues listen to their patients. The medical history, the story of the patient, is critical. The complete blood count is one of the most universally ordered diagnostic tests. On the other end of the microscopes and the cytometers, the cells are my patients. I try to find their story. I dissect their hardware on a molecular basis, as they have functions expected of them and goals to achieve. Wired similarly to us humans, hematopoietic cells are changed by memories, trauma, circumstance, and environment. They can be irrevocably altered on a deep level, yet plastic and resilient. I listen for the messages the cells bring us from inside the patient and then I try to run the appropriate experiments — always a question seeking an answer, a frustrating dance on two sides of what all too often feels like an impossible language barrier. But when it makes sense? Ah, yes, there it is; now we’re talking.?

In these conversations, I’ve learned that blood is full of amazing mosaics, surprises, hints, and art. I can evaluate a bright purple stain of a bone marrow cytospin or a glowing green fluorophore illuminating the most notorious, molecular culprits in leukemia. These instances are equal parts beautiful to observe, terrifying to witness, and motivating to answer.

There’s a baseline level of dreamy optimism to which all scientists subscribe, I think. I’m convinced this has to be the case if we believe we can draw logical conclusions about startlingly complex biology through enough pattern recognition, through learning the language and watching the dance and participating in this artful practice. We think, “Maybe if we just try…” and we watch what flows from there.

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