Hour 5: Even evil fears

Dear diary,

Today has been a frenzy of scribbling and typing, as all tumor cells attempt to create a credible fake I.D. The air is full of tension and the usual darkness that surrounds us broken by the relentless flashing of photography (don’t ask me how we managed to get cameras down here. You should still be trying to establish how it is that I have a computer with a fully functional internet connection. Just accept that we now also have cameras, and read on). I took advantage of the sudden bursts of light to comb my filopodia (those long things sticking out of my body that make me look like an octopus) for my picture. I thought a fringe would make me look more amiable: after all, if Justin Bieber and those One Direction boys pulled it off, why shouldn’t I? Sadly, it seems I too have become a victim of the ‘please-tell-me-I-don't-look-like-that-in-real-life’ syndrome. Not that it is my fault! The photographer instructed (after an eternity of turning me this way and that, look up and down and at the side at the same time) to say 'cheese' right before he took the shot. As I have never heard of a thing called 'cheese' in my life, what I instead ended up whispering was 'what?!’. I think the result is quite clear in my picture. I hear my syndrome is a very common problem amongst humans, usually striking post-adolescent people who are about to take a formal photo that's meant to last them for the next decade. It is such a big problem that humans have had to make their IDs small enough to fit in a wallet, so that they could be hidden from view. Hence, I have decided that after the inspection my ID will remain hidden deep between my filopodia (and constantly rubbed until my picture fades).

Gosh, the inspection. It’s funny how even the most evil of things have something to fear. And if there is one thing us tumor cells fear, it is the immune system. You see, they are the ones who control what survives and what doesn’t in the human body. I’m guessing it could be compared to the human police force, only the human police is not as harsh: where you get a fine, or a warning, or even prison, we get death. There is no middle ground with the immune system. There is no bluffing, or pleading. They are not there to listen, or to be misguided: they are there to protect the body. And anything that is not meant to be in the body will have to be disposed of. Funnily enough, the immune cells have no eyes. Or ears, or noses for that matter. So how do they know what’s meant to be there and what isn’t? Well, they have a very simple, very ingenious system: they call it the antigen check. Now don’t be alarmed at the world antigen, it’s all actually a very simple principle: each cell, of every living being (human, animal, plant), or even of every non-living thing (dust, dirt) has an antigen (which is basically an I.D. stuck on top of its body like a flag). This antigen will be recognised by the immune system, allowing it to understand if it’s a foreign body (non-self a.k.a. terminate) or if it’s part of the body (self a.k.a. peace and love). For each antigen (ID), the immune system will have a specific soldier at the ready. Surprisingly, the immune system will create all soldiers particular to each antigen before each human is even born: these little immune cells will be at the ready, should you ever come in contact with whichever cell of whichever creature it may be, to protect you. It’s as if your police force had the ID of every person, born or unborn, ready in its files, just in case it ever came across you.

Lucky for me, cancer cells have discovered a way to go around this system: the standard norm states that if it belongs to the body, it gets to stay. Now, unluckily for you humans, us cancer cells are actually created by your bodies. Yes, we are mutated to something that barely resembles a cell. And yes, we are evil (at least most of us are) (not me! Not me!). But we are still technically from the body. Which means that, in most cases, our antigens will be the same to those of the other healthy cells. Hence, the fake I.D.s: if our antigens (I.D.s) state that we are from the body, the immune cells will have to move on. And we could be saved.  

I wish the theory it-self would be enough to keep us calm.  We are a trembling mass as we await the arrival of the immune cells. All seems quieter, or maybe it's just that for once, there is a complete lack of whispering. It's as if even the healthy cells surrounding us are aware that something is about to happen. One more heart-beat and then all goes still: they are coming.

Cell X

Hour 4: Chinese whispers

Dear Diary,

Today a cell on the other side of the tumor went through apoptosis (i.e. it died). We still haven't understood why this happened. Some say the cell was stressing too much because lately we’ve had quite a lack in nutrients. Others thought it hadn’t yet learned how to control its P53 levels. For you non-cells out there, P53 is what scientists like to call a tumor suppressor protein. What it basically means is that in the fight against cancer, P53 is on the human side. It’s really good at detecting when the cell’s DNA has too many mutations in it, and, when it does, it makes the cell die before it can become one of us. Like some kind of anti-zombie prevention. Most of us tumors have learned to control our P53 levels, but some newly split cells are not as fortunate. Like the cell that died today. 

As you can imagine, it was awful: as soon as people realised P53 was causing it to enter apoptosis, there was screaming, and panic, cell were running everywhere and…ok, that’s not entirely true. Maybe there wasn’t any chaotic running. We are tumour cells, we cannot run. We cannot even walk: we are so stuck to each other we put superglue to shame. And maybe there wasn’t any screaming... Cells can’t scream! If we could, each human would be accompanied by a constant unexplained buzzing sound emanating from every pore. Think a swarm of bees makes a scary sound? Well imagine what a crowd of people could do if every cell would scream. And so, we whisper. Really softly. And luckily, we are so tiny that even all of our whispers put together don’t make much noise.. So that when we talk to each other, our human hosts just assume that the noise they hear must be from their clothes brushing against each other, or the wind…humans can be so naïve sometimes. 

