Chapter 3 - The sadness
The Life Story of a Cell
“What is the meaning of life?”
It’s a question I’ve asked hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. Lately it haunts me so much that I’ve taken up meditation just to quiet it down. I’ve read countless books. Some say life has no inherent meaning; others say we each must define it ourselves.
Is that why I’m suddenly able to “talk” to a cell inside my body?
Or maybe you’re not talking to a cell, Yin scoffed. Maybe you’re finally cracking.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it. A toilet flushed from my son Leo’s bathroom. Morning routine was beginning.
Breakfast was simple: fried eggs, cereal, milk. Sometimes I make Chinese-style egg pancakes, but not today — my “conversation” with Cece-40 had already eaten up precious time.
I wondered if she felt hunger too. Could she taste the food I eat?
Great, Yin muttered. Now you’re worried about feeding your stem cells breakfast.
Too busy to linger, I sent Leo off to his bus stop. Then it was time to drive Emma to daycare. She was cheerful this morning. I wasn’t.
My mind was clouded with worry. Three months ago, I stepped into a new role as Decision Science Lead. My team was merged with two other data groups, forcing a rapid reorganization before I’d even met everyone. I tried to be thorough — I interviewed each person, even reached out to some who’d left — but it still felt rushed.
What if you made the wrong calls? Yin whispered. This could ruin your career.
He wasn’t wrong. I’d left my bioinformatics expertise for this higher-level position, but my promotion wasn’t official until the end of a probation period. If I didn’t pass, there’d be no going back — my old role was eliminated. I’d probably have to leave the company.
Bold move, Yin hissed. You can’t fail.
It was fall. The foliage blazed red and gold outside the car window, but instead of cheering me, it reminded me that winter was coming. The car felt cold. I turned up the heat.
From her booster seat, Emma asked, “Dad, are the trees dying? Their leaves are falling.”
“No, they’re not dying,” I told her. “In spring, new leaves will grow. They’re just hibernating, like bears.”
Even as I said it, I felt sad, knowing this beautiful scene wouldn’t last.
We passed Chesterfield Mall. When we moved to St. Louis it was thriving. Leo and Emma loved the little playground near the Sears entrance and the carousel in the center. But Sears closed last month. The mall’s future looks bleak — much like my own.
The fading autumn colors. The shuttered playground. The empty carousel. It all pressed on my chest like a weight.
“Life is difficult,” I recalled, the opening line of The Road Less Traveled.
“Indeed,” Cece-40 echoed quietly, her voice like a ripple in my bloodstream.
I gripped the steering wheel. For the first time, I realized she could feel my sadness.
Perfect, Yin said. Now your cells are depressed too.