Job Picking Blunder

Recently, I was asked to write up a list of all my past work experiences for my current job. They want to see all the species I’ve worked in my life. While writing it all up, I had to laugh at myself. One of the places I used to work at was the plant pathology lab at my college. It was a job I got to help me with rent while I went to school. It didn’t evolve animals, but I thought lab experience would look good on a resume and plants are just as important as animals. I remember being a little excited for it. I didn’t care much for lab work in high school, but I was hoping this job might turn that around.

One of the lines on the job description was “working with vectors of plant pathology.” I didn’t think much of it.

I remember the interview going really well. The gal that was hiring me was super nice and I could see myself working for her. Good vibes all around. Then, one word leaves her lips and I deadpanned.

Bugs.

Dummy me didn’t think to consider what the vectors of plant pathology were. Of course it’s bugs. Bugs eat plants. They spread disease in animals so why wouldn’t they spread disease in plants as well? I hate bugs. I don’t want them near me. I don’t want to touch them. I can’t stand even looking at certain ones. So, I mildly panicked when the interviewer told me I’d be working with the bugs that spread the disease she’s studying. I think she saw the look on my face because she quickly told me they were tiny bugs. They were the size of a fruit fly and a gnat. I convinced myself it would be fine. I wouldn’t be seeing their characteristics like I do in bigger bugs, they’ll just be little dots flying in the air, so small my eyes can’t distinguish their creepy little features. I would be fine.

You know what else is in a laboratory that I forgot about? A microscope.

At first, my job was easy. I would plant and grow the corn we were going to infect with the disease. Then I moved up to dealing with the bugs by moving them from one corn colony to the next to keep them alive. This species of bug was an invasive species, so I had to take extra precautions to make sure they didn’t get out of the lab and disrupt the circle of life where I lived. I’d wear different clothes, work under a sheet, and use a vacuum to suck them all up. It went well. They were so small, it didn’t bother me that I was around them.

Then, I moved up to helping with the RNA extractions and logging and readings and really it was a bunch of stuff I understood at the time, but can’t explain now. It was computer work, and I was okay with that.

Then, I got to learn how to inject the bugs with the disease we were studying so they could infect the corn. It involved chilling the little bugs so they go into a hibernate-like state, then putting them under the microscope, poking them with the needle, and injecting them with the disease.

I honestly thought I would be fine. I’d been working with these bugs long enough, I didn’t think it would bug me seeing them under the microscope, but I took one look and my stress spiked. I don’t know what it is about them. They have creepy little legs, the exoskeleton feels wrong, their beady pupil-less eyes, and the buzzing of their wings is insufferable. I didn’t want to poke them with a needle, but I wasn’t going to tell my boss no.

Thankfully, I was left alone to complete this task and deal with the panic that rose up with me just because of a few tiny bugs that couldn’t hurt me. I tried poking them without looking. It didn’t work. I tried blurring my vision to blur their features. It didn’t work. I tried focusing on the plate the bugs sat on, looking past them in a way, and it sort of worked.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t just stab them. You had to poke a specific spot and be careful that the needle didn’t go all the way through them. The first time I successfully poked one, I had to walk away. When you poke yourself, your skin gives a little before anything pierces it. When I poked these bugs, their entire rear end contorted and caved in until the needle pierced through the area between their plates, the pressure released, and the body reformed around the needle. Suddenly, I was holding a needle that was inside the majority of this bug’s body.

I injected the disease, but the bug back on ice, and went to the bathroom to stress cry.

I already had high anxiety from having to stare at the bugs, but realizing I actually stabbed one, put me over the edge. I got mad at myself. Why should I care that I’m stabbing a bug? I kill mosquitos with my bare hands all the time and if one of these invasive bugs got lose from their containment, I didn’t feel bad about killing it. So, why did I feel bad about stabbing it? It’s a bug. I hate bugs. Yet, I’m not a monster. I free bugs, spiders, and moths from a pool if they get stuck in it. I feel guilty when I see a dragonfly fell victim to a fly trap.

I pulled myself together in that bathroom because I knew this was important work for agriculture. If we can’t inject these bugs, we can’t study the disease to help save crops. I went back to the lab and stabbed several more tiny bugs. It never got easier.

I ended up leaving the plant pathology lab when they decided to move to a southern university. My boss wanted me to come with them, but I decided I needed to get back into animal related jobs. I wasn’t upset to end that job, but I was going to miss the people. They were all so kind and encouraging. My boss even nominated me for a university worker award. I didn’t win, but I was honored all the same.

Looking back, it now makes me laugh to think I worked with bugs. I’ll never do it again, but at least I know I can make progress in overcoming my fear of the creepy little buggers.