Well anyways, today the cell died. But before it did, it whispered: ‘Oh no! Not p53’. This made the neighboring cells  quite alarmed, and soon whispers of   P53 started to spread. Only whispers don’t spread the way words said in a regular tone would. Ever played ‘Chinese whispers’? Something similar happened today. The terrorized murmurs of ‘P53!’, by the time they had reached my side of the tumor, sounded slightly different:

‘Hey guys, pee filthy tree!’  ‘What?!’  ‘Huh?!’  ‘Hey, don’t be rude, say pardon’ ‘Hey cells, I think I’m growing, look! Look! Do you think it’s G1??’  ‘Pardon’  ‘What’s a tree?’  ‘Pee filthy tree!!’ ‘Guys, I really think this is it! I’m fatter!!’ ‘No, I don’t think you’re fatter’ ‘Pee filthy tree!’ ‘What’s that cell saying?’ ‘I think it wants to pee’.

It went on like this for the next half hour. By the time we realised what was happening, the cell was long dead. And I wish the only problem was its passing. You see, human cells don’t die as humans would: we don’t have our life flash before our eyes. We don’t slowly follow the light and peacefully pass on, with our faces angelic and a slight smile on our faces. Cells implode. Literally. Our insides start degenerating, until they become 'outsides'. On every cells around them, outsides. You think the p53 murmur was a cry for help? It was a warning to get out of the splash zone. But guess what, as we are glued together, there was no getting out of anything. All I can say is that I now feel like that dead cell is part of me…..

Overall, it was not the best hour of my existence. And now we have a new problem to deal with: when a cell dies, immune cells come round to get rid of its leftovers (they eat them). It’s purely for protection purposes, they don’t want other cells insides to damage healthy cells around them. The problem is cancers are not what you would call a 'healthy cell', and if the immune cells find out we are here, they will destroy us. 

So guess what? I’m off to get a fake I.D. They might even take my first picture…wish me luck!

Cell X

Hour 3: A monstrous dilemma

Dear diary,

Today I found myself facing the ethical conundrum which has recently been associated with hormonal centenary teenage vampires: to eat, or not to eat. I’m assuming for you humans the answer is always quite straight-forward: you can decide which organisms cannot be sacrificed to your digestive system, and eat anything that doesn’t belong to that list. For most other mystical creatures the problem solves it-self too. Take the werewolves for example: they eat like humans unless they have the misfortune of being under the spell of the moon, in which case they turn into fluffy little pets with a craving for vampires. But hey, even if they do end up eating a few vampires nobody minds too much: vampires eat humans, so if vampires die, it’s a win-win for all. It really all made sense until Twilight, and Vampire Diaries, and True Blood appeared on your screens. Suddenly vampires with a good heart were born. Vampires that dramatically fell in love with their food (I don’t think there is a human equivalent for that, unless you ever found a burger attractive), and decided not to eat it, only to valiantly eat squirrels and grizzly bears instead (I wonder how often they found a hair in their meal). Humans promptly forgave the sins of their past, and, sighting in awe, wished they too could have their very own vegetarian vampire that would love them for eternity.

Well in my case, I feel like I’m the good vampire. Not because I’m an extremely attractive cancer cell that starts sparkling when exposed to sun-light. My thing has nothing to do with super-human speed and strength, or random fangs sticking out of my membrane. Like most vampires, my survival would mean the end of my human host. Yet still, I feel like I am the good vampire. And no, it’s not because I’ve fallen in love with some oxygen molecule or nutrient surrounding me. I mean, how can you fall for atoms? As tiny and perfectly shaped they could be, they still don’t do it for me. I feel like I’m that good vampire because I don’t want to have to destroy a life in order to survive. Only I’m a cancer cell, and I don’t have my vegetarian options. Eating wouldn’t mean the destruction of a human...not in the short term. But once I become like them, like the other cells around me, once I start proliferating...well, then it becomes a matter of time before I cause the end of my host. And ultimately, of my-self.

I spent quite a while torn by the dilemma, fighting the monster that I was to become. And yet at no point was I able to end it all, and succumb to apoptosis. There was always this little voice inside me that cried in injustice. And that’s when it came to me: I will not become what I was created to be. I will fight the monster with all that I have, every minute of every hour that I live. And I will find a way to become a normal cell, to get rid of the mutations in my nucleus (heart).

People have learned to love a monster, when the monster proved to have more heart than its prey. Maybe people will learn to love me too, one day. When the time is right.

Cell X

Hour 2: The cycle of life

Dear diary,

Time seems to pass by in a flurry of diffusion and CO2 release. All is quiet except for the distant rhythmic pulsing of the nearby blood vessels and the occasional bustle of sporadic oxygen molecules. I wish I could describe the amazing landscape that surrounds me, with the synergy of cells working in unison to create…well, life. But unfortunately all I see is pitch black. I can only distinguish my whereabouts by the different squidgy sounds different organs make when I accidentally brush against them.

All my neighbouring cells seem to be interested in is proliferating. You will find them sticking out their membranes with an air of superiority, importantly announcing to whoever is in their vicinity that they are about to enter the M-phase. The ‘M-phase’! They won’t even call it by its full name (mitosis) because they say only newly-split cells call it that. For those human readers that are not cells, mitosis is the step where cells finally manage to divide themselves into two identical copies. I mean, talk about being narcissistic! Luckily, mitosis is not as easy as it sounds…cells first have to go through the G1-phase (they call it the ‘growth phase’, but really, they just get fat), then the S-phase (there they get to copy all the crappy stuff that is in their heart, or nucleus…like DNA), and then another growth phase called G2 (the cell’s equivalent of putting on weight, then stuffing its face more because the diet starts tomorrow). Only once they’ve done all that, do they get to enter the M-phase. But don’t worry, none of them are actually splitting. Nutrients and oxygen are too scarce lately, and most of us wouldn’t be able to reach G1 even if we wanted to!

Sometimes, you will find a cell sneakily pinching its mid-riff and, with an irritating air of supremacy, whisper in a strained voice that it is time, it’s undergoing cytokinesis. These types of statements are usually acclaimed with a tense silence, bursting with a mixture of jealousy and curiosity. Yet, when after several minutes the cell is still formed by one intact globule, with no trace of a contractile ring, most cancer cells will begin to call its bluff. The shamed cell will then have to admit to still having a single nucleus, and resume its plump shape. Believe it or not, cytokinesis is the step after mitosis (I know, life is complicated for us cells)…just picture it as the phase where the cell is now as gigantic as a sumo wrestler, complete with double everything (organelle wise). Now picture a person coming along and placing a really skinny belt on the belly of this gigantic sumo, and insisting on tightening the buckle until the sumo actually splits into two. Well there you have it, cytokinesis.

As usual, nobody pays me much attention except for those rare glances at my chromatin (I really need to comb that DNA of mine), just to make sure I will not suddenly split myself into two and beat them all at it. Not that I have any intention of doing so. I don’t really understand their fascination for constantly bloating and splitting. Imagine your biggest aim in life being to split into two? No thank you, I am perfectly comfortable sticking to my Go-phase (the phase where you don’t bloat, and instead look toned and gorgeous).

I wonder if one day I’ll become just as pointless as the rest of them. They told me it’s the ‘cycle of life’. I guess only time will tell.  

Cell X

Hour 1: Anyone can blog

Dear diary,

Today my mother cell split in two, and I came to life. You might have expected some kind of celebration for my arrival, but alas no. Most cells just continued with their daily tasks of proliferating (a disgusting process where they start growing until they look like they might explode, and then actually cut them-selves in half, and become two. Ugh!), or scavenging for rogue oxygen molecules (food is always scarce for us law-breakers). I was just one amongst a crowd of ugly looking cancer cells. Even my other-half (literally) decided to abandon me: after giving me the once-over, she decided it wasn’t wise for us to remain in close proximity or someone might notice we were wearing the same membrane (the human equivalent of wearing the same top). Unfortunately, as we are still a so called 'benign tumor' (i.e. all of us tumor cells have to remain clumped together into one unwanted blob), all my other-half could do was struggle to detach her-self from me only to finally give up, turn the other way, and pretend I was invisible.

All in all, it wasn’t a great first hour of my life. It’s hard to feel special when you are surrounded by identical copies of you. They told me one day (as in tomorrow) I would have to grow and proliferate too (I shudder at the mere thought). They told me that proliferating was my purpose as a tumor cell…but I longed for a difference type of existence. And so I took matters into my own (metaphorical) hands, and decided to take the message from the cartoon ‘Ratatouille’ literally: anyone can cook. Ok. Mostly I took the ‘anyone can’ bit and added ‘blog’ instead of ‘cook’, but two out of three words is good enough. So here I am, and here I will be, relaying the adventures of my simple existence as I…grow?

May I have found the key to individualism: may I be the first cancer cell to blog.

Cell X.

To my human readers

Some people are born good, and taught to be bad. Some are made bad by life. I refuse to believe that any human can be born bad. Unfortunately, that is not true for us cells. Some of us are split good. Some of us will just grow to fit our purpose and remain there until our time is done. Others, however, will be born bad… when bad cells are split, there is something misplaced in their heart (sorry, nucleus), something sinister. These cells can either do the noble thing, and die...or they can live to destroy. I am not proud to say, I was born a cancer cell. And as a bad cell, I was born to end the same thing that was keeping me alive: my human host. But unlike every great villain in most stories, I longed to be the hero. I was just born on the wrong side. So, as unfortunately I cannot overturn my nature, let me redeem myself by making the science behind my life accessible to you all. Let me tell you the tales of my existence so that you will no longer have to fear my presence. Let me show you how the struggle of scientists to ‘cure’ me can affect us cancer cells on our daily routines. Let the day come where I will no longer have to blog, as I will be no more. Such a noble cause should not be reserved for the understanding of the elite: let science be for all.

Cell